The sun was setting behind pleasant Aalst as he approached, and the sky looked as if it was strewn with roses.

“Beautiful, beautiful!” he murmured, pointing out to his lieutenant the brilliant hues in the western horizon.

A messenger hastened on in advance, the thunder of artillery and fanfare of music greeted the victors, as they marched through the gate.  Ulrich sprang from his horse in front of the guildhall and was received by the captain, who had commanded during his absence.

The Eletto hastily described the course of the brilliant, victorious march, and then asked what had happened.

The captain lowered his eyes in embarrassment, saying, in a low tone:  “Nothing of great importance; but day before yesterday a wicked deed was committed, which will vex you.  The woman you love, the camp sibyl....”

“Who?  What?  What do you mean?”

“She went to Zorrillo, and he—­you must not be startled—­he stabbed her.”

Ulrich staggered back, repeating, in a hollow tone “Stabbed!” Then seizing the other by the shoulder, he shrieked:  “Stabbed!  That means murdered-killed!”

“He thrust his dagger into her heart, she must have died as quickly as if struck by lightning.  Then Zorrillo went away, God knows where.  Who could suspect, that the quiet man....”

“You let him escape, helped the murderer get off, you dogs!” raved the wretched man.  “We will speak of this again.  Where is she, where is her body?”

The captain shrugged his shoulders, saying, in a soothing tone:  “Calm yourself, Navarrete!  We too grieve for the sibyl; many in the camp will miss her.  As for Zorrillo, he had the password, and could go through the gate at any hour.  The body is still lying in his quarters.”

“Indeed!” faltered the Eletto.  Then calming himself, he said, mournfully:  “I wish to see her.”

The captain walked silently by his side and opened the murderer’s dwelling.

There, on a bed of pine-shavings, in a rude coffin made of rough planks, lay the woman who had given him birth, deserted him, and yet who so tenderly loved him.  A poor soldier’s wife, to whom she had been kind, was watching beside the corpse, at whose head a singly brand burned with a smoky, yellow light.  The little white dog had found its way to her, and was snuffing the floor, still red with its mistress’s blood.

Ulrich snatched the brand from the bracket, and threw the light on the dead woman’s face.  His tear-dimmed eyes sought his mother’s features, but only rested on them a moment—­then he shuddered, turned away, and giving the torch to his companion, said, softly:  “Cover her head.”

The soldier’s wife spread her coarse apron over the face, which-had smiled so sweetly:  but Ulrich threw himself on his knees beside the coffin, buried his face, and remained in this attitude for many minutes.

At last he slowly rose, rubbed his eyes as if waking from some confused dream, drew himself up proudly, and scanned the place with searching eyes.