As a postscript, he had written with his own hand, as the crooked letters showed:  “Mind what I told you about Sir Pyramus, without whom you would now be a deserted orphan.  Can you believe that in all Spain there is no fresh butter to be had, either for bread or in the kitchen for roast meat, but instead rancid oil, which we should think just fit for burning?”

With deep shame Barbara realized through this letter how rarely she remembered her father.  Only since she knew positively what joy and what anxiety awaited her had she again thought frequently of him, but always with great fear of the old man whose head had grown gray in an honourable life.  Now the hour was approaching when she would be obliged to confess to him what she still strove to deem a peerless favour of Fate, for which future generations would envy her.  Perhaps he who looked up to the Emperor Charles with such enthusiastic devotion would agree with her; perhaps what she must disclose to him would spoil the remainder of his life.  The image of the aged sufferer, lying in pain and sorrow far from her old his home, in a stranger’s house, constantly forced itself upon her, and she often dwelt upon it, imagining it with ingenious self-torture.

Love for another had estranged her from him who possessed the first claim to every feeling of tenderness and gratitude in her heart.  The thought that she could do nothing for him and give him no token of her love pierced deep into her soul.  Every impulse of her being urged her to learn further details of him and his condition.  As Pyramus Kogel was staying in Landshut, she wrote a note entreating him, if possible, to come to Ratisbon to tell her about her father, or, if this could not be, to inform her by letter how he fared.

There was no lack of messengers going to Landshut, and the answer was not delayed.  During these war times, Pyramus answered, he was not his own master even for a moment; therefore he must deny himself a visit to her, and he also lacked time for a detailed account by letter.  If, however, she could resolve to do him the honour of a visit, he would promise her a more cordial reception than he had experienced on her side.  For the rest, her father was being carefully nursed, and his life was no longer in danger.

At first Barbara took this letter for an ungenerous attempt of the insulted man to repay the humiliation which he had received from her; but the news from the throngs of troops pouring into the city made the officer’s request appear in a milder light, and the longing to ascertain her father’s condition daily increased.

At the end of the first week in August her strength would have sufficed for the short drive to Landshut.  True, she was as hoarse as when she gave the physician a disinclination to return, but she had regained her physical vigour, and had taken walks, without special fatigue, sometimes with Wolf, sometimes with Gombert.  The latter, as well as Appenzelder, still frequently called upon her, and tried to diminish her grief over the injury to her voice by telling her of hundreds of similar cases which had resulted favourably.