She would show him, too, what she could do--compel him to applaud her.
She would force him away from the little temptress, and oblige him to
gaze up at her whose art--she learned this daily--possessed the power to
fix the attention of spectators like the thrall of the basilisk's eye.
When on the rope she was no insignificant personage. He should tremble
for her as did the gray-haired, scarred captain of the foot soldiers,
Mannsbach, the day before yesterday. He had told her that his heart had
throbbed more anxiously during her daring feats than on the bloodiest
field of battle.

She moved forward more swiftly to the time of the lively dancing tune
which the city pipers were playing. Midway along the rope she turned,
ran back to the cross-shaped trestle at the steeple window, handed the
balancing pole to Loni, and received a cage filled with doves. Each one
bore around its neck a note containing an expression of homage to the
Emperor Maximilian, and they were all trained to alight near the richly
decorated throne which was now occupied by the chivalrous monarch. The
clown who, with a comical show of respect, offered her what she needed
for her next feat, told her this.

Loni, sure of being heard by no unbidden ear, called to her from the
window:

"Art is honoured to-day, my girl."

The clown added jocosely:

"Who else was ever permitted to walk over the anointed head of our lord
the Emperor?"