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“Pray, who can he be?”

“I, worthy Counselor.”

“You? Did anyone ever hear such audacity from a beggar boy?”

“Mr. Counselor, I never was a beggar. I was poor, but let that person come before you who dares say he ever gave me a cent. My father supported me until his death, when my mother took up the burden. The only thing I ever received was the King’s gift, and for that I never begged. The King gave it to me out of his big heart. His eye could pierce with love the soul of humanity; and in me, a poor boy, he sensed appreciation. Truly, his money has accumulated interest. I am no beggar, Mr. Counselor, and will not tolerate such a speech.”

“No, you will not tolerate it;” said he, somewhat calmed. “Where, then, is your wealth?”

“Here,” said Hans Le Fevre, and he touched his head and his hands. “I have a thinking head and skilled hands.”

“Well, what do you purpose doing?”

“For the next two years I shall be busy with the altar, which will yield me ample means to marry your daughter.”

Long and wearily they argued, till Hans felt as if he could control himself no longer.

“O, patience!” he cried, “if it were not that I regard you as something holy, because you are the father of Marie, I would not brook your disdain. A king held the ladder for Durer, and a Counselor treats his beloved pupil like a rogue. Yonder is a laughing, alluring world. There I have enjoyed all the honors of my calling; and here, in this little dark corner of the earth, I must let myself be trodden upon. All because I bring a ray of sunshine and beauty that hurts your blinded eyes–in short, because I am an artist.”

“Go, then, into your artistic world. Why didn’t you stay there? Why did you bother to return to this dark corner, as you name it?”

“Because I love your daughter so much, that no sacrifice I could make would be too great.”

“Did you for one moment think that I could sink so far as to allow my daughter to marry an artist?”

“Yes, considering the respect I enjoyed.”

“Well, I don’t care how many times the King held the ladder, or whether or not he cleaned Durer’s shoes, I will hold to this: that as impossible as it is for you to build within the Cathedral an altar that is yet higher than the Cathedral, just so impossible is it for you to marry my daughter, who is so much above you in station.”

“Mr. Counselor, is this your last word?” said Hans.

The Counselor laughed scornfully, and said, “Carve an altar that is higher than the church in which it is to stand. Then, and not before then, you may ask for my daughter.”

Hans hastened from his presence and turned his steps to the rose-bush. It was a beautiful day. Shadowless the world lay before him. Splendor and glory streamed from the sky. But nature in all her beauty seemed to him, this day, like a disinterested friend, who laughs while another grieves. He seated himself in the niche under the rose-bush, where somehow he always felt the Emperor’s presence and influence, and where, too, he always found peace and hope.

But what hope could ever come to him again? Could the bush uproot itself and plead with the Counselor? Could the King, who had never returned in life, return from death to help him? No one could help him, for had not the Counselor taken an oath, that he would not give his daughter to him, unless he built an altar higher than the church in which it should stand. This, of course, was impossible. His overcharged feelings gave vent to tears, and he cried, “My Emperor, my Emperor, why did you desert me?” This time Marie was not at his side to cheer him, and tell him that God would not desert him.