Wolf, however, seemed reluctant to talk of this child.  True, he hastily remarked, he sometimes visited him at the request of his gracious mistress, but he had no more knowledge of his real origin than she or Dona Magdalena de Ulloa.  The latter supposed the boy to be her husband’s child, and in her generosity therefore interested herself doubly in the forsaken boy, though only at a distance and through his mediation; for his own part, he could never believe the fair-haired, pink-and-white Geronimo to be a son of the dark-skinned, black-eyed Don Luis.  True, the stony silence which the major-domo maintained toward all questions concerning the lad would neither permit him to soothe his wife nor confirm her fear.  At any rate, Geronimo must be the son of some great noble.  This was perfectly apparent from his bearing, the symmetry of his limbs, his frank, imperious nature—­nay, from every movement of this remarkable child.

At this assurance Barbara’s soul glowed with proud maternal joy.  Her blue eyes sparkled with a brighter light, and the sunny, radiant glance with which she thanked Wolf for his information exerted an unexpected influence upon him, for he shrank back as though the curtain which concealed a rare marvel had been lifted and, drawing a long breath, gazed into her beautiful, joyous face.

It seemed as if the luminous reflection of the proud, noble, and pure delight which shone upon him from her eyes had beamed in little Geronimo’s a few weeks before when he rushed up to him to show his hunting spoils, a fitchet and several birds which he had killed with his pretty little cross-bow, a gift from Dona Magdalena.  And Barbara’s wavy golden hair, the little dimple in her cheek!  Geronimo must be her child; this wonderful resemblance could not deceive.

“Barbara,” he cried, pressing his hand to his brow with deep emotion, “Geronimo is—­gracious Virgin!—­the handsome, proud, deserted boy may be——­”

But an imperious gesture from the young wife closed his lips; Frau Lamperi had just led her two boys, beautifully dressed as they always were when any distinguished visitor called upon their mother, into the room.  The expression of radiant happiness which had just illumined her features vanished at the sight of the little ones, and she commanded the children to be taken away at once.

She looked so stern and resolute that her faithful maid lacked courage to make any sign of recognising the knight, whom she had known while she was in the regent’s service.

When the door had closed behind the group, Barbara again turned to her friend, and in a low tone asked, “And suppose that you saw aright, and Geronimo were really my child?”

“Then—­then,” Wolf faltered in bewilderment, “then Don Luis would—­But surely it can not be!  Then, after all, Quijada would be—­”

Here a low laugh from Barbara broke the silence, and with dilated eyes he learned who Geronimo’s parents were.