Switzerland? Everything was wrong. But no man knows what good fortune
may lurk in an evil chance.

At the close of a stormy day we sighted Basel from the top of a hill,
and soon the lights, one by one, began to twinkle cosily through the
gloaming. All day long drizzling rain and spitting snow had blown in our
faces like lance points, driven down the wind straight from the icy
Alps. We were chilled to the bone; in all my life I have never beheld a
sight so comforting as the home lights of the quaint old Swiss city.

Franz soon found a wherry and, after crossing the Rhine, we marched
slowly down the river street, ducking our heads to the blast. Within
half an hour we passed under a stone archway and found ourselves snug in
the haven of our merchant's courtyard. Even the sumpter mules rejoiced,
and gave forth a chorus of brays that did one's heart good. Every tone
of their voices spoke of the warm stalls, the double feed of oats, and
the great manger of sweet hay that awaited them. Before going into the
house Max gave to each mule a stroke of his hand in token of affection.
Surely this proud automaton of Hapsburg was growing lowly in his tastes.
In other words, nature had captured his heart and was driving out the
inherited conventions of twenty generations. Five months of contact with
the world had wrought a greater cure than I had hoped five years would
work. I was making a man out of the flesh and blood of a Hapsburg. God
only knows when the like had happened before.

Max and I were conducted by a demure little Swiss maid to a large room
on the third floor of the house, overlooking the Rhine. There was no
luxury, but there was every comfort. There were two beds, each with a
soft feather mattress, pillows of down, and warm, stuffed coverlets of
silk. These were not known even in the duke's apartments at Hapsburg