ugh him to share everything
with her, even his honourable name.

If misfortune had made her modest, if it had crushed her wicked
arrogance, and she was still his own dear child, who desired her
father's blessing, she ought not to refuse the faithful fellow who would
bring her this letter, but accept his proposal. On that, and upon that
alone, his forgiveness would depend; it was for her to show how much or
how little she valued it.

Barbara deciphered this epistle with varying emotions.

Was there no room for unselfish love in the breast of any man?

Her father, even he, was seeking to profit by that which united him to
his only child. To keep it, and to secure his blessing, she must give
her hand to the unloved soldier who had shown him kindness and won his
affection.

She again glanced indignantly over the letter, and now read the
postscript also. "Pyramus," it ran, "will remain only a short time in
Germany, and go from there directly to Brussels, where he is on duty,
and thence to me in Antwerp."

Barbara started, her large eyes sparkled brightly, and a faint flush
suddenly suffused her cheeks. The "plus ultra" was forever at an end for
her. Her boy was living in Brussels near his father; there she belonged,
and she suddenly saw herself brought so near this unknown, brilliant
city that it seemed like her real home. Where else could she hope to
rid herself of the nightmares that oppressed her except where she was
permitted to see the man from whom nothing could separate her, no matter
how cruelly he repulsed her?

The only suitable place for her, he thought, was the cloister. No man,
he believed in his boundless vanity, could satisfy the woman who had
once received in his love.

He should learn the contrary! He should hear--nay, perhaps he should
see--that she was still desired, in spite of the theft which he had
committed, in spite of the cruelty with which Fate had destroyed the
best treasure that it had generously bestowed.

The recruiting officer was certainly a handsome man and, moreover, of
noble birth. Her father wished to have him for a son, and would forgive
her if she gave him the hand for which he shed.

So let him be the one who should take her to Brussels, and to whom she
would give the right of calling himself her husband.

Here her brow contracted in a frown, for the journey on which she was to
set out with him would lead not only to the Netherlands, but through her
whole life, perhaps to