neighbor, a wealthy landowner, told him he expected to harvest two
thousand yoke of wheat: 'That is not so bad.'"

"Now _I_ intend to hold a Lustration, Herr Vice-palatine," resumed the
count. "Here are weapons. Are enough men and horses to be had for the
asking?"

"I might answer as did the gypsy woman when her son asked for a piece of
bread: 'You are always wanting what is not to be had.'"

"Do you mean that there are no men?"

"I mean," hastily interposed Herr Bernat, "that there are enough men,
and horses, too; but the treasure-chest is empty, and the _Aerar_ has
not yet sent the promised subsidy."

"What care I about the Aerar and its money!" ejaculated Count Vavel,
contemptuously. "_I_ will supply the funds necessary to equip a
company--and support them, into the bargain! And if the county needs
money, my purse-strings are loose! I give everything that belongs to
me--and myself, too--to this cause!"

He opened, as he spoke, a large iron chest that was fastened with iron
bolts to the floor.

"Here, help yourself, Herr Vice-palatine!" he added, waving his hand
toward the contents of the chest. It was a more wonderful sight than the
arsenal itself. Rolls of gold coin, sacks of silver, filled the chest to
the brim.

Herr Bernat could only stare in speechless amazement. He made no move to
obey the behest to "help himself," whereupon Count Vavel himself thrust
his hands into the chest, lifted what he could hold between them of gold
and silver, and filled the vice-palatine's hat, which that worthy was
holding in his hand.

"But--pray--I beg of you--" remonstrated Herr Bernat, "at least, let us
count it."

"You can count it when you get home," interrupted Count Vavel.

"But I must give you a receipt for it."

"A receipt?" repeated his host. "A receipt between gentlemen? A receipt
for money which is given for the defense of the fatherland?"

"But I certainly cannot take all this money without something to show
from whom I received it, and for what purpose. Give me at least a few
words with your signature, Herr Count."

"That I will gladly do," responded the count, turning toward his desk,
and coming face to face with Marie, who had descended from her throne.

"What are you going to do?" she asked, laying her hand on his arm.

"Write."

"Are you going to let strangers see your writing, and perhaps betray who
you are?"

"In a week the strokes from my hand will tell who I am," he replied,
with double m