In Morgania, where diplomatic refinements were unknown, there was needed a young woman of new blood, bringing energy with her, and able to revive confidence. There had been such in the ancestry of Duke Conrad—heroines sprung from the people, daughters of the mountain or the plain.
“You shall see their statues,” the duke said one day to Ethel, who had come with her grandmother to see his collections—“that is, if you do me the honor of stopping in Morgania when you make your Mediterranean yacht tour.”
“It is a promise,” said Ethel.
“It will interest you, Miss Rowrer, to visit my stronghold. It is one of the most ancient in Europe. The donjon at the entrance is formidable. It was in 1221, when he returned from the Crusade of Honorius III and Andrew II, King of Hungary, that my ancestor, Enguerrand, had it built, along with the great hall used for the people’s assemblages; for, to procure the necessary resources of his expedition, he had been obliged to enfranchise the serfs.”
“He did well,” observed grandma.
“He could not have done better,” the duke replied. “Moreover, there came out of it the Hall, which is a masterpiece.”
“The Hall, doubtless, is decorated with the arms and armor of the epoch?—that will interest me greatly.”
“There are neither cuirasses nor gauntlets,” answered the duke; “neither helmets nor the armor of knights on horseback, as in the Tower of London or the Invalides in Paris. But such as it is, it will interest you even more. It has something that will go straight to your heart.”
“Really?” Ethel asked. “And what can that be?”
“This,” the duke went on. “The Walhalla of Bavaria has been built to German heroes; our Hall is built to the glory, not of the heroes, but of the heroines of Morgania. My ancestor, Enguerrand, consecrated his Hall to the glorification of our women.”