Who would have ventured to apply this motet to the brave and clever Saxon, high as he, too, towered above most of his peers?  What did the nations of the earth know about him?  How small was the world still that was full of his renown!

This singing had reminded both princes of Barbara, and they looked for her.  The Emperor perceived her first, beckoned kindly to her, and, after conversing with her for a while so graciously that it aroused the envy of the other ladies in the tent, he said eagerly:  “Not sung amiss for your Ratisbon, I should think.  But how this superb composition was sung six years ago at Catnbray, under the direction of Courtois himself!—­that, yes, that is one of the things never to be forgotten.  Thirty-four singers, and what power, what precision, and, moreover, the great charm of novelty!  I have certainly been permitted to hear many things——­”

Here he paused; the Cardinal of Trent was approaching with the Bishop of Arras.

The younger Granvelle, with his father, had also been present at the performance of this motet of homage at Cambray, and respectfully confirmed his Majesty’s remark, speaking with special warmth of the fervour and delicacy with which Jean Courtois had conducted the choir.

The cardinal had no wish to detract from the merits of the Netherland maestro, but he called the Emperor’s attention to young Orlando di Lasso, the leader of the orchestra in the Lateran at Rome, who, in his opinion, was destined as a composer and conductor to cast into the shade all the musicians of his time.  He was born in Hennegau.  The goddess of Music continued to honour the Netherlands with her special favour.

During this conversation Barbara had stepped modestly aside.  Charles glanced toward her several times to address her again, but when the Bishop of Arras whispered that, before the commencement of the festival, the cardinal had received despatches from the Council and from Rome, he motioned to both prelates to follow him, and, paying no further heed to Barbara—­nay, without even vouchsafing her a farewell wave of the hand—­ conducted them to the rear of the tent.

Again the girl’s heart ached in her abandonment.  Duke Maurice, too, had vanished.  When he saw the Emperor address her he had left the tent.

Dancing had begun, and he was now accepting the invitation of the magistrate Ambrosius Ammann to inaugurate the young people’s pleasure as leader of the Polish dance.

For a time Barbara stood as if spellbound to the spot where her lover had so suddenly turned away from her.

She was again experiencing what Adrian had predicted—­politics made Charles forget everything else, even love.  How would it be when war actually came?

Now, after the Emperor had showed her that he still deemed her worthy of regard, she felt for the first time thoroughly neglected, and with difficulty restrained her tears.  She would have liked to follow Charles, and at every peril whisper softly, so that he alone could hear, yet with all the sharpness of her resentment, that it was unchivalrous to leave her standing here like an outcast, and that she demanded to learn why she had forfeited his love.