If misfortune had made her modest, if it had crushed her wicked arrogance, and she was still his own dear child, who desired her father’s blessing, she ought not to refuse the faithful fellow who would bring her this letter, but accept his proposal.  On that, and upon that alone, his forgiveness would depend; it was for her to show how much or how little she valued it.

Barbara deciphered this epistle with varying emotions.

Was there no room for unselfish love in the breast of any man?

Her father, even he, was seeking to profit by that which united him to his only child.  To keep it, and to secure his blessing, she must give her hand to the unloved soldier who had shown him kindness and won his affection.

She again glanced indignantly over the letter, and now read the postscript also.  “Pyramus,” it ran, “will remain only a short time in Germany, and go from there directly to Brussels, where he is on duty, and thence to me in Antwerp.”

Barbara started, her large eyes sparkled brightly, and a faint flush suddenly suffused her cheeks.  The “plus ultra” was forever at an end for her.  Her boy was living in Brussels near his father; there she belonged, and she suddenly saw herself brought so near this unknown, brilliant city that it seemed like her real home.  Where else could she hope to rid herself of the nightmares that oppressed her except where she was permitted to see the man from whom nothing could separate her, no matter how cruelly he repulsed her?

The only suitable place for her, he thought, was the cloister.  No man, he believed in his boundless vanity, could satisfy the woman who had once received in his love.

He should learn the contrary!  He should hear—­nay, perhaps he should see—­that she was still desired, in spite of the theft which he had committed, in spite of the cruelty with which Fate had destroyed the best treasure that it had generously bestowed.

The recruiting officer was certainly a handsome man and, moreover, of noble birth.  Her father wished to have him for a son, and would forgive her if she gave him the hand for which he shed.

So let him be the one who should take her to Brussels, and to whom she would give the right of calling himself her husband.

Here her brow contracted in a frown, for the journey on which she was to set out with him would lead not only to the Netherlands, but through her whole life, perhaps to the grave.

Deep resentment seized upon her, but she soon succeeded in conquering it; only the question what she had to give her suitor in return for his loyal love could not be silenced.  Yet was it she who summoned him?  Did he not possess the knowledge of everything that might have deterred another from wooing her?  Had she not showed him more than plainly how ill he had succeeded in gaining her affection?  If, nevertheless, he insisted upon winning her, he must take her as she was, though the handsome young man would have had a good right to a heart full of love.  Hers, so long as the gouty traitor lived who had ruined her whole existence, could never belong entirely to another.