to defeat Napoleon. For two weeks Master Matyas labored
diligently at his task in the Nameless Castle, during which time Henry
heard so much about warlike stratagems that his sides ached from the
continued laughter. But when the villagers questioned Master Matyas
about his work at the castle, they could learn nothing from him but
schemes to capture the ever-victorious Corsican.

"Herr Count," one day observed Henry, toward the close of the second
week, "if I hear much more of Master Matyas's wonderful battles, I shall
become as crazy as he is!"

And the count replied:

"You are crazy already, my good Henry--and so am I!"

At last the task was completed. Count Vavel was satisfied with the work
Master Matyas had performed, and it only remained for Marie to express
herself satisfied with the arrangement which would barricade her every
night as securely as were the treasures of the "green vault" in Dresden.

A few days afterward was Marie's sixteenth birthday. Count Vavel had
come to her apartments, as usual, to congratulate her, and to hear what
her birthday wish might be. But the young girl, whose sparkling eyes had
become veiled with melancholy, whose red lips had already learned to
express sadness, had no commands to give to-day.

After dinner the count, on some pretence, detained Marie in the library
while Master Matyas completed his task in her room.

This masterpiece was a peculiar curtain composed of small squares of
steel so joined together that light and air could easily penetrate the
screen. It was fitted between the two marble columns which supported the
arch of the bed-alcove. When the metal curtain was lowered, by means of
a cord, two springs in the floor caught and held it so securely that it
could not be lifted from the outside. To raise the screen the person in
the alcove had only to touch a secret spring near the bed, when the
screen would roll up of itself.

"And hast thou no wish this year, Marie?" asked the count, adopting, as
usual on this anniversary, the familiar "thou."

"Yes, I have one, dear Ludwig," replied the young girl, but with no
brightening of the melancholy features. "I have lost something, but thou
canst not give it back to me."

"And what may this something be? What hast thou lost, Marie? Tell me."

"My former sweet, sound sleep! and thou canst not buy me another in
Vienna or Paris. I used to sleep so soundly. I used to be so fond of my
sweet slumber that I could hardly wait