Zillenstein, too, came out, bathed in silver, an immense threatening mass set solidly in the shoulder of the opposite mountain, more sinister even in the moonlight than in the sunlight.  He wondered how many hundreds of innocent human beings had perished in its dungeons.  He had not the slightest doubt that Julie was there, but she at least was safe from everything, save a long imprisonment and a powerful pressure that might compel her to become the morganatic wife of Auersperg.  It might be the old story of the drop of water wearing away the stone.

Clouds began to trail slowly up the valley, and Zillenstein faded away again.  The long columns of mist and vapor seemed so near that John felt as if he could reach out his hand and touch them.

His day’s exertions began to tell now, and the chill of the night deepened.  He sought his chosen shelter within the old temple, and lying down on the stone floor wrapped in his blankets, sank fast into sleep.  Morning dawned, sharp and clear, and the red sun came out of Asia, turning the huge pile of Zillenstein once more into a scarlet glow, a vast blood-red splotch in the side of the mountain.

He drank at the little stream, then bathed his face, ate breakfast, and, knapsack on back, returned to the road that led down the far side of the mountain.  His courage was still high.  The crusader of the day before was none the less the crusader this morning, and he whistled soft and happy airs as he descended.  He knew that it was a trick that he had caught from General Vaugirard and he wondered where that fat old hero might be now.

But as he walked along he formed his plan.  Every general who intends to attack an enemy must choose a method of approach, and the crusader’s plan to assail Zillenstein was now quite clear in his mind.  His decision brought him the usual relief, following the solution of a doubt, and he intended that his journey that day through the great valley should resemble somewhat a stroll of pleasure.

He whistled at times and at times he sang.  He remembered the story, of the faithful troubadour, Blondel, who sought his master, Richard of the Lion Heart, imprisoned somewhere in a castle in Austria, and who, finding him, sang under his window to let him know one loyal friend was there.  But Richard, under the light of history, had become merely a barbarous king, cruel to his enemies and unjust to his friends.  John felt that his own quest was higher and better.

Toward noon he was in the middle of a valley down which a swift little river flowed.  Old men, women and children were at work in the fields preparing for the new crop, and again John’s frank eyes and hearty voice won him a welcome.  He was a man of Lorraine who had been on the far western front and they welcomed Ulysses on his travels.  They said that he was going to Zillenstein at a fortunate time, as the prince had just returned for a space and the great castle was full of people.  When so much of the youth of the land was gone away a handy man with horses might obtain work there.  The prince used automobiles chiefly, but many horses were employed also.