BARON AQUILA


Felix's own position was bitter in the extreme. He felt he had talent.
He loved deeply, he knew that he was in turn as deeply beloved; but he
was utterly powerless. On the confines of the estate, indeed, the men
would run gladly to do his bidding. Beyond, and on his own account, he
was helpless. Manual labour (to plough, to sow, to work on shipboard)
could produce nothing in a time when almost all work was done by
bondsmen or family retainers. The life of a hunter in the woods was
free, but produced nothing.

The furs he sold simply maintained him; it was barter for existence, not
profit. The shepherds on the hills roamed in comparative freedom, but
they had no wealth except of sheep. He could not start as a merchant
without money; he could not enclose an estate and build a house or
castle fit for the nuptials of a noble's daughter without money, or that
personal influence which answers the same purpose; he could not even
hope to succeed to the hereditary estate, so deeply was it encumbered;
they might, indeed, at any time be turned forth.

Slowly the iron entered into his soul. This hopelessness, helplessness,
embittered every moment. His love increasing with the passage of time
rendered his position hateful in the extreme. The feeling within that he
had talent which only required opportunity stung him like a scorpion.
The days went by, and everything remained the same. Continual brooding
and bitterness of spirit went near to drive him mad.

At last the resolution was taken, he would go forth into the world. That