“She rode to the forest with some friends,” Wolf timidly ventured to interpose to save himself other orders impossible to execute.  “If she has not returned home, it might be difficult—­”

“Whether difficult or easy, you will find her,” Charles interrupted.  “Then, with a greeting from her warmest admirer, Charles, the music lover, announce that he does not command, but entreats her to let him hear again this evening the voice whose melody so powerfully moved his heart.—­You, Baron, will accompany the gentleman, and not return without the young lady!—­What is her name?”

“Barbara Blomberg.”

“Barbara,” repeated the sovereign, as if the name evoked an old memory; and, as though he saw before him the form of the woman he was describing, he added in a low tone:  “She is blue-eyed, fairskinned and rosy, slender yet well-rounded.  A haughty, almost repellent bearing.  Thick, waving locks of golden hair.”

“That is witchcraft!” the baron exclaimed.  “Your Majesty is painting her portrait in words exactly, feature by feature.  Her hair is like that of Titian’s daughter.”

“Apparently you have not failed to scrutinize her closely,” remarked the Emperor sharply.  “Has she already associated with the gentlemen of the court?”

Both promptly answered in the negative, but the Emperor continued impatiently:  “Then hasten!  As soon as she is here, inform me.—­The meal, Malfalconnet, must be short-four courses, or five at the utmost, and no dessert.  The boy choir is not to be stationed in the chapel, but in the dining hall, opposite to me.—­We leave the arrangement to you, Sir Wolf.  Of course, a chair must be placed for the lady.—­Have the larger table set in another room, baron, and, for ought I care, serve with all twenty courses and a dessert.  Old Marquise de Leria will remain here.  She will occupy Queen Mary’s seat at my side.  On account of the singer, I mean.  Besides, it will please the marquise’s vanity.”

His eyes sparkled with youthful fire as he gave these orders.  When the ambassadors were already on the threshold, he called after them: 

“Wherever she may be, however late it may become, you will bring her.  And,” he added eagerly, as the others with reverential bows were retiring, “and don’t forget, I do not command—­I entreat her.”

When he was alone, Charles drew a long breath, and, resting his head on his hand, his thoughts returned to the past.  Half-vanished pictures unconsciously blended with the present, which had so unexpectedly assumed a bright colouring.

“Barbara,” he murmured, almost inaudibly.  Then he continued in soliloquy:  “The beautiful Jungfrau Groen in Brussels was also called Barbara, and she was the first.  Another of this name, and perhaps the last.  How can this ardent yearning take root in my seared soul and grow so vigorously?”

Meanwhile he fancied that the “Quia amore langueo” again greeted him yearningly in the sweet melody of her voice.