t cheered Barbara, and
when a fight began, which was carried on by a dozen trained champions
brought from Strasburg expressly for this purpose, she turned her
attention to it.

At first this dealing blows at one another with blunt weapons offered her
little amusement; but when shouts from the tent and the stands cheered
the men from the Mark, and powerful blows incensed to fury those who were
struck, the scene began to enthral her.

A handsome, agile youth, to her sincere regret, had just fallen, but
swiftly recovered his elasticity, and, springing to his feet, belaboured
his opponent, a clumsy giant, so skilfully and vigorously that the bright
blood streamed down his ugly face and big body. Barbara's cheeks flushed
with sympathy. That was right. Skill and grace ought everywhere to
conquer hideous rude force.

If she had been a man she would have found her greatest happiness, as her
father did, in battle, in measuring her own strength with another's. Now
she was obliged to defend herself with other weapons than blunt swords,
and when she saw the champions, six against six, again rush upon one
another, and one side drive the other back, her vivid imagination
transported her into the midst of the victors, and it seemed as if the
marquise and the whole throng of arrogant dames in the tent, as well as
the Ratisbon women on the stands who had insulted her by their haughty
airs of virtue, were fleeing from her presence.

How repulsive these envious, hypocritical people were! How she hated
everything that threatened to estrange her lover's heart! To them also
belonged the scoundrel who, she supposed, had betrayed the sale of the
star to the Emperor. She resolved to confess to Charles how she had been
led to commit this offence, which was indeed hard to forgive. Perhaps all
would then be well again, for in this unfortunate action she could
recognise the sole wrong which she had ever inflicted upon her lover. She
could not help attributing his humiliating manner to it alone, for her
love had always remained the same, and only yesterday, after she had sung
before the Duke of Saxony, Appenzelder, who never flattered, had assured
her that her voice had gained in power, her expression in depth, and she
herself felt that it was so.

Music was still the firmest bond that united her to her lover. So long as
her art remained faithful, he could not abandon her. This conviction was
transformed into certainty when the final performanc