by their prowess.

A long time passed and generation after generation of the descendants of
the worthy Sir Wendelin followed one another. The first-born son always
bore the name of the progenitor of the family, and the fairy Clementine
always appeared at the baptism. No one ever saw her; but a gentle
tinkling through the palace betrayed her presence, and when that ceased,
the grey lock on the infant's temple was always found to have twisted
itself into a curl.

At the end of five hundred years, Wendelin XV. was carried to his grave.
No Greylock had ever possessed a more luxuriant grey curl than his, and
yet he had died young. The wise men of the land said that even to the
most favoured only a fixed measure of happiness and good luck was
granted, and that Wendelin XV. had enjoyed his full share in the space of
thirty years.

Certain it is that from childhood everything had prospered with this
duke. His people had expected great things of him when he was only crown
prince, and he did not disappoint them when he came to the throne. Every
one had loved him. Under his leadership the army had marched from one
victory to another. While he held the sceptre one abundant harvest
followed another, and he had married the most beautiful and most virtuous
daughter of the mightiest prince in the kingdom.

In the midst of a hot conflict, and at the moment that his own army sent
up a shout of victory, he met his death. Everything that the heart of man
could desire had been accorded to him, except the one joy of possessing a
son and heir. But he had left the world in the hope that that wish, too,
would be fulfilled.

Black banners floated from the battlements of the castle, the columns at
its entrance were wreathed in crape, the gold state-coaches were painted
black, and the manes and tails of the duke's horses bound with ribbons of
the same sombre hue. The master of the hunt had the gaily-colored birds
in the park dyed, the schoolmaster had the copy-books of the boys covered
with black, the merry minstrels in the land sang only sad strains, and
every subject wore mourning. When the ruby-red nose of the guardian of
the Court cellar gradually changed to a bluish tint during this time, the
Court marshal thought it only natural. Even the babies were swaddled in
black bands. And besides all this outward show, the hearts too were sad,
and saddest of all was that of the young widowed duchess. She also had
laid aside all bright colours, a