Those were healthful words for Max.

“The really great and good have no need to assert their qualities,” I answered.

“Castleman often speaks of the princess,” said Franz.  “He tells me that his daughter Antoinette and the Princess Mary have been friends since childhood—­that is, of course, so far as persons so widely separated by birth and station can be friends.”

I briefly told Max what Franz had said concerning Castleman, and the young fellow was delighted at the prospect of an early start for Peronne.

In Max’s awakening, the radiance of his ideal may have been dimmed, but if so, the words of Franz restored its lustre.  If the boy’s fancy had wandered, it quickly returned to the lady of Burgundy.

I asked Franz if Duke Charles lived at Peronne.

“No, he lives at Ghent,” he answered; “but on rare occasions he visits Peronne, which is on the French border.  Duke Philip once lived there, but Charles keeps Peronne only as his watch-tower to overlook his old enemy, France.  The enmity, I hope, will cease, now that the Princess Mary is to marry the Dauphin.”

This confirmation of a rumor which I had already heard was anything but welcome.  However, it sensitized the feeling Max entertained for his unknown lady-love, and strengthened his resolution to pursue his journey to Burgundy at whatever cost.

I led Franz to speak of Burgundian affairs and he continued:—­

“The princess and her stepmother, the Duchess Margaret, live at Peronne.  They doubtless found life at Ghent with the duke too violent.  It is said that the duchess is unhappily wedded to the fierce duke, and that the unfortunate princess finds little favor in her father’s eyes because he cannot forgive her the grievous fault of being a girl.”

While Franz was talking I was dreaming.  A kind providence had led us a half-hundred leagues out of our road, through wounds and hardships, to Basel; but that quiet city might after all prove to be the open doorway to Max’s fortune.  My air-castle was of this architecture:  Max would win old Castleman’s favor—­an easy task.  We would journey to Peronne, seek Castleman’s house, pay court to Antoinette—­I prayed she might not be too pretty—­and—­you can easily find your way over the rest of my castle.

Within a fortnight Max and I had recovered entirely from our wounds, and were abroad each day in the growing warmth of the sunshine.  We did not often speak of Castleman, but we waited, each day wishing for his speedy advent.

At last, one beautiful evening early in May, he arrived.  Max and I were sitting at our window watching the river, when the little company rode up to the door of the merchant’s shop.  With Castleman were two young women hardly more than girls.  One of them was a pink and white young beauty, rather tall and somewhat stout.  Her face, complexion, and hair were exquisite, but there was little animation in her expression.  The other girl had features less regular, perhaps, but she was infinitely more attractive.  She was small, but beautiful in form; and she sprang from her horse with the grace of a kitten.  Her face was not so white as her companion’s, but its color was entrancing.  Her expression was animated, and her great brown eyes danced like twinkling stars on a clear, moonless night.