She angrily threw them down, determined, in spite of the oracle, to
follow her son.

Meantime in the camp drums beat, fifes screamed shrilly, trumpets blared,
and the shouts and voices of the assembled soldiers sounded like the
distant roar of the surf.

A fresh burst of military music rang out, and now Florette started to her
feet and listened. It seemed as if she heard Ulrich's voice, and the
rapid throbbing of her heart almost stopped her breath. She must go out,
she must see and hear what was passing. Hastily pushing the white hair
back from her brow, she threw a veil over it, and hurried through the
camp to the spot where the election was taking place.

The soldiers all knew her and made way for her. The leaders of the
mutineers were standing on the wall of earth between the field-pieces,
and amid the foremost rank, nay, in front of them all, her son was
addressing the crowd.

The choice wavered between him and Zorrillo. Ulrich had already been
speaking a long time. His cheeks were glowing and he looked so handsome,
so noble, in his golden helmet, from beneath which floated his thick,
fair locks, that her heart swelled with joy, and as the night grows
brighter when the black clouds are torn asunder and the moon victoriously
appears, grief and pain were suddenly irradiated by maternal love and
pride.

Now he drew his tall figure up still higher, exclaiming: "Others are
readier and bolder with the tongue than I, but I can speak with the sword
as well as any one."