Never, not even in Italy, had he beheld a nobler countenance.  Philipp was right.  There was something royal in her bearing.  This was the wife of his dreams, the proud woman, with whom the Eletto desired to share power and grandeur.  And he had already held her once in his arms!  It seemed as if it were only yesterday.  His heart throbbed higher and higher.  As she now rose and thoughtfully approached the window, he could no longer contain himself, and exclaimed in a low tone:  “Ruth, Ruth!  Do you know me, girl?  It is I—­Ulrich!”

She shrank back, putting out he1 hands with a repellent gesture; but only for a moment.  Then, struggling to maintain her composure, she joyously uttered his name, and as he rushed into the room, cried “Ulrich!” “Ulrich!” and no longer able to control her feelings, suffered him to clasp her to his heart.

She had daily expected him with ardent longing, yet secret dread:  for he was the fierce Eletto, the commander of the insurgents, the bloody foe of the brave nation she loved.  But at sight of his face all, all was forgotten, and she felt nothing but the bliss of being reunited to him whom she had never, never forgotten, the joy of seeing, feeling that he loved her.

His heart too was overflowing with passionate delight.  Faltering tender words, he drew her head to his breast, then raised it to press his mouth to her pure lips.  But her intoxication of joy passed away—­and before he could prevent it, she had escaped from his arms, saying sternly:  “Not that, not that....  Many a crime lies between us and you.”

“No, no!” he eagerly exclaimed.  “Are you not near me?  Your heart and mine have belonged to each other since that day in the snow.  If my father is angry because I serve other masters than his, you, yes you, must reconcile us again.  I could stay in Aalst no longer.”

“With the mutineers?” she asked sadly.  “Ulrich, Ulrich, that you should return to us thus!”

He again seized her hand, and when she tried to withdraw it, only smiled, saying with the confidence of a man, who is sure of his cause: 

“Cast aside this foolish reserve.  To-morrow you will freely give me, not only one hand, but both.  I am not so bad as you think.  The fortune of war flung me under the Spanish flag, and ’whose bread I eat, his song I sing,’ says the soldier.  What would you have?  I served with honor, and have done some doughty deeds; let that content you.”

This angered Ruth, who resolutely exclaimed: 

“No, a thousand times no!  You are the Eletto of Aalst, the pillager of cities, and this cannot be swept aside as easily as the dust from the floor.  I....  I am only a feeble girl;—­but father, he will never give his hand to the blood-stained man in Spanish garb!  I know him, I know it.”

Ulrich’s breath came quicker; but he repressed the angry emotion and replied, first reproachfully, then beseechingly: