"Oh, Marie!" lamented Hans, hopelessly, "the King will never come again."

"Bear up," said Marie, "for we have each other." And as she gazed far off in the twilight, her eyes seemed like two exiled stars, yearningly seeking their home.

As Hans gazed at her, standing there before him with her hands crossed over her breast, in all her purity and humility, a great joy lit up his countenance. He folded his hands, inspired.

"Marie," he whispered, "let us not despair. In this very moment I have received an inspiration, and if I can bring to pa.s.s that which I now see in my mind's eye, I shall be an artist who will need the help of no one --not even an Emperor."

The dawn of the next day found Hans ready to set out on his journey. He carried a knapsack on his back, and on his breast the little leather bag which the Emperor had given him, with the few florins that remained. He closed the door of his little house, put the key into his pocket, and walked slowly off. Loud and clear sounded his rich, soft voice as he sang, "On the rose thorn, on the rose thorn, there my hope is hanging!"

Softly in Marie's house a window was raised, and with a little white handkerchief she gently waved her mute farewell.

Quickly mastering himself, Hans grasped his staff more firmly, and now only his heavy tread echoed through the streets.

CHAPTER III

NO PROPHET IN HIS OWN COUNTRY

Year after year pa.s.sed. Hans Le Fevre had not been heard from. People thought of him, however, when they pa.s.sed his house with the front door firmly locked and the shades drawn, and wondered who would next lay claim to it.

Only Marie thought constantly of him, and hoped and waited longingly. No pleading, no scolding, no threats could arouse her. She never left the house, unless it was to visit the rose-bush which she watered and tended so well that it had now grown tall and stately. She knew that the sight of it would cheer his faithful heart on his return. It was the only bond between them. He had planted it with her, and they both loved it. It was almost as high as the niche where it stood, and seemed as if it wished to stretch beyond. Marie bent it and fastened it to the wall with a string, so that its flowering top had to bend beneath the vaulted niche.

These quiet acts were her only joy, her only recreation. In work and prayer she pa.s.sed her days, and her fresh young cheeks began to pale.

Her father noticed the change, but without pity.

It was fortunate for her that his busy life took him away from home so often.

Just at this time the people of Breisach desired a new altar for their church. A proclamation was accordingly sent forth to all German artists to compete, by submitting drawings and estimates for the work. To the one who sent the best the contract would be given to carry out the design.

Marie heard little about this, as she seldom came in contact with the people. She lived lonely in her little home. It was now the fifth year since Hans' departure, and long ago his letters had ceased to come, because her father had forbidden any correspondence. Hans had no friends in Breisach through whom he could communicate. But such uncertainty gnaws. Marie was tired of waiting--very tired.

One afternoon she seated herself at her desk and started to write her last wish. Her father was absent, and she was unwatched.

"When I die," she wrote, "I beg you to bury me yonder beside the Cathedral wall, under the rose-bush which I planted in my childhood.

Should Hans Le Fevre ever return, I beg you--" she paused, for just then a song, at first soft, then louder, greeted her ears.

No star ever fell from heaven, no swallow ever flew more quickly than flew the maiden to her window, drawn by this call.

In trembling tones the final words of the song died away. Her paper, her ink, her pen, everything had fallen from her in her haste. As a captive bird, freed from its cage, flies forth joyously, so Marie bounded forth from her home. Faster and faster she went, never stopping till she reached the rose-bush. Breathless and with beating heart, she halted.

There before her stood Hans Le Fevre.

They seated themselves upon the bench. Long, long they sat silently.

At last Hans said, "My dear, true girl, how pale you have grown. Are you ill?"

She shook her head. "No more, and I trust never again. But you stayed away much too long. Couldn't you have come back sooner?"

"No, my dear, I could _not_. Had I returned as a poor, struggling carver your father would have banished me from his door-step. We should then have seen each other again, only to be parted for the second time.

So I waited till I had accomplished what I set out to do. I have traveled extensively and feasted my eyes on the beautiful works of art in great cities. I have studied under Durer, and now my name is mentioned with honor as one of Durer's pupils."

"Oh, Hans, do you really believe that that will soften my father's heart?" said Marie, anxiously.

"Yes, Marie, I don't think that he can fail me. I heard in Nurnberg that a new altar is to be built in this Cathedral, so I hastened here to compete. Should I be deemed worthy to do such a piece of work, what could your father have against me?"

Marie, however, shook her head doubtfully; but Hans was full of hope.

"But see how our rose-bush has grown!" cried Hans in astonishment. "You tended it well; but it seems almost as if the roses had taken from you all your life and strength and health. Return my darling's strength to her," Hans said laughingly; and taking a handful of roses, he softly stroked her face with them; but her cheeks remained white.

"Rejoice, my rosebud, rejoice, my darling, for the spring will soon be here; and with my care you will soon be well."

A half hour later, the beadle walked timidly into the council hall of the high-gabled Council House, and said, "Honored Counselor, will you graciously pardon me, but there is a man without who pressingly begs to be ushered into your presence."

"Who is it?" asked the Counselor.

"It is Hans Le Fevre," answered the beadle, "but he is handsomely attired. I hardly recognized him."

This was a great surprise to all. Hans, the runaway, the tramp, who slipped away by night--to me. "See! see! ingeniously thought out," cried he.

"But just to design a thing is far easier than to carry it out," said another.

"Hans Le Fevre never did this kind of work before."

"Perhaps he has progressed," remarked the Mayor, "and possibly he would do it cheaper than the renowned Master Artist."

This idea took root. "But," said one, "it would be an unheard of thing to give such an exalted work to a simple boy like Hans Le Fevre, whom everybody knew as a stupid child, and whom we looked upon disdainfully.

The appearance of the thing alone would not justify us in selecting him."

But this remark had its good side, too; for the gentlemen now decided that, in order that the work be given to the most competent, it would be advisable to send to Durer all the designs thus far submitted, and ask his opinion in the matter.

Marie cried bitterly when she heard of the treatment Hans had received; but Hans did not yet despair. At the same time that these worthy gentlemen dispatched the designs to Durer, Hans sent a letter to his great friend and teacher, in whom he had great faith.

Weeks elapsed. The Counselor's attention was directed to affairs of state, and thus withdrawn from his daughter, who lived and bloomed with the returning spring.

Hans had opened his desolate house, for which, in the meantime, he had carved a beautiful front door. Notwithstanding all the depreciation expressed for the native artist's ability, this door caused quite a sensation.

Durer's answer was long delayed. At last, after four weeks, the letter arrived. Who can describe the astonishment of the a.s.sembled committee, as the contents of the letter revealed the design of the disdainfully rejected applicant, Hans Le Fevre.

Durer wrote, "With the very best intentions, I could recommend no wiser course for you to pursue than to use the sketch presented by my friend and pupil, Hans Le Fevre; and I will furnish security for the complete execution of his plan. I cannot understand how a town that harbors in its midst such a genius, should look abroad for other artists. Hans Le Fevre is such an honorable lad and such a great artist, that the town of Breisach should be proud to name him as her own, and should do everything in its power to hold him captive; for to Hans the world lies open, and only his attachment to Breisach has moved him to return there once more."

Directly upon receipt of this letter, an unheard of number of villagers crowded the narrow street. Hans, who was working quietly in his shop ran to the window to see what the noise was about. But lo! the crowd had stopped at his house and loudly did they make the brazen knocker resound, as it struck the carved lion's head upon the door.

Hans came forth, and before him stood a deputation of men in festive attire, followed by a throng of residents.

"What do you desire of me?" asked Hans, surprised.