Don Luis Quijada, with the haughty precision of the Castilian grandee,
was passing through the humble folk around him and advancing directly
toward her.

All who separated him from the carriage submissively made way for the
commander of the Lombard regiment; but Barbara looked toward the right
and the left, and longed to spring from the vehicle and hide herself amid
the throng.

But it was too late for that.

She could do nothing except wait to learn what he desired, and yet she
knew perfectly well that Don Luis was not coming to the musician, but to
her, and that he was bringing some startling, nay, probably some terrible
news.

She had not met him since she had poured forth the indignation of her
heart. Now he was standing close beside the carriage, but his grave face
looked less stern than it did at that time.

After he had bent his head slightly to her and held out his hand to
Gombert with friendly condescension, he thanked him for the kindness with
which he had made room for his travelling companion, and then, with quiet
courtesy, informed Barbara that he had come on behalf of his Majesty, who
feared that she might not find suitable lodgings in overcrowded Landshut.
The sedan chair stood ready over there by the hospital.

The longing to escape this fresh outrage from the mighty despot seized
upon Barbara more fiercely than ever, but flight in this crowd was
impossible, and as she met Quijada's grave glance she forced herself to