Suddenly the recollection of his father and Ruth illumined his misery like a sunbeam.  The game of Eletto was now over, he would go to Antwerp the next day.

Why had fate snatched his mother from him just now, why did it deny him the happiness of seeing his parents united?  His father—­she had sorely wronged him, but for what will not death atone?  He must take him some remembrance of her, and went to her room to look through her chest.  But it no longer stood in the old place—­the owner of the house, a rich matron, who had been compelled to occupy an attic-room, while strangers were quartered in her residence, had taken charge of the pale orphan and the boxes after Florette’s death.

The good Netherland dame provided for the adopted child and the property of her enemy, the man whose soldiers had pillaged her brothers and cousins.  The death of the woman below had moved her deeply, for the wonderful charm of Florette’s manner had won her also.

Towards midnight Ulrich took the lamp and went upstairs.  He had long since forgotten to spare others, by denying himself a wish.

The knocking at the door and the passing to and fro in the entry had kept Frau Geel awake.  When she heard the Eletto’s heavy step, she sprang up from her spinning-wheel in alarm, and the maid-servant, half roused from sleep, threw herself on her knees.

“Frau Geel!” called a voice outside.

She recognized Navarrete’s tones, opened the door, and asked what he desired.

“It was his mother,” thought the old lady as he threw clothes, linen and many a trifle on the floor.  “It was his mother.  Perhaps he wants her rosary or prayer book.  He is her son!  They looked like a happy couple when they were together.  A wild soldier, but he isn’t a wicked man yet.”

While he searched she held the light for him, shaking her head over the disorder among the articles where he rummaged.

Ulrich had now reached the bottom of the chest.  Here he found a valuable necklace, booty which Zorrillo had given his companion for use in case of need.  This should be Ruth’s.  Close beside it lay a small package, tied with rose-pink ribbon, containing a tiny infant’s shirt, a gay doll, and a slender gold circlet; her wedding-ring!  The date showed that it had been given to her by his father, and the shirt and doll were mementos of him, her darling—­of himself.

He gazed at them, changing them from one hand to the other, till suddenly his heart overflowed, and without heeding Frau Geel, who was watching him, he wept softly, exclaiming:  “Mother, dear mother!”

A light hand touched his shoulder, and a woman’s kind voice said:  “Poor fellow, poor fellow!  Yes, she was a dear little thing, and a mother, a mother—­that is enough!”

The Eletto nodded assent with tearful eyes, and when she again gently repeated in a tone of sincere sympathy, her “poor fellow!” it sounded sweeter, than the loudest homage that had ever been offered to his fame and power.