uttering golden curls and
free, graceful movements, looked like a white swan among dark-plumaged
ducks, did she raise her head with a contented expression, and the sunny
glance peculiar to her again reminded her friend of the Emperor's son.

His lofty brow, Wolf said, he had inherited from his father, and
his mind was certainly bright; but what could be predicted with any
certainty concerning the intellectual powers of a boy scarcely seven
years old? The pastor Bautista Bela was training him to piety. The
sacristan Francisco Fernandez ought to have begun to teach him to read a
year ago; but until now Geronimo had always run away, and when he, Wolf,
asked the worthy old man, at Dona Magdalena's request, whether he would
undertake to instruct him in the rudiments of Latin, as well as in
reading and writing, he shook his head doubtfully.

Here a smile hovered around the speaker's lips, and, as if some amusing
recollection rose in his mind, he went on gaily: "He's a queer old
fellow, and when I repeated my question, he put his finger against his
nose, saying: 'Whoever supposes I could teach a young romper like that
anything but keeping quiet, is mistaken. Why? Because I know nothing
myself.' Then the old man reflected, and added, 'But--I shall not even
succeed in keeping this one quiet, because he is so much swifter than
I."

"And is the Emperor Charles satisfied with such a teacher for his son?"
asked Barbara indignantly.

"Massi had described the sacristan to Don Luis as a learned man,"
replied Wolf. "But I have now told his Majesty of a better one."

"Then you have talked to the Emperor?" asked Barbara, blushing.

Her friend nodded assent, and said mournfully: "My heart still aches
when I recall the meeting. O Wawerl! what a man he was when, like a
fool, I persuaded him in Ratisbon to hear you sing, and how he looked
yesterday!"

"Tell me," she here interrupted earnestly, raising her hands
beseechingly.

"It can scarcely be described," Wolf answered, as if under the spell
of a painful memory. "He could hardly hold himself up, even in the
arm-chair in which he sat. The lower part of his face seems withered,
and the upper-even the beautiful lofty brow--is furrowed by deep
wrinkles. At every third word his breath fails. One of his diseases, Dr.
Mathys says, would be enough to kill any other man, and he has more
than there are fingers on the hand. Besides, even now he will not take
advice, but eats and drinks whate