Yet she did not cease to hope that, in some favourable hour, the heart of the idol of her soul would urge him to approach his mother; but year after year elapsed without bringing her even the slightest token of his remembrance, and this omission was the bitter drop that spoiled the happiness which, after the death of her youngest boy, was clouded by no outward event.

When at last she addressed herself to John in a third letter, which this time she dictated to Hannibal as her heart prompted, she received an answer, it is true, though not from him, but from Dona Magdalena.

In kind words this lady urged her not to write to “her”—­Dona Magdalena’s—­son in future.  She had taught him to think of the woman who bore him with fitting respect, but it would be impossible for him to maintain the relation with her.  She must spare her the explanation of the reasons which made this appear to be an obstacle to his career.  Don John would prove in the future, by his care for her prosperity and comfort, that he did not forget her.  She had no right, it is true, to counsel her; but when she transported herself into the soul of the woman who had enjoyed the love of the Emperor Charles, and on whom Heaven had bestowed a son like John of Austria, she felt sure that this woman would act wisely and promote her real welfare if she preferred communion with her Saviour, in the quiet of a cloister, to the bustle of life amid surroundings which certainly were far too humble for her.

Barbara felt wounded to the inmost depths of her being by this letter.  Had the officious adviser, who had certainly despatched the reply without her son’s knowledge, been within her reach, she would have showed her how little inclination she felt to be patronized by the person who, after alienating the son’s heart from his mother, even presumed to dictate to her to rob herself of her last claim upon his regard.

True, in one respect she agreed with the writer of the letter.

Precisely because it appeared as if Heaven had accepted her sacrifice and the grandeur for which she had made it seemed to be awaiting her son, she ought to attempt nothing that might impede his climbing to the height, and her open connection with him might easily have placed stones in his path.  His elevation depended upon King Philip, whose boundless pride had gazed at her from his chilling face.

So she resolved to make no more advances to her child until the day came—­and a voice within told her that come it must—­when he himself longed for his own mother.  Meanwhile she would be content with the joy of watching his brilliant course from the distance.

The miracles which she had anticipated and prayed for in his behalf were accomplished.  First, she heard that Count Ribadavia’s splendid palace would be prepared for her son, that the sons of noble families would be assigned to attend him, and that a body-guard of Spaniards and Germans and a train of his own were at his command.