d the thoughts and actions of this couple.

What cared they, that the weal and woe of thousands depended on their
decision? The deadly weapon in their bands was to them only a valuable
utensil in which they delighted, and with which fruits were plucked from
the trees.

Ulrich now saw the fulfilment of Don Juan's words, that power was an
arable field; for there were many full ears in Aalst for them both to
harvest.

Florette still nursed, with maternal care, the soldier's orphan which
she had taken to her son's house; the child, born on a bed of straw--was
now clothed in dainty linen, laces and other beautiful finery. It was
necessary to her, for she occupied herself with the helpless little
creature when, during the long morning hours of Ulrich's absence,
sorrowful thought troubled her too deeply.

Ulrich often remained absent a long time, far longer than the service
required. What was he doing? Visiting a sweetheart? Why not? She only
marvelled that the fair women did not come from far and near to see the
handsome man.

Yes, the Eletto had found an old love. Art, which he had sullenly
forsaken. News had reached his ears, that an artist had fallen in the
defence of the city. He went to the dead man's house to see his works,
and how did he find the painter's dwelling! Windows, furniture were
shattered, the broken doors of the cupboards hung into the rooms on
their bent hinges. The widow and her children were lying in the studio
on a heap of straw. This touched his heart, and he gave alms with an
open hand to the sorrowing woman. A few pictures of the saints, which
the Spaniards had spared, hung on the walls; the easel, paints and
brushes had been left untouched.

A thought, which he instantly carried into execution, entered his mind.
He would paint a new standard! How his heart beat, when he again stood
before the easel!

He regarded the heretics as heathens. The Spaniards were shortly going
to fight against them and for the faith. So he painted the Saviour on
one side of the standard, the Virgin on the other. The artist's widow
sat to him for the Madonna, a young soldier for the Christ.

No scruples, no consideration for the criticisms of teachers now checked
his creating hand; the power was his, and whatever he did must be right.

He placed upon the Saviour's bowed figure, Costa's head, as he had
painted it in Titian's studio, and the Madonna, in defiance of the stern
judges in Madrid, received the sibyl's f