Now--ah, how gladly!--she would have helped Ursel with the nursing, but she forbade her to enter the sick-room. The most absolute quiet must reign there. No one was permitted to cross the threshold except herself and an elderly nun, whom the Clares had sent for the sake of the wounded man’s dead mother. A Dominican also soon came, whom the old woman could not shut out because he was despatched by the Queen of Hungary, and the violinist Massi, whom she gladly welcomed as a good friend of her Wolf. He proved himself loyal, and devoted every leisure hour of the night to the sufferer. Barbara knocked at the door very often, but Ursel persisted in refusing admittance. She knew that the girl had rejected her darling’s proposal, and it was a satisfaction to her when, toward noon, the former told her that she was about to leave the house to go to Prebrunn. A cart would convey her luggage, but it would be only lightly laden. Fran Lerch went with the baggage. An hour later Barbara herself moved into the little castle, which had been refurnished for her. Mounted upon a spirited bay horse from her Prebrunn stables, she rode beside the Marquise de Leria’s huge litter to her new home. CHAPTER XXIV. The very harsh execrations which the regent bestowed upon pleasant Ratisbon when she learned what had befallen Sir Wolf Hartschwert were better suited to the huntress than to the queen and sister of a mighty emperor. Murderous knaves who, in the heart of the city, close to the imperial precincts, endangered the lives of peaceful people at night! It was unprecedented, and yet evidently only a result of the heretical abuses. She had sprung into the saddle--she always travelled on horseback--in the worst possible mood, but had urged all who were near the Emperor Charles’s person, and also the almoner Pedro de Soto, to remember the wounded man and do everything possible to aid his recovery. She did not mention Barbara, even by a single word, in her farewell to her royal brother. The latter had intended to accompany her a portion of the way, but a great quantity of work--not least in consequence of the loss of time occasioned by the new love life--had accumulated, and he therefore preferred to take leave of his sister in the courtyard of the Golden Cross. There, with his assistance, she mounted her horse. Quijada, who usually rendered her this service, stood aloof, silent and pale. The regent had noticed it, and attributed his appearance to grief for her departure. No one at court held a higher place in her regard, and it pleased her that he, too, found it so hard to do without her. As her horse started, her last salute was to the monarch and to him.