Charles was gazing, as if the gates of Paradise had opened before him, toward the chapel doors, whence Maestro Gombert’s Benedictio Mensae, a melody entirely new to him, was pouring like a holy benediction, devout yet cheering, sometimes solemn, anon full of joy.

The lines of anxiety vanished from his brow as if at the spell of a magician.  The dull eyes gained a brilliant, reverent light, the bent figure straightened itself.  He seemed to his sister ten years younger.  She saw in his every feature how deeply the music had affected him.

She knew her imperial brother.  Had not his heart and soul been fully absorbed by the flood of pure and noble tones which so unexpectedly streamed toward him, his eves would have been at least briefly attracted by the dish which Count Krockow more than once presented, for it contained an oyster ragout which a mounted messenger had brought that noon from the Baltic Sea to the city on the Danube.

Yet many long minutes elapsed ere he noticed the dish, though it was one of his favourite viands.  Barbara’s song stirred the imperial lover of music at the nocturnal banquet just as it had thrilled the great musicians a few hours before.  He thought that he had never heard anything more exquisite, and when the Benedictio Mensa:  died away he clasped his sister’s hand, raised it two or three times to his lips, and thanked her with such affectionate warmth that she blessed the accomplishment of her happy idea, and willingly forgot the unpleasant moments she had just undergone.

Now, as if completely transformed, he wished to be told who had had the lucky thought of summoning his orchestra and her boy choir, and how the plan had been executed; and when he had heard the story, he fervently praised the delicacy of feeling and true sportsmanlike energy of her strong and loving woman’s heart.

The court orchestra gave its best work, and so did the new head cook.  The pheasant stuffed with snails and the truffle sauce with it seemed delicious to the sovereign, who called the dish a triumph of the culinary art of the Netherlands.  The burden of anxieties and the pangs inflicted by the gout seemed to be forgotten, and when the orchestra ceased he asked to hear the boy choir again.

This time it gave the most beautiful portion of Joscluin de Pres’s hymn to the Virgin, “Ecce tu pulchra es”; and when Barbara’s “Quia amore langueo” reached his ear and heart with its love-yearning melody, he nodded to his sister with wondering delight, and then listened, as if rapt from the world, until the last notes of the motet died away.

Where had Appenzelder discovered the marvellous boy who sang this “Quia amore langueo”?  He sent Don Luis Quijada to assure the leader and the young singer of his warmest approbation, and then permitted the Queen also to seek the choir and its leader to ask whom the latter had succeeded in obtaining in the place of the lad from Cologne, whom he had often heard sing the “tu pulchra es,” but with incomparably less depth of feeling.