the Queen, who last evening had catechised her as if she were a child,
and whom she distrusted; the servile flatterer, Malfalconnet, in whose
mirthful manner that day for the first time she thought she had detected
dislike and slight sarcasm; the imperial love messenger, Don Luis
Quijada, who with icy, dutiful coldness scarcely vouchsafed a word to
her; and, lastly, the confessor Pedro de Soto, who treated her like a
person who needed pity, and probably only awaited a fitting time to hurl
an anathema into her face--passed before her memory, and in all these
persons, so far above her in birth and rank, she believed that she saw
foes.

But how was it with the man who could trample them all in the dust like
worms--with her imperial lover?

Until now he had been observant of her every sign, but yesterday night
the lion had raised his paw against her.

A slight pain had again made itself felt in his foot. She had eagerly
lamented it, and in doing so deplored the fact that she would never be
permitted to share the pleasure of dancing with the man she loved and who
had first taught her how beautiful life was. This perhaps incautious
remark had roused the ire of the suffering monarch.

How sensitive was this man's consciousness of sovereignty, how much
suspicion and bitterness must have gathered in his heart, if he could
see in the girl's innocent compassion an offence to his dignity,
a humiliating reproach!

The rebuking sharpness with which he expressed his displeasure had
pierced her very soul. She felt as if she were shivering with a sudden