rld.

The next morning Hannibal Melas came to ask what had kept her from the
ceremony. He learned it in the entry from Frau Lamperi, and Barbara's
tearful eyes showed him what deep sorrow this loss had caused her. Her
whole manner expressed quiet melancholy. This great, pure grief had come
just at the right time, flowing, like oil upon the storm-lashed waves,
over hatred, resentment, and all the passionate emotions by which she
had previously been driven to the verge of despair.

She did not repulse the witness of her lost happiness, and listened
attentively while Hannibal told her about the memorable ceremony which
he had attended.

True, his description of the lofty hall in the Brabant palace where it
took place, the chapel adjoining it, and the magnificent decorations of
flowers and banners that adorned it, told nothing new to Barbara. She
was familiar with both, and had seen them garlanded, adorned with flags
and coats of arms, and even witnessed the erection of the stage in the
hall and the stretching of the canopy above it.

The Emperor had appeared upon the platform at the stroke of three,
leaning upon his crutch and the shoulder of William of Orange. His son
Philip and the Queen of Hungary followed, and all took their seats
upon the gilded thrones awaiting them. The blithe, pleasant Archduke
Maximilian of Austria, the Duke of Savoy, who was expecting a great
winning card in the game of luck of his changeful life, the Knights
of the Golden Fleece, and the highest of the Netherland nobles, the
councillors, the governor, and the principal military officers also had
places upon the stage.

Barbara knew every name that Hannibal mentioned. It seemed as if she saw
the broken-down Emperor, his son Philip with his head haughtily thrown
back, his favourite, the omnipotent minister, Ruy Gomez, the Prince
of Eboli, who with his coal-black hair and beard would have resembled
Quijada if, instead of the soldierly frankness of the major-domo, an
uneasy, questioning expression had not lurked in his dark eyes, the
brilliant Bishop of Arras, who had again so kindly placed her under
obligation to him, and the Frieslander Viglius, who had dropped into her
soul the wormwood whose bitterness she still tasted, and whose motto,
"The life of mortals is a watch in the night," seemed to flash from his
green eyes. Not a single woman had been admitted to the distinguished
assembly of the States-General, the city magistrates, and illustr