return the next day. This time her father had written with his own hand.
The letters were irregular and crooked enough, but they were large, and
there were not too many of them. He now knew what people were saying
about her. It had pierced the very depths of his old heart and darkened
his life. But he could not curse her, because she was his only child,
and also because he told himself how much easier her execrable vanity had
made the Emperor Charles's game. Nor would he give her up as lost, and
his travelling companion. Pyramus, who was like a son to him, was ready
to aid him, for his love was so true and steadfast that he still wished
to make her his wife, and offered through him to share everything with
her, even his honourable name.

If misfortune had made her modest, if it had crushed her wicked
arrogance, and she was still his own dear child, who desired her father's
blessing, she ought not to refuse the faithful fellow who would bring her
this letter, but accept his proposal. On that, and upon that alone, his
forgiveness would depend; it was for her to show how much or how little
she valued it.

Barbara deciphered this epistle with varying emotions.

Was there no room for unselfish love in the breast of any man?

Her father, even he, was seeking to profit by that which united him to
his only child. To keep it, and to secure his blessing, she must give
her hand to the unloved soldier who had shown him kindness and won his
affection.

She again glanced indignantly over the letter, and now read the
postscript also. "Pyramus," it ran, "will remain only a short time in