your equals--though I doubt if there are any such even in
Frankfort--must prove as refreshing to your mind as that old wine would
to your body, did you but obey me and drink it."

Father Ambrose slowly shook his head.

"From what I hear of Frankfort," he said, "it is anything but an
inspiring town. In my day it was indeed a place of cheer, learning, and
prosperity, but now it is a city of desolation."

"The rumors we hear, Father, may be exaggerated; and even if the city
itself be doleful, which I doubt, there is sure to be light and gayety
in the precincts of the Court and in the homes of the nobility."

"What have I to do with Court or palaces? My duty lies here."

"It may be," cried the girl archly, "that some part of your duty lies
there. If Frankfort is indeed in bad case, your sage advice might be of
the greatest benefit. Prosperity seems to follow your footsteps, and,
besides, you were once a chaplain in the Court, and surely you have not
lost all interest in your former charge?"

Again that quiet, engaging smile lit up the monk's emaciated features,
and then he asked a question with that honest directness which sometimes
embarrassed those he addressed:

"Daughter Hildegunde, what is it you want?"

"Well," said the girl, sitting very upright in her chair, "I confess to
loneliness. The sameness of life in this castle oppresses me, and in its