It was Princess Elsa’s wedding-day.
The sober old city of Antwerp had blossomed out in colors gay as a spring garden, with banners, ribbons, garlands of flowers, and triumphal arches.
Not a burgher or a prentice but kept holiday.
Royal weddings were not an everyday sight, more especially when the bride was a princess of such beauty and virtue, and the bridegroom a knight who had risked his life for her sake.
Every maid in Antwerp would gladly have gone through fire and water just for a sight of the knight in silver armor. Greatly were those envied who had seen him arrive, drawn by the snow-white swan.
The bells of the old cathedral rang out a joyful chime. From every quarter came a stream of people, all hurrying to secure the best places from which to see the bridal procession. Guarding the entrance of the cathedral, on either side, were stationed knights and nobles in full court dress, ablaze with medals and decorations, helmets and waving plumes.
“She comes! She comes! Make way for the bride,” sang a chorus of voices. And Elsa appeared, more beautiful than a spring morning. Little children, clad in white, strewed her path with flowers. Maidens of high degree followed, bearing her bridal train. Never had a fairer, happier maid passed through the ancient doorway to become a bride.
“THROUGH HEAVEN’S VICTORY, THY LIFE IS MINE!”