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Updated: June 6, 2025
Where was there a more affectionate son, a pleasanter home than hers? The velvet and brocade dresses belonging to the Baroness de Hierges had fallen to the Eletto. How young Florette looked in them! When she glanced into the mirror, she was astonished at herself. Two beautiful riding-horses for ladies' use and elegant trappings had been found in the baron's stable.
The town had surrendered on favourable terms and pillage was forbidden. Baulked of their expected booty, the Spanish troops, to whom large arrears of pay were due, mutinied. Under their own "eletto" they marched to Aalst, where they were joined by other mutineers, and soon a large force was collected together, who lived by plunder and were a terror to the country.
Since these aristocrats had become mutineers, the Eletto was a brother, and they did not disdain to secure his cooperation in the attack they were planning upon Antwerp. He had shown great courage under fire, and wherever he appeared, his countrymen held out their hands to him, vowing obedience and loyalty unto death. Ulrich felt as if he were walking on air, mere existence was a joy to him.
The fierce Eletto, whose sword raged in war, following the teachings of his noble Master, became a truly Christian philanthropist. Many have gazed with quiet delight at the magnificent picture, which represents a beautiful mother, with a bright, intelligent face, leading her three blooming children towards a pleasant old man, who holds out his arms to them.
The King's officers were degraded, perhaps murdered; while those chosen to supply their places had only a nominal control. The Eletto, day by day, proclaimed from the balcony of the town-house the latest rules and regulations.
There was scarcely a struggle. The Walloons, not waiting to look their enemy in the face, abandoned the posts which whey had themselves claimed. The Spaniards crashed through the bulwark, as though it had been a wall of glass. The Eletto was first to mount the rampart; the next instant he was shot dead, while his followers, undismayed, sprang over his body, and poured into the streets.
No, Hans Eitelfritz, no! I am not jesting, I mean it. I am Navarrete! Nay more! If you keep your mouth shut, and the devil doesn't put his finger into the pie, I think, spite of all the Zorrillos, I shall be Eletto to-morrow. "You know the Spanish temper! The German Ulrich will be a very different person to them from the Castilian Navarrete. It is in your power to spoil my chance."
At last he slowly rose, rubbed his eyes as if waking from some confused dream, drew himself up proudly, and scanned the place with searching eyes. He was the Eletto, and thus men honored the woman who was dear to him! His mother lay in a wretched pauper's coffin, a ragged camp-follower watched beside her no candles burned at her head, no priest prayed for the salvation of her soul!
Where is she, where is her body?" The captain shrugged his shoulders, saying, in a soothing tone: "Calm yourself, Navarrete! We too grieve for the sibyl; many in the camp will miss her. As for Zorrillo, he had the password, and could go through the gate at any hour. The body is still lying in his quarters." "Indeed!" faltered the Eletto.
No sooner, however, had the Eletto set foot on the drawbridge than he was attacked by Ensign Salvatierra of the Spanish garrison, who stabbed him to the heart and threw him into the moat.
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