"My ancestor, softened by some accent of gentleness or patience in the suppliant's voice, dismounted to do the service required of him, and in the growing darkness drew out the thorn. But when he had got it free from the flesh it seemed no more a thorn but an iron nail; and the wound out of which he had drawn it shone with celestial radiance. Then was founded the Order. The Mendicant bade him bind the Thorn upon his heel in the place of his spur, so that whenever thereafter he should be tempted to goad or oppress whether man or beast the Thorn should remind him of pity and mercy. I wait for your Grace's criticism of that legend?"
The Archbishop made no reply: with a courteous gesture of the hand he invited the Prince to continue.
"I hoped," said the young man, "to be instructed in the connection between that Founding and the continuance of the Order. You spoke of chivalry and loyalty; but the chivalry which you invited us to emulate was merely the physical daring of our ancestors as proved in war (wherein I am no longer allowed to take part); and the loyalty was to a form of monarchy which modern conditions now threaten with change. And I, looking at all my brother Knights around me, and at myself, wondered by what right we wore that iron thorn upon our heels.
"Among us—I need not mention names—were men whose lives were far more notoriously evil than mine—men whose wealth had been gained for them by the grinding of sweated humanity; men who received enormous rents from houses not fit for human habitation—men who opposed every act of remedial legislation which disturbed their own vested interests, and who did these things with an untroubled conscience because the conditions they fought for were all the outcome of custom or of law.
"And I remembered that some day I should be required to become their Grand Master—the titular head of that dead Order of Chivalry; and I wondered what would happen if I acted honestly upon my conscience and refused."
"Yet you say, sir, that for this Order, of which you now speak so slightingly, you had sentiments of reverence?"
"For the Order—yes; but none for the men—including myself—who make up its membership."
"Surely," said the Archbishop, "your Highness must admit that they are all men of mark; many of them have spent their lives in the public service—leaders of the people in peace and war. You cannot regard these things as nothing."
"For these things they already have their titles," said the Prince, "their state-pensions, or the wealth personally acquired on which their power and influence are based. Has the Order of the Thorn ever once in its history been given to a man because he was conspicuously good, or gentle, or forbearing, or unselfishly thoughtful for others? Has it ever once been given to a successful philanthropist who was not also of high lineage and title? I have looked through the lists; I can find none. Your Grace is the only one among us whose profession is to serve God rather than to be served by men."
The Archbishop glanced uneasily at the Prince; but there was no sarcasm in his look or tone. Max was never more of an artist than in his adaption of manner to theme. Sadly, almost dejectedly he went on.