His orders were obeyed, and when he next appeared at Zorrillo’s quarters, the soldiers, who had assembled there in throngs, parted to make way for him.

He beckoned to them, and while he went from one to another, saying:  “The sibyl was my mother—­Zorrillo has murdered my mother,” the coffin was borne into the house.

In the vestibule, he leaned his head against the wall, moaning and sighing, until Florette was laid in her last bed, and a soldier put his hand on his shoulder.  Then Ulrich strewed flowers over the corpse, and the joiner came to nail up the coffin.  The blows of the hammer actually hurt him, it seemed as if each one fell upon his own heart.

The funeral procession passed through the ranks of soldiers, who filled the street.  Several officers came to meet it, and Captain Ortis, approaching close to the Eletto, said:  “The bishop refuses the catafalque and the solemn requiem you requested.  Your mother died in sin, without the sacrament.  He will grant as many masses for the repose of her soul as you desire, but such high honors. . . .”

“He refuses them to us?”

“Not to us, to the sibyl.”

“She was my mother, your Eletto’s mother.  To the cathedral, forward!”

“It is closed, and will remain so to-day, for the bishop. . . .”

“Then burst the doors!  We’ll show them who has the power here.”

“Are you out of your senses?  The Holy Church!”

“Forward, I say!  Let him who is no cowardly wight, follow me!”

Ulrich drew the commander’s baton from his belt and rushed forward, as if he were leading a storming-party; but Ortis cried:  “We will not fight against St. Martin!” and a murmur of applause greeted him.

Ulrich checked his pace, and gnashing his teeth, exclaimed:  “Will not?  Will not?” Then gazing around the circle of comrades, who surrounded him on all sides, he asked:  “Has no one courage to help me to my rights?  Ortis, de Vego, Diego, will you follow me, yes or no?”

“No, not against the Church!”

“Then I command you,” shouted the Eletto, furiously.  “Obey, Lieutenant de Vega, forward with your company, and burst the cathedral doors.”

But no one obeyed, and Ortis ordered:  “Back, every man of you!  Saint Martin is my patron saint; let all who value their souls refuse to attack the church and defend it with me.”

The blood rushed to Ulrich’s brain, and incapable of longer self-control, he threw his baton into the ranks of the mutineers, shrieking:  “I hurl it at your feet; whoever picks it up can keep it!”

The soldiers hesitated; but Ortis repeated his “Back!” Other officers gave the same order, and their men obeyed.  The street grew empty, and the Eletto’s mother was only followed by a few of her son’s friends; no priest led the procession.  In the cemetery Ulrich threw three handfuls of earth into the open grave, then with drooping head returned home.