A letter from Hymbercourt, that reached me nearly two years after this
affair, spoke of a tender little maiden in Burgundy, whose heart
throbbed with disappointment while it also clung to its ideal, as tender
natures are apt to do. This hint in Hymbercourt's letter sank to the
tenderest spot in Max's heart.
On Max's twenty-first birthday he was knighted by the emperor. A grand
tournament, lasting five days, celebrated the event, and Max proved
himself a man among men and a knight worthy of his spurs. I had trained
him for months in preparation for this, his first great trial of
strength and skill. He was not lacking in either, though they would
mature only with his judgment. His strength was beyond compare. A man
could hardly span his great arm with both hands.
Soon after Max was knighted, I brought up the subject of his journey
into the world. I was again met by parental opposition; but Max was of
age and his views had weight. If I could bring him to see the truth, the
cause would be won. Unfortunately, it was not his desires I must
overcome; it was his scruples. His head and his heart were full of false
ideas and distorted motives absorbed from environment, inculcated by
parental 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.
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