inhabitants of which, though exempt from all feudal obligations, yet
in some sort regarded themselves as vassals of the baron. They made
him presents of fish, accompanied him to the chase, and lent him a
willing hand, whenever he required assistance at the castle.

The baron, though he had the wherewithal to live comfortably enough,
was yet a poor representative of the race he sprang from. His army
consisted of a few farm servants, his cavalry of a ploughboy on a
cart-horse, and his navy of a fishing boat. But, on the whole, he was
happy. He passed his days either in trimming his vines or hunting, and
his evenings in poring over mildewed parchments or books of heraldry,
hunting up long pedigrees, and puffing a monstrous meerschaum till the
atmosphere was as dense as the interior of a smokehouse. The lady
Mathilde embroidered from morning till night.

They had, however, a common source of grief. Fate had not blessed them
with children. The lady yearned for the companionship of a daughter;
the baron mourned at the prospect of the extinction of his name for
want of a male heir.

It was while pondering on this subject one day, as they were strolling
out together, that the baron and his lady came upon the cottage of an
old soldier named Karl Mueller, who cultivated a little vineyard not
far from the castle.

The old man was seated on a bench before his door, smoking, and so
deeply plunged in revery, that he was not aware of the approach of
visitors till the baron touched him on the shoulder.

"In a brown study, Karl?" said the baron.