Barbarina was indeed lovely, irresistibly lovely, in her ravishing costume of a shepherdess; her dress was of crimson satin, her black velvet bodice was fastened over her voluptuous bosom by rich golden cords, finished off by tassels glittering with diamonds.  A wreath of crimson roses adorned her hair, which fell in graceful ringlets about her wondrous brow, and formed a rich frame around her pure, oval face.  The dark incarnate of her full, ripe lip contrasted richly with the light, rosy blush of her fair, smooth cheek.  Barbarina’s smile was a promise of love and bliss; and, when those great fiery eyes looked at you earnestly, there was such an intense glow, such a depth of power and passion in their rays, you could not but feel that there was danger in her love as in her scorn.

To-day, she would neither threaten nor inspire; she was only a smiling, joyous, simple peasant-girl, who had returned wild with joy to her native village, and whose rapture found expression in the gay and graceful mazes of the dance.  She floated here and there, like a wood-nymph, smiling, happy, careless, wonderful to look upon in her loveliness and beauty, but more wonderful still in her art.  Simplicity and grace marked every movement; there seemed no difficulties in her path—­to dance was her happiness.

The dance was at an end.  Barbarina, breathless, glowing, smiling, bowed low.  Then all was still; no hand was moved, no applause greeted her.  Her great burning eyes wandered threateningly and questioningly over the saloon; then, raising her lovely head proudly, she stepped back.

The curtain fell, and now all eyes were fixed upon the king, in whose face the courtiers expected to read the impression which the signora had made upon him; but the countenance of the king told nothing; he was quiet and thoughtful, his brow was stern, and his lips compressed.  The courtiers concluded that he was disappointed, and began at once to find fault, and make disparaging remarks.  Frederick did not regard them.  At this moment he was not a king, he was only a man—­a man who, in silent rapture, had gazed upon this wondrous combination of grace and beauty.  The king was a hero, but he trembled before this woman, and a sort of terror laid hold upon him.

The curtain rose, and the second act of the drama began; no one looked at the stage; after this living, breathing, impersonation of a simple story, a spoken drama seemed oppressive.  Every one rejoiced when the second act was at an end.  The curtain would soon rise for Barbarina.

But this did not occur; there was a long delay; there was eager expectation; the curtain did not rise; the bell did not ring.  At last, Baron Swartz crossed the stage and drew near to the king.

“Sire,” said he, “the Signora Barbarina declares she will not dance again; she is exhausted by grief and anxiety, and fatigued by her journey.”

“Go and say to her that I command her to dance,” said Frederick, who felt himself once more a king, and rejoiced in his power over this enchantress, who almost held him in her toils.