I tried to reduce
the rosy hue of his dreams, but failed. I suggested that we might have
fighting ahead of us harder than any we had known, though we had given
and taken some rough knocks on two of our expeditions. Max laughed and
longed for the fray; he was beginning to live. The fray came quickly
enough after we reached the Black Forest, and the fight was sufficiently
warm to suit even enthusiastic Max. He and I were wounded; one of our
men-at-arms was killed, and Franz's life was saved only by an heroic
feat of arms on Max's part. The robbers were driven off; we spent a
fortnight in a near-by monastery, that our wounds might heal, and again
started for Basel.
During the last week in March we approached Basel. Max had saved the
merchant's life; we had protected the caravan from robbery; and good
Franz was grateful. Notwithstanding our sure reward, Max was gloomy. The
future had lost its rosiness; his wound did not readily heal; Basel was
half a hundred leagues off our road to Burgundy. Why did we ever come to
Switzerland? Everything was wrong. But no man knows what good fortune
may lurk in an evil chance.
At the close of a stormy day we sighted Basel from the top of a hill,
and soon the lights, one by one, began to twinkle cosily through the
gloaming. All day long drizzling rain and spitting snow had blown in our
faces like lance points, driven down the wind straight from the icy
Alps. We were chilled to the bone; in all my life I have never beheld a
sight so comforting as the home lights of the quaint old Swiss city.
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