ental 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:--

"If you are still interested in the lady, why don't you go to Burgundy
and try to win her?"

"That would be impossible," he answered.

"No, no, Max," I returned, "not impossible--- difficult, perhaps, but
certainly not impossible."

"Ah, Karl, you but raise false hopes," he responded dolefully.

"You could at least see her," I returned, ignoring his protest, "and
that, I have been told, is much comfort to a lover!"

"Indeed, it would be," said Max, frankly admitting the state of his
heart.

"Or it might be that if you saw her, the illusion would be dispelled."

"I have little fear of that," he returned.

"It is true," I continued, "her father's domains are the richest on
earth. He is proud and powerful, noble and arrogant; but you are just as
proud and just as noble as he. You are penniless, and your estate will
be of little value; your father is poor, and his mountain crags are a
burden rather than a profit; but all Europe boasts no nobler blood than
that of your house. Lift it from its penury. You are worthy of this
lady, were her estates multiplied tenfold. Win the estates, Max, and win
the lady. Many a man with half your capacity has climbed to the pinnacle
of fame and fortune, though starting with none of your prestige. Why do
you, born a mountain lion, stay mewed up in this castle like a purring
cat in your mother's lap? For shame, Max, to waste your life when love,
fortune, and fame beckon you beyond these dreary hills and call to you
in tones that should arouse ambition in the dullest breast."

"Duke Charles has already insulted us," he replied.

"But his