Republics may be ungrateful, but the favor of princes is fickle as the
East Wind.

We make a fine hullabaloo nowadays because France or Russia occasionally
tries and sentences a man without giving him an opportunity of defense;
but in the Sixteenth Century the donjon-keeps of hundreds of castles in
Europe were filled with prisoners whose offense consisted in being feared
or disliked by some whimsical local ruler.

Jan Rubens was sent on an official errand to Dillenburg, and arriving
there was seized and thrown into prison, without trial or the privilege
of communicating with his friends.

Months of agonizing search on the part of his wife failed to find him,
and the Prince only broke the silence long enough to usurp a woman's
privilege by telling a lie, and declaring he did not know where Rubens
was, "but I believe he has committed suicide through remorse."

The distracted wife made her way alone from prison to prison, and
finally, by bribing an official, found her husband was in an underground
cell in the fortress at Dillenburg. It was a year before she was allowed
to communicate with or see him. But Maria Rubens was a true diplomat. You
move a man not by going to him direct, but by finding out who it is that
has a rope tied to his foot. She secured the help of the discarded wife
of the Prince, and these two managed to interest a worthy bishop, who
brought his influence to bear on Count John of Nassau. This man had
jurisdiction of the district in which the fortress where Rubens was
confined was located; and he agreed to release the prisoner on parole on
condition that a deposit of six thousand thalers be left with him, and an
agreement signed by the prisoner that he would give himself up when