Why not?

She was a woman, and a capricious one, too, and of what would not such a nature be capable?  Besides, there was something else.  Jamnitzer, the Nuremberg goldsmith, had intrusted a casket of jewels to Adrian to keep during his absence.  They were intended for the diadems which the Emperor was to give his two nieces for bridal presents.  The principal gems among them were two rubies and a diamond.  On the gold of the old-fashioned setting were a P and an l, the initial letters of his motto “Plus ultra.”  He had once had it engraved upon the back of the star which he bestowed upon Barbara.  His keen eye and faithful memory could not be deceived—­Jamnitzer’s jewels had been broken from that costly ornament.

From time immemorial it had belonged to the treasures of his family, and he had already doubted whether it was justifiable to give it away.

Was it conceivable that Barbara had parted with this, his first memento, sold it, “turned it into money"?—­the base words wounded his chivalrous soul like the blow of a scourge.

She was a passionate, defiant, changeful creature, it is true, yet her nature was noble, hostile to baseness, and what a wealth of the purest and deepest feeling echoed in her execution of solemn songs!  This induced him to reject as impossible the suspicion that she could have stooped to anything so unworthy.

Still, it was not easily banished.  A long series of the sorest disappointments had rendered him distrustful, and he remembered having asked her several times for the star in vain.

Perhaps it had been stolen from her, and Jamnitzer had obtained it from the thief himself or from the receiver.  This thought partially soothed him, especially as, if correct, it would be possible for him to recover the ornament.  But he was an economical manager, and to expend thousands of ducats for such a thing just at this time, when immense sums were needed for the approaching war, seemed to him more than vexatious.

Besides, the high price which he had paid for the Saxon’s aid rendered him uneasy.  He had ceded two large bishoprics to his Protestant ally, and this act of liberality, which, it is true, had been approved and supported by Granvelle, could no longer be undone.  Moreover, if he drew the sword, he must maintain the pretence that it was not done for the sake of religion, but solely to chastise the insubordinate Protestant princes, headed by the Elector John Frederick of Saxony and Philip of Hesse, who had seriously angered him.

In ten days the Reichstag would be opened in Ratisbon and, in spite of his special invitation, these princes, who had refused to recognise the Council of Trent, had excused their absence upon trivial pretexts—­the Hessian, who on other occasions, attended by his numberless servants in green livery, had made three times as great a display as he, the Emperor, on the pretext that the journey to Ratisbon would be too expensive.