“But it is hard enough for the major-domo and his Majesty to do without you,” said Frau Traut importantly.  “Don Luis, the letter says, would gladly have written with his own hand, but he had not a single leisure moment; for, since Adrian had gone, he was obliged to be at hand to serve his Majesty by day as well as by night.  My husband’s successor, Bodart, whom he trained for the service, is skilful and makes every effort, but he can not replace Adrian to his suffering master.”

Then Frau Traut looked more closely at the letter, and began to translate its contents.

“Of course,” she began, “San Yuste is not like Brussels; but if they think there that his Majesty lives like a monk and submits to the rules of the monastery, they are misinformed.”

Here she lowered the sheet; but Barbara’s cheeks were glowing with impatient interest, and she exclaimed with urgent warmth:  “Oh, please, read on!  But where—­it is probably in the letter—­where is our child?”

“One thing after the other, as the letter communicates it,” replied the translator in a reproving tone; but her husband nodded soothingly to Barbara, and said: 

“Only this first:  Our John is near his father, and there is something especially good about him toward the end.  Dona Magdalena is a true Castilian—­first the King, then her husband, then the others according to their rank.  It is different here and in your country.  Patience and you, Frau Barbara, have been bad friends ever since I knew you.”

Barbara’s sorrowful smile confirmed this statement, and when Frau Traut at last went on, the tone of her voice betrayed how little she liked interruptions just now.

“You were informed of his Majesty’s safe landing at Quiposcoa.  It was pitiful to see how the people in his train who did not belong to the number of those who were to accompany him to Jarandilla behaved at the parting from their beloved master.  The body-guards flung their halberds on the pavement, and there were plenty of tears and lamentations.  On St. Blasius’s day—­[February 3, 1557]—­his Majesty at last entered San Yuste.  Don Luis, as you know, had gone before to get the house in readiness for his master.  One could scarcely imagine a pleasanter spot, for there is no greener valley than that of San Yuste in the whole range of the Carpetano Mountains, nay, perhaps in all Spain.  It is difficult to describe how everything is growing and blossoming here now, in the month of May.  The little garden of the house is well kept and full of beautiful orange trees.  While blossoming, they exhale the most exquisite perfume, and his Majesty enjoys the delicious fragrance which the wind bears to him.

“In your noisy Brussels it is hard to imagine how quiet it can be here, dear Senor Adrian.  Nothing is to be heard save the carol of a bird, the rippling of a clear stream flowing swiftly through the valley, and at intervals the distinct notes of the little bells and cymbals upon the clocks which his Majesty brought with him.  Even their ticking is often audible.  At certain hours the ringing of the monastery bells blends solemnly and softly with the silence.  The Hieronymites in the monastery are pious monks.  His Majesty sometimes listens to their choir.  Its music is very fine since Sir Wolf Hartschwert, whom you also know, has taken charge of it.