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There–what was that? The big clock on the church struck slowly, solemnly, sadly–

The two looked up. “What is it, do you suppose? A fire–enemies, perhaps? I sense a great calamity,” said she.

Just at that moment people were coming toward the church. Hans hurried up to them, to find out what was the trouble, while Marie waited.

“Where have you been, that you don’t know? Why, yonder in the market place the notice was read–‘the Emperor is dead!'” they cried.

“The Emperor is dead?”

There stood Hans, paralyzed. All his hopes seemed shattered. As soon as quiet reigned again, he returned to Marie, and seated himself on a bench. Leaning his head in uncontrollable grief against the slender stem of the rose-bush, he moaned aloud: “Oh, my Emperor, my dear, good Emperor, why did you leave me?” Lightly Marie touched his shoulder in sympathy.

The last rays of the setting sun had now departed. The last tones of the dirge had died away. Everything was still and deserted, as if there could never again be spring.

“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 pass 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 passed. Hans Le Fevre had not been heard from. People thought of him, however, when they passed 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 passed 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.