Ulrich drew the commander’s baton from his belt and rushed forward, as if he were leading a storming-party; but Ortis cried: “We will not fight against St. Martin!” and a murmur of applause greeted him. Ulrich checked his pace, and gnashing his teeth, exclaimed: “Will not? Will not?” Then gazing around the circle of comrades, who surrounded him on all sides, he asked: “Has no one courage to help me to my rights? Ortis, de Vego, Diego, will you follow me, yes or no?” “No, not against the Church!” “Then I command you,” shouted the Eletto, furiously. “Obey, Lieutenant de Vega, forward with your company, and burst the cathedral doors.” But no one obeyed, and Ortis ordered: “Back, every man of you! Saint Martin is my patron saint; let all who value their souls refuse to attack the church and defend it with me.” The blood rushed to Ulrich’s brain, and incapable of longer self-control, he threw his baton into the ranks of the mutineers, shrieking: “I hurl it at your feet; whoever picks it up can keep it!” The soldiers hesitated; but Ortis repeated his “Back!” Other officers gave the same order, and their men obeyed. The street grew empty, and the Eletto’s mother was only followed by a few of her son’s friends; no priest led the procession. In the cemetery Ulrich threw three handfuls of earth into the open grave, then with drooping head returned home. How dreary, how desolate the bright, flower-decked room seemed now, for the first time the Eletto felt really deserted. No tears came to relieve his grief, for the insult offered him that day aroused his wrath, and he cherished it as if it were a consolation. He had thrown power aside with the staff of command. Power! It too was potter’s trash, which a stone might shatter, a flower in full bloom, whose leaves drop apart if touched by the finger! It was no noble metal, only yellow mica! The knocker on the door never stopped rapping. One officer after another came to soothe him, but he would not even admit his lieutenant. He rejoiced over his hasty deed. Fortune, he thought, cannot be escaped, art cannot be thrown aside; fame may be trampled under foot, yet still pursue us. Power has this advantage over all three, it can be flung off like a worn-out doublet. Let it fly! Had he owed it the happiness of the last few weeks? No, no! He would have been happy with his mother in a poor, plain house, without the office of Eletto, without flowers, horses or servants. It was to her, not to power, that he was indebted for every blissful hour, and now that she had gone, how desolate was the void in his heart! Suddenly the recollection of his father and Ruth illumined his misery like a sunbeam. The game of Eletto was now over, he would go to Antwerp the next day.