The letter was sent, and Charles of Burgundy probably laughed at it.  Duke Frederick appointed commissioners and fixed Cannstadt as the place of meeting.  Whatever Duke Charles’s reasons for making the offer of marriage may have been, they probably ceased to exist soon afterward, for he never even replied to Duke Frederick’s acceptance.  For months Castle Hapsburg was in a ferment of expectancy.  A watch stood from dawn till dusk on the battlements of the keep, that the duke might be informed of the approach of the Burgundian messenger—­that never came.  After a year of futile waiting the watch was abandoned.  Anger, for a time, took the place of expectancy; Duke Frederick each day drowned his ill-humor in a gallon of sour wine, and remained silent on the subject of the Burgundian insult.

Max’s attitude was that of a dignified man.  He showed neither anger nor disappointment, but he kept the letter and the ring that Mary had sent him and mused upon his love for his ideal—­the lady he had never seen.

A letter from Hymbercourt, that reached me nearly two years after this affair, spoke of a tender little maiden in Burgundy, whose heart throbbed with disappointment while it also clung to its ideal, as tender natures are apt to do.  This hint in Hymbercourt’s letter sank to the tenderest spot in Max’s heart.

On Max’s twenty-first birthday he was knighted by the emperor.  A grand tournament, lasting five days, celebrated the event, and Max proved himself a man among men and a knight worthy of his spurs.  I had trained him for months in preparation for this, his first great trial of strength and skill.  He was not lacking in either, though they would mature only with his judgment.  His strength was beyond compare.  A man could hardly span his great arm with both hands.

Soon after Max was knighted, I brought up the subject of his journey into the world.  I was again met by parental opposition; but Max was of age and his views had weight.  If I could bring him to see the truth, the cause would be won.  Unfortunately, it was not his desires I must overcome; it was his scruples.  His head and his heart were full of false ideas and distorted motives absorbed from environment, inculcated by parental teaching, and inherited from twenty generations of fantastic forefathers.  In-born motives in a conscientious person are stubborn tyrants, and Max was their slave.  The time came when his false but honest standards cost him dearly, as you shall learn.  But in Max’s heart there lived another motive stronger than the will of man; it was love.  Upon that string I chose to play.

One day while we were sunning ourselves on the battlements, I touched, as if by chance, on the theme dear to his heart—­Mary of Burgundy.  After a little time Max asked hesitatingly:—­

“Have you written of late to my Lord d’Hymbercourt?”

“No,” I answered.

A long pause followed; then Max continued:  “I hope you will soon do so.  He might write of—­of—­” He did not finish the sentence.  I allowed him to remain in thought while I formulated my reply.  After a time I said:—­