One seemed the very personification of power and pride, the
other of obscurity and insignificance, and yet so strangely does fate
play with the fortunes of men that the fickle goddess was inclined
toward the peasant in the matter that was nearest to the hearts of both.
John, be it said once more, had not the smallest faith in the
supernatural, but it often seemed to him afterward that some power
greater than that of man moved the prince to do what he was about to do.
Prince Karl of Auersperg stroked his great brown beard and looked at him
long and thoughtfully. John stood before him in the position of an
inferior, even a menial, but his heart was far from holding any feeling
of inferiority. He was awed neither by the man's rank nor his power nor
his ancient blood. He knew that rank could not stop a bullet, nor turn
aside a shell. He knew that inherited power could be overthrown by power
acquired. There was nothing to make either sacred. He knew that old
blood was usually bad blood, that in a thousand years it became a
poisonous stream, for the want of fresh springs to purify it. But the
head of the young peasant was lowered a little, and the last
representative of ten centuries of decadence did not see the gleam of
defiance, even of contempt in his eyes.
"You have not been at Zillenstein long," said the prince.
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