And so Christina’s gentle remonstrance was passed by. Yet, with all her sense of the venture, it was thankworthy to look back on the trembling anxiety with which she had watched her boy’s childhood, and all his temptations and perils, and compare her fears with his present position: his alliance courted, his wisdom honoured, the child of the proud, contemned outlaw received as the favourite of the Emperor, and the valued ally of her own honoured burgher world. Yet he was still a mere lad. How would it be for the future?
Would he be unspoiled? Yes, even as she already viewed one of her twins as the star on high—nay, when kneeling in the chapel, her dazzling tears made stars of the glint of the light reflected in his bright helmet—might she not trust that the other would yet run his course to and fro, as the spark in the stubble?
CHAPTER XXIII
THE ALTAR OF PEACE
No one could bear to waken the young Baron till the sun had risen high enough to fall on his face and unclose his eyes.
“Mother” (ever his first word), “you have let me sleep too long.”
“Thou didst wake too long, I fear me.”
“I hoped you knew it not. Yes, my wound throbbed sore, and the wonders of the day whirled round my brain like the wild huntsman’s chase.”
“And, cruel boy, thou didst not call to me.”
“What, with such a yesterday, and such a morrow for you? while, chance what may, I can but lie still. I thought I must call, if I were still so wretched, when the last moonbeam faded; but, behold, sleep came, and therewith my Friedel sat by me, and has sung songs of peace ever since.”
“And hath lulled thee to content, dear son?”