The ducal vineyards covered some forty acres of rich hillside.  All day long the sun beat squarely upon the clustering fruit.  A low rambling building of stone covered the presses and bottling departments, and was within comparatively easy distance of the city.  During the vintage several hundred men and women found employment.  The grand duke derived a comfortable private revenue from these wines, the Tokay being scarcely inferior to that made in Hungary.  There was a large brewery besides, which supplied all the near-by cities and towns.  The German noble, be he king, duke, or baron, has always been more or less a merchant; and it did not embarrass the grand duke of Ehrenstein in the least to see his coat of arms burnt into oaken wine-casks.

A former steward had full charge of the business, personally hiring and paying the help and supervising the various branches.  He was a gruff old fellow, just and honest; and once you entered his employ he was as much a martinet as any captain at sea.  The low cunning of the peasant never eluded his watchful eye.  He knew to the last pound of grapes how much wine there should be, how much beer to the last measure of hops.

The entrance to the vineyards was made through a small lodge where the ducal vintner lived, and kept his books and moneys till such time as he should be required to place them before the proper official.

Upon this brave morning, the one following the ball at the palace, the vintner was reclining against the outside wall of the gates, smoking his china-pipe and generally at peace with the world.  The bloom was early upon the grape, work was begun, and the vintage promised to be exceptionally fine.  Through a drifting cloud of smoke he discerned a solitary figure approaching from the direction of Dreiberg, a youthful figure, buoyant of step, and confident.  Herr Hoffman was rather interested.  Ordinarily the peasant who came to this gate had his hat in his hand and his feet were laggard.  Not so this youth.  He paused at the gate and inspected the old man highly.

“Herr Hoffman?”

“Yes.”

“I want work.”

“So?  What can you do?” He was a clean youngster, this, but there was something in his eyes that vaguely disturbed the head vintner.  It was like mockery more than anything else.  The youth recounted his abilities, and Hoffman was gracious enough to admit that he seemed to know what he was talking about.

“I have a letter to you also.”

“Ach! We shall be properly introduced now,” said Hoffman, growling.  “Let me see it.”

He saw it, but with starting eyes.  There was, then, something new under the sun?  A picker of grapes, recommended by a princess!  He turned the letter inside out, but found no illumination.

“Du lieber Gott! You are Leopold Dietrich?”

“Yes, Herr.”

“How did you come by this letter?”

“Her serene highness is patron to Gretchen, the goose-girl, at whose request the recommendation was given me.”