She did not repulse the witness of her lost happiness, and listened
attentively while Hannibal told her about the memorable ceremony which he
had attended.

True, his description of the lofty hall in the Brabant palace where it
took place, the chapel adjoining it, and the magnificent decorations of
flowers and banners that adorned it, told nothing new to Barbara. She
was familiar with both, and had seen them garlanded, adorned with flags
and coats of arms, and even witnessed the erection of the stage in the
hall and the stretching of the canopy above it.

The Emperor had appeared upon the platform at the stroke of three,
leaning upon his crutch and the shoulder of William of Orange. His son
Philip and the Queen of Hungary followed, and all took their seats upon
the gilded thrones awaiting them. The blithe, pleasant Archduke
Maximilian of Austria, the Duke of Savoy, who was expecting a great
winning card in the game of luck of his changeful life, the Knights
of the Golden Fleece, and the highest of the Netherland nobles, the
councillors, the governor, and the principal military officers also
had places upon the stage.

Barbara knew every name that Hannibal mentioned. It seemed as if she saw
the broken-down Emperor, his son Philip with his head haughtily thrown
back, his favourite, the omnipotent minister, Ruy Gomez, the Prince of
Eboli, who with his coal-black hair and beard would have resembled
Quijada if, instead of the soldierly frankness of the major-domo, an
uneasy, questioning expression had not lurked in his dark eyes, the
brilliant Bishop of Arras, who had again so kindly placed her under
obligation to him, and the Frieslander Viglius, who had dropped into her
soul the wormwood whose bitterness she still tasted, and whose motto,