Barbara dismissed, without making use of their services, the pages whom
he placed at her disposal. The more than luxurious meal which was served
soon afterward she scarcely touched; the impetuous throbbing of her heart
choked her breathing so that she could scarcely speak to Lamperi.

With eager zeal the maid tried to induce her to put on the fresh and
extremely tasteful Brussels gala robe. The candlesticks, with the dozens
of candles, the elegant silver dishes, the whole manner of the reception,
led her to make the suggestion. But Barbara had scarcely noticed these
magnificent things.

Her every thought and feeling centred upon the son whom she was now
actually to see with her own eyes, whose hand she would touch, whose
voice she would hear.

The splendid costume did not suit such a meeting after a long separation,
so solemn a festal hour of the heart.

A heavy black silk which she had brought was more appropriate for this
occasion. Only she allowed the pomegranate blossoms, which had remained
perfectly fresh, to be fastened on her breast, that her dress might not
look like mourning. While Lamperi was putting the last touches to her
toilet, a priest came for her, as Escovedo had arranged, exactly two
hours after her arrival. This was Father Dorante, Don John's confessor,
an elderly man with a face in which earnest piety was so happily mingled
with kindly cheerfulness that Barbara rejoiced to know that such a
guardian of souls was at her son's side.

While he was descending the stairs with her, Barbara noticed one of the