“Certainly,” replied Wolf with a low bow, still striving, in obedience to the regent’s strict command, not to reveal the sex of the new member of the choir. “And this case is especially unusual. This voice is not in her Majesty’s service. It belongs to a volunteer, as it were, a native of this city, whose wonderful instrument and rare ability we discovered. But, begging your Majesty’s pardon, the soul of such an artist is a strange thing, inflammable and enthusiastic, but just as easily wounded and disheartened.” “The soul of a boy!” cried Charles contemptuously. “Appenzelder does not look like a man who would permit such whims.” “Not in his choir, certainly,” said the young nobleman. “But this voice--allow me to repeat it--is not at his disposal. It was no easy matter to obtain it at all, and, keenly as the maestro disapproves of the caprices of this beautiful power, he can not force it--the power, I mean--to the obedience which his boys----” Here the Emperor laughed shrilly. “The power, the voice! The songstress, you should say. This whimsical volunteer with the voice of an angel, who is so tenderly treated by rough Appenzelder, is a woman, not a refractory choir boy. How you are blushing! You have proved a very inapt pupil in the art of dissimulation and disguise in my royal sister’s service. Really and truly, I am right!” Here another bow from Wolf confirmed the Emperor’s conjecture; but the latter, highly pleased with his own penetration, laughed softly, exclaiming to the baron: “Where were our ears? This masquerade is surely the work of the Queen, who so dearly loves the chase. And she forbade you too, Malfalconnet, to give me your confidence?” Again a silent bow assented. The Emperor bent his eyes on the ground a short time, and then said, half in soliloquy: “It was not possible otherwise. Whence could a boy learn the ardent, yearning longing of which that ‘Quia amore langueo’ was so full? And the second, less powerful voice, which accompanied her, was that a girl’s too? No? Yet that also, I remember, had a suggestion of feminine tenderness. But only the marvellously beautiful melody of one haunted me. I can hear it still. The irresistible magic of this ‘Amore langueo’ mingled even in my conversation with Granvelle.” Then he passed his hand across his lofty brow, and in a different tone asked Wolf, “So it is a girl, and a native of this city?” “Yes, your Majesty,” was the reply. “And, in spite of the praise of the gracious mother of God, a Protestant, like the other fools in this country?” “No, my lord,” replied the nobleman firmly; “a pious Catholic Christian.” “Of what rank?”