"Oh, Marie!" lamented Hans, hopelessly, "the King will never come
again."

"Bear up," said Marie, "for we have each other." And as she gazed far
off in the twilight, her eyes seemed like two exiled stars, yearningly
seeking their home.

As Hans gazed at her, standing there before him with her hands crossed
over her breast, in all her purity and humility, a great joy lit up his
countenance. He folded his hands, inspired.

"Marie," he whispered, "let us not despair. In this very moment I have
received an inspiration, and if I can bring to pass that which I now see
in my mind's eye, I shall be an artist who will need the help of no one
--not even an Emperor."

The dawn of the next day found Hans ready to set out on his journey. He
carried a knapsack on his back, and on his breast the little leather bag
which the Emperor had given him, with the few florins that remained. He
closed the door of his little house, put the key into his pocket, and
walked slowly off. Loud and clear sounded his rich, soft voice as he
sang, "On the rose thorn, on the rose thorn, there my hope is hanging!"

Softly in Marie's house a window was raised, and with a little white
handkerchief she gently waved her mute farewell.

Quickly mastering himself, Hans grasped his staff more firmly, and now
only his heavy tread echoed through the streets.