Queen Mary had just found him utterly exhausted, with his face buried in his hands.

“And you, too,” she added in conclusion, “can not help admitting that if this state of things continues there must be an evil end.”

Quijada bent his head in assent, and then answered modestly: 

“Yet your Majesty knows our royal master’s nature.  He will listen calmly to you, whom he loves, or to me, who was permitted to remain at his side as a page, or probably to the two Granvelles, Malfalconnet, and others whom he trusts, when they venture to warn him—­”

“And yet keep on in his mad career,” interrupted Queen Mary with an angry gesture of the hand.

“Plus ultra—­more, farther—­is his motto,” observed Quijada in a tone of justification.

“Forward ceaselessly, for aught I care, so long as the stomach and the feet are sound!” replied the Queen, raising her hand to the high lace ruff, which oppressed the breathing of one so accustomed to the outdoor air.  “But when, like him, a man must give up deer-stalking and at every movement makes a wry face and can scarcely repress a groan—­it might move a stone to pity!—­he ought to choose another motto.  Persuade him to do so, Quijada, if you are really his friend.”

The smile with which the nobleman listened to this request plainly showed the futility of the demand.

The Queen noticed it, threw her arm aloft as if she were hurling a hunting spear, and exclaimed “I’m not easily deceived, Luis.  Whether you could or not, the will is lacking.  You shun the attempt!  Because you are young yourself, and can still cope with the bear and wild boar, you like the motto, which will probably lead to new wars, and thereby to fresh renown.  But, alas! my poor, poor brother, who—­how long ago it is!—­could once have thrown even you upon the sand, what can he do, with this accursed gout?  And besides, what more can the Emperor Charles gain, since there is no chance of obtaining the sovereignty of the world, of which he once dreamed?  He must learn to be content!  Surely at his age!  It is easy to calculate, for his life began with the century, and this is its forty-sixth year.  Of course, with you soldiers the years of warfare count double, and he—­Duke Alba said so—­was born a general.  One need not be able to reckon far in order to number how many months he has spent in complete peace.  And then he attained his majority at fifteen, and with what weighty cares the man of the ‘plus ultra’ has loaded his shoulders since that time!  You, and many others at the court, had still more to do, but, Luis, one thing, and it is the hardest burden, you were all spared.  I know it.  It is called responsibility.  Compared with this all others are mere fluttering feathers.  Its weight may become unendurable when the weal and woe of half the world are at stake.  Thus every year of government was equal to three of war; but you, Luis—­the question is allowable when put to a man-how old are you?”