permitted to see the
object of her love once more, the world might go to ruin and she with
it.

Now she gazed from the lofty window over the open country.

She had come just at the right time. Imperial halberdiers and horse
guards, galloping up and down, kept the centre of the road free. On the
opposite side of the highway which she overlooked was a dense, countless
multitude of citizens, peasants, soldiers, monks, women, and children,
who with difficulty resisted the pressure of those who stood behind
them, shoulder to shoulder, head to head. Barbara from her lofty station
saw hats, barets, caps, helmets, women's caps and coifs, fair and
red hair on uncovered heads and, in the centre of many, the priestly
tonsure.

Then a column of dust advanced along the road from which the fanfare
resounded like the scream of the hawk from the gray fog. A few minutes
later, the cloud vanished; but the shouts of the multitude increased
to loud cheers when the heralds who rode at the head of the procession
appeared and raised their long, glittering trumpets to their lips.
Behind them, on spirited stallions, rode the wedding marshals, members
of royal families, in superb costumes with bouquets of flowers on their
shoulders.

Now the tumult died away for a few minutes, and Barbara felt as though
her heart stood still, for the two stately men on splendid chargers
who now, after a considerable interval, followed them, were the royal
brothers, the Emperor Charles and King Ferdinand.

The man for whom Barbara's soul longed, as well as her eyes, rode on the
side toward her.

He was still half concealed by dust, but it could be no one else, for
now the outburst of enthusiasm, joy, and reverence from the populace
reached its climax. It seemed as though the very trees by the wayside
joined in the limitless jubilation. The greatness of the sovereign, the
general, and the happy head of the family, made the Protestants around
him forget with what perils this monarch threatened their faith and
thereby themselves; and he, too, the defender and loyal son of the
Church, appeared to thrust aside the thought that the people who greeted
him with such impetuous delight, and shared the two-fold festival of his
family with such warm devotion, were heretics who deserved punishment.
At least he saluted with gracious friendliness the throng that lined
both sides of the road, and as he passed by the garden of the little
castle he even smiled, and glanced