“Nonsense!” retorted the regent in protest. “From you, at least, I forbid idle flattery!” As she spoke she pointed with the riding whip, which, on account of her four-footed favourites, she carried in her hand, to her own hair. True, so far as it was visible under the stiff jewelled velvet cap which covered her head, the fair tresses had a lustrous sheen, and the braids, interwoven with pearls, were unusually thick, but a few silver threads appeared amid the locks which clustered around the intellectual brow. Quijada saw them, and, with a respectful bow, answered. “The heavy burden of anxiety for the Netherlands, which is not always rewarded with fitting gratitude.” “Oh, no,” replied the Queen, shrugging her shoulders contemptuously. “Yes, many things in Brussels rouse my indignation, but they do not turn my hair gray. It began to whiten up here, under the widow’s cap, if you care to know it, and, if the Emperor’s health does not improve, the locks there will soon look like my white Diana’s.” Here she hesitated, and, accustomed both in the discharge of the duties of her office and during the chase not to deviate too far from the goal she had in view, she first gave her favourite dog, which had leaped on Don Luis in friendly greeting, a blow with her whip, and then said in a totally different tone: “But I am not the person in question. You have already heard that you must help me, Luis. Did you see the Emperor yesterday after vespers?” “I had the honour, your Majesty.” “And did not the conviction that he is in evil case force itself upon you?” “I felt it so keenly that I spoke to Dr. Mathys of his feeble appearance, his bowed figure, and the other things which I would so gladly have seen otherwise.” “And these things? Speak frankly!” “These things,” replied the major-domo, after a brief hesitation, “are the melancholy moods to which his Majesty often resigns himself for hours.” “And which remind you of Queen Juana, our unhappy mother?” asked the Queen with downcast eyes. “Remind is a word which your Majesty will permit me to disclaim,” replied Quijada resolutely. “The great thinker, who never loses sight of the most distant goal, who weighs and considers again and again ere he determines upon the only right course in each instance--the great general who understands how to make far-reaching plans for military campaigns as ably as to direct a cavalry attack--the statesman whose penetration pierces deeper than the keen intelligence of his famous councillors--the wise law-giver, the ruler with the iron strength of will and unfailing memory, is perhaps the soundest person mentally among all of us at court-nay, among the millions who obey him. But, so far as my small share of knowledge extends, melancholy has nothing to do with the mind. It is dependent upon the state of the spirits, and springs from bile----”