him, and placed the golden sheepskin with the red ribbon
around Duke Ottavio's neck, while the plaudits, the ringing of bells, and
the thunder of the artillery echoed more loudly than ever from the stone
walls of the courtyard, tears filled Barbara's eyes and, as when the
Emperor passed at the head of the bridal procession in Prebrunn, her
voice again blended with the enthusiastic shouts of homage to the man
standing in majestic repose before the throne, the man who was the most
exalted of human beings.

She understood only a few words of the brief speech which the monarch
addressed to the new Knight of the Golden Fleece. She saw for the first
time the dignitaries of so many different nations upon whom she was
gazing down, and most of whom she did not even know by name. But what did
she care how they were called and who they were? Her eyes were fixed only
on Charles and the young man in the armour artistically inlaid with gold,
peach-coloured silver brocade, and white silk, who was kneeling before
him.

Suppose that a son of hers should be permitted to share such an honour;
suppose that Charles should some day bend down to her child and kiss his
brow with the paternal affection which he had just showed to the young
duke whom he had wedded to his daughter? And this daughter was the child
of a mother who was her sister in sorrow, and had been her superior in
nothing, neither in birth nor in beauty.

She said this to herself while she was intently watching the progress of
the solemn ceremonial. How lovingly and with what enthusiastic reverence
Ottavio was now gazing up into the face of his imperial father-in-law,
and with what grateful fervour, as the youngest Knight of the Fleece, he
kissed his hand! Not only outwardly but in heart--the warm light of their
eyes revealed it--these men, so unlike in age and gifts, were united; yet
Ottavio was not Charles's own son, as another would have been whom she
wished to withhold from such a father, and in her selfish blindness to
withdraw from the path to the summit of all earthly splendour and honour.

Who gave her the right to commit so great, so execrable a robbery?

What could she, the poor, deserted, scorned toy of a king--give to her
child, and what the mightiest of the mighty yonder?

If he was ready to claim as his own the young life which she expected
with hopeful yearning, it would thereby receive a benefit so vast, a gift
so brilliant that all the wealth of love and c