“Stop!” moaned Barbara sorrowfully, pressing her hand upon her brow as if frantic.  “So even my hardest sacrifice was futile, and what rendered life valuable to my foolish heart was mere delusion and bewildering deception.  What I beheld raising you to the stars, as though with eagles’ wings, was a clogging weight; what seemed to me at a distance the bright sunshine irradiating your path, was a Will-o’-the-wisp luring to destruction.  What I thought white, was black, the radiant daylight was dusk and the darkness of night.  Oh, if it were really granted me Yet, child, you certainly do not know what you are asking.  So, before it comes to the final decision, let me put this one more question:  Do you believe, really and firmly, that if the confidence of the States-General permits you to take your army by sea, and you lead it in England and succeed in winning the crown and hand of this—­whether she is guilty or not—­beautiful, devout, and, whatever errors she has committed, desirable Queen, that the troubles which it is so hard for your ambitious soul to bear will then vanish?  When you have won the woman for whom you yearn, the throne, and the sceptre, will your sore heart be healed and happiness make its joyous entry, and also remain in your soul, that is so hard to satisfy?  For—­I see and feel it—­it is carried away by the ‘More, farther,’ of your father.  Can you, my John, have you really the firm conviction that, if this lofty desire is fulfilled, you will be content and believe that you have found the summit and the limit of your feverish struggle upward and forward?”

“Yes, and again yes,” cried Don John in a tone of immovably firm belief, while his large eyes beamed upon his mother with an expression of full and genuine trust.  “The vainglory which your first sacrifice brought me was the source of this life full of bitter disappointment.  The hand of Mary Stuart, the lovely martyr, the woman so lavishly endowed with every mental and physical gift, for whom my heart has yearned ever since I saw her picture, and the crown of England, the symbol of genuine majesty, will transform disappointment into the fulfilment which Heaven has hitherto denied me.  If these both fall to the lot of the son, the mother’s sacrifice will not have been in vain; no, it will bring him golden fruit, for the success of this enterprise will bestow upon your John, besides the fleeting radiance, the sun whence the light emanates.  It will raise him to the height to which he aspires, and for which Fate destined him.”

Here he hesitated, for the agitated face of Escovedo, who entered with a despatch in his hand, showed that something unexpected and startling had occurred.

The secretary, Don John’s friend and counsellor, did not allow himself to be intimidated by the angry gesture with which his master waved him back, but handed him the paper, exclaiming in a tone ringing with the horror the news had inspired:  “Antwerp attacked by his Majesty’s rebellious troops, those in Alst, headed by their Eletto—­burned to ashes, plundered, destroyed!”