No high aim, no desire to accomplish good and great things in wider spheres, influenced the thoughts and actions of this couple.

What cared they, that the weal and woe of thousands depended on their decision?  The deadly weapon in their bands was to them only a valuable utensil in which they delighted, and with which fruits were plucked from the trees.

Ulrich now saw the fulfilment of Don Juan’s words, that power was an arable field; for there were many full ears in Aalst for them both to harvest.

Florette still nursed, with maternal care, the soldier’s orphan which she had taken to her son’s house; the child, born on a bed of straw—­was now clothed in dainty linen, laces and other beautiful finery.  It was necessary to her, for she occupied herself with the helpless little creature when, during the long morning hours of Ulrich’s absence, sorrowful thought troubled her too deeply.

Ulrich often remained absent a long time, far longer than the service required.  What was he doing?  Visiting a sweetheart?  Why not?  She only marvelled that the fair women did not come from far and near to see the handsome man.

Yes, the Eletto had found an old love.  Art, which he had sullenly forsaken.  News had reached his ears, that an artist had fallen in the defence of the city.  He went to the dead man’s house to see his works, and how did he find the painter’s dwelling!  Windows, furniture were shattered, the broken doors of the cupboards hung into the rooms on their bent hinges.  The widow and her children were lying in the studio on a heap of straw.  This touched his heart, and he gave alms with an open hand to the sorrowing woman.  A few pictures of the saints, which the Spaniards had spared, hung on the walls; the easel, paints and brushes had been left untouched.

A thought, which he instantly carried into execution, entered his mind.  He would paint a new standard!  How his heart beat, when he again stood before the easel!

He regarded the heretics as heathens.  The Spaniards were shortly going to fight against them and for the faith.  So be painted the Saviour on one side of the standard, the Virgin on the other.  The artist’s widow sat to him for the Madonna, a young soldier for the Christ.

No scruples, no consideration for the criticisms of teachers now checked his creating hand; the power was his, and whatever he did must be right.

He placed upon the Saviour’s bowed figure, Costa’s head, as he had painted it in Titian’s studio, and the Madonna, in defiance of the stern judges in Madrid, received the sibyl’s face, to please himself and do honor to his mother.  He made her younger, transformed her white hair to gleaming golden tresses.  One day he asked Flora to sit still and think of something very serious; he wanted to sketch her.

She gaily placed herself in position, saying: 

“Be quick, for serious thoughts don’t last long with me.”