a fist, upon his hip. Perhaps--the saints be
praised!--Father Dorante might have reminded him of something else, for
he turned to Escovedo again and gave him an order.

Then he waved his hand, flung back his handsome head as King Philip was
in the habit of doing, but in a far nobler, freer manner, hastily passed
his hand through his wavy hair, as if to strengthen his courage, and then
walked slowly, with haughty, almost arrogant dignity, to the door.

On the threshold he paused and looked at her. How bright were the large
blue eyes which now gazed at Barbara with an expression far more
searching than joyous.

Yet even while, with one hand resting on the back of the chair and the
other pressed upon her panting bosom, she was striving to find the right
words, Don John's glance brightened.

She was not mistaken. He had dreaded this meeting, and now with joyful
surprise was asking himself whether this could be the woman who had been
described to him as a showy, extremely whimsical, perverse person, who
used her son's renown to obtain access to aristocratic houses and as many
pleasures as possible.

She must at any rate have been remarkably beautiful, and how wonderfully
her delicately chiselled features had retained a charm which is usually
peculiar to youth! how well the now dull gold of her thick tresses
harmonized with the faint flush on the almost unwrinkled face! and how
dignified was the bearing of her figure, still slender, in spite of her
matronly increase in flesh!

No wonder that she had once fired the heart of his distinguished father!
Now--that sunny glance could not deceive Barbara--now her appearance had
ceased to be unpleasant to him; nay, perhaps even pleased him. And now
she could bear it no longer; from the inmost depths of her heart rose the
cry: "John, my child! My dear, dear son!"

Again, with the speed of lightning, the question darted through Don
John's mind: "Is this the woman whose voice, I was told, offended the
ear? Spiteful, base slander!" How fervent, how gentle, how full of tender
affection her cry had sounded! Not even from the lips of Doha Magdalena,
his much-loved "Tia," had his own name ever echoed so musically as from
those of yonder woman, whom he had just shrunk from meeting as though it
were an inevitable misfortune.

Shame, regret, love, seethed hotly within him. It was long since he had
felt emotion like that which mastered him when her tearful eyes again met
his, and now, in