longer allowed to take part); and the loyalty was to a
form of monarchy which modern conditions now threaten with change. And
I, looking at all my brother Knights around me, and at myself, wondered
by what right we wore that iron thorn upon our heels.

"Among us--I need not mention names--were men whose lives were far more
notoriously evil than mine--men whose wealth had been gained for them by
the grinding of sweated humanity; men who received enormous rents from
houses not fit for human habitation--men who opposed every act of
remedial legislation which disturbed their own vested interests, and who
did these things with an untroubled conscience because the conditions
they fought for were all the outcome of custom or of law.

"And I remembered that some day I should be required to become their
Grand Master--the titular head of that dead Order of Chivalry; and I
wondered what would happen if I acted honestly upon my conscience and
refused."

"Yet you say, sir, that for this Order, of which you now speak so
slightingly, you had sentiments of reverence?"

"For the Order--yes; but none for the men--including myself--who make up
its membership."

"Surely," said the Archbishop, "your Highness must admit that they are
all men of mark; many of them have spent their lives in the public
service--leaders of the people in peace and war. You cannot regard these
things as nothing."

"For these things they already have their titles," said the Prince,
"their state-pensions, or the wealth personally acquired on which their
power and influence are based. Has the Order of the Thorn ever once in
its history been given to a man because he was conspicuously good, or
gentle, or forbearing, or unselfishly thoughtful for others? Has it ever
once been given to a successful philanthropist who was not also of high
lineage and title? I have looked through the lists; I can find none.
Your Grace is the only one among us whose profession is to serve God
rather than to be served by men."

The Archbishop glanced uneasily at the Prince; but there was no sarcasm
in his look or tone. Max was never more of an artist than in his
adaption of manner to theme. Sadly, almost dejectedly he went on.

"And now let us come to myself. It seems that I am not accounted worthy
to receive your daughter's hand in marriage. In a certain sense I admit
it. That he is unworthy seems true to every man who ever loved a woman
well; and perhaps the woman feels the same