“Maximilian.” The syllables flowed out with a soft cadence, like water falling upon silver wires, and Maximilian learned for the first time to love his name, a name by which his house preserved the memory of the gentle, dreaming Emperor, Albert Dürer’s friend, the last representative of chivalry, he who more than any other summed up in himself that quaint and mystic Holy Roman Empire which symbolised the union of the barbarian and the citizen, the marriage between the North and the South, that Empire which at its best was only a dream and an imagination, a long crusade in which the rough feudal knighthood of the Teuton lands descended century after century across the Alpine barrier, warring vainly against that mighty necromantic power encamped upon the hills of Rome.
“Maximilian, it makes me sad to hear you speak like this, because I cannot make you any return. When you first came to me, and asked me to love you, I hardly knew what love meant, and I thought that perhaps by trying I could render myself worthy of your love. And I have tried, believe me. But now I know more than I did then. I understand things better, and I know that though I might become your wife, yet I should never be able to feel towards you as you do towards me.”
She spoke hesitatingly, almost shamefacedly, yet there was that in her words which went to Maximilian’s heart. He caught his breath, and pressed his hand hard upon his bosom, as though he felt a sensible pang.
“Thank you, Dorothea.” He in his turn lingered over the name as if it were some magic spell, the mere utterance of which had power to soothe his grief. “I had no right to hope for any other answer. But do not regret having listened to me this once. It is a greater joy than you know to be allowed even to tell my love to you, though I tell it in vain. And your very presence has an influence over me, and gives me more courage to bear my lot. Do not weep, my beloved; but before I leave you, give me one kiss as a token to remember you by in the time to come.”
She tried to check her tears, and, forgetting everything but pity, she put her arm round the young man’s neck and kissed him yearningly, like a child that would win forgiveness from those who love it.
As she relaxed her embrace Maximilian hastily withdrew himself from it, and silently strode away.
Hardly had he gone a dozen paces, when he was encountered by Johann, moodily wandering apart, after a vain attempt to find his cousin. The King gave him a look of the deepest dejection.
“What is it?” exclaimed Johann, impulsively. “Is anything wrong?”
“I may tell it to you,” answered Maximilian, halting for a moment; “you are in the secret already. My dream is over; I have learnt that Dorothea does not love me.”
“But she will!” cried Johann, much disturbed. “She is too young to know her own mind. She has not had time to get accustomed to this new life. Give her more.”