Here the Emperor laughed shrilly.  “The power, the voice!  The songstress, you should say.  This whimsical volunteer with the voice of an angel, who is so tenderly treated by rough Appenzelder, is a woman, not a refractory choir boy.  How you are blushing!  You have proved a very inapt pupil in the art of dissimulation and disguise in my royal sister’s service.  Really and truly, I am right!”

Here another bow from Wolf confirmed the Emperor’s conjecture; but the latter, highly pleased with his own penetration, laughed softly, exclaimin, to the baron:  “Where were our ears?  This masquerade is surely the work of the Queen, who so dearly loves the chase.  And she forbade you too, Malfalconnet, to give me your confidence?” Again a silent bow assented.

The Emperor bent his eyes on the ground a short time, and then said, half in soliloquy:  “It was not possible otherwise.  Whence could a boy learn the ardent, yearning longing of which that ‘Quia amore langueo’ was so full?  And the second, less powerful voice, which accompanied her, was that a girl’s too?  No?  Yet that also, I remember, had a suggestion of feminine tenderness.  But only the marvellously beautiful melody of one haunted me.  I can hear it still.  The irresistible magic of this ’Amore langueo’ mingled even in my conversation with Granvelle.”

Then he passed his hand across his lofty brow, and in a different tone asked Wolf, “So it is a girl, and a native of this city?”

“Yes, your Majesty,” was the reply.

“And, in spite of the praise of the gracious mother of God, a Protestant, like the other fools in this country?”

“No, my lord,” replied the nobleman firmly; “a pious Catholic Christian.”

“Of what rank?”

“She belongs, through both parents, to a family of knightly lineage, entitled to bear a coat-of-arms and appear in the lists at tournaments.  Her father has drawn his sword more than once in battle against the infidels—­at the capture of Tunis, under your own eyes, your Majesty, and in doing so he unfortunately ruined the prosperity of his good, ancient house.”

“What is his name?”

“Wolfgang Blomberg.”

“A big, broad-shouldered German fighter, with a huge mustache and pointed beard.  Shot in the leg and wounded in the shoulder.  Pious, reckless, with the courage of a lion.  Afterward honoured with the title of captain.”

Full of honest amazement at such strength of memory, Wolf endeavoured to express his admiration; but the imperial general interrupted him with another question, “And the daughter?  Does her appearance harmonize with her voice?”

“I think so,” replied Wolf in an embarrassed tone.

“Wonderfully beautiful and very aristocratic,” said the baron, completing the sentence, and raising the tips of his slender fingers to his lips.

But this gesture seemed to displease his master, for he turned from him, and, looking the young Ratisbon knight keenly in the face, asked suspiciously, “She is full of caprices—­I am probably right there also —­and consequently refuses to sing?”