He was the son of a Bohemian baron, and his mother, who was dead, had been of one of the noblest families of Hungary.

And whereas his name was somewhat hard to the German tongue, we one and all called him simply Ritter Franz or Sir Franz.

He was a well made and well favored youth in face and limb, who had found such pleasure in my brother's company at Erfurt that he had gone with him to Padua.

His father's sudden death had taken him home from college sooner than Herdegen, and he was now in mourning weed.

He ever held his head a little bowed, and whereas Herdegen, with his brave, splendid manners and his long golden locks, put some folks in mind of the sun, a poet might have likened his friend to the moon, inasmuch as he had the same gentle mien and pale countenance, which seemed all the more colorless for his thick, sheeny black hair which framed it, with out a wave or a curl.