quickly at a draft. "What an alluring will-o'-the-wisp
is--to-morrow!" he muttered.

"An illusive hope that reconciles us with to-day," answered the
_plaisant_.

"Illusive!" cried the other. "Only for poets, dreamers, fools!"

"And you, Sir Baron, are neither one nor the other," remarked the
jester. "No philosopher, but a plain soldier, who chops heads--not
logic. But the inspiration that caused you to embark upon this
hot-brained, pretty enterprise?"

"Upon a spur of rock that overlooks the road through the mountain is
set the Vulture's Nest, Sir Fool," began the adventurer in a voice at
once confident and arrogant. "At least, so the time-honored fortress
of Hochfels is disparagingly designated by the people. As the road is
the only pass through the mountains, naturally we come more or less in
contact with the people who go by our doors. Being thus forced,
through the situation of our fortress, into the proximity of the
traveling public, we have, from time to time, made such sorties as are
practised by a beleaguered garrison, and have, in consequence, taken
prisoners many traffickers and traders, whose goods and chattels were
worthy of our attention as spoils of war. Generally, we have confined
our operations to migratory merchants, who carry more of value and
cause less trouble than the emperor's soldiers or the king's troopers,
but occasionally we brush against one of the latter bands so that we
may keep in practice in laying our blades to the grindstone, and also
to show we are soldiers, not robbers."

"Which remains to be proved," murmured the attentive jester. "Your
pardon, noble Lord"--as the other half-started from his chair--"let me
fill your glass. 'Tis a pity to neglect such royal wine. Proceed with
your story. Come we presently to the inspiration?"

"At once," answered the apparently appeased master of the fortress,
wiping his lips. "One day our western outpost brought in a messenger,
and, when we had stripped the knave, upon him we found a miniature and
a letter from the princess to the duke. The latter was prettily writ,
with here and there a rhyme, and moved me mightily. The eagle hath its
mate, I thought, but the vulture of Hochfels is single, and this
reflection, with the sight of the picture and that right, fair script,
saddened me.

"And then, on a sudden, came the inspiration. Why not play a hand in
this international marriage Charles and Francis were bringing about? I
comma