The Chancellor, who was the last man to pass by a flower so seductively beautiful, approached the stall, undaunted by the forbidding eyes of the giantess, Frau Sigbrit, by name, and, after making a small purchase, sought to draw her into amiable conversation.  “No,” she said in answer to his inquiries, “we are not Norwegian.  We come from Holland, my daughter and I, and we are trying to earn a little money before returning there.  But why do you ask?” she demanded almost fiercely, putting a protecting arm around the girl, as if she would shield her from an enemy.  “You are in such a different world from ours!”

Little by little, however, the grim face began to relax under the adroit flatteries and courtly deference of the Chancellor—­for none knew better than he the arts of charming, when he pleased; and it was not long before the Amazon, completely thawed, was confiding to him the most intimate details of her history and her hopes.

“Yes, my daughter is beautiful,” she said, with a look of pride at the girl which transfigured her face.  “Many a great man has told me so—­dukes, princes, and lords.  She is as fair a flower as ever grew in Holland; and she is as sweet as she is fair.  She is Dyveke, my “little dove,” the pride of my heart, my soul, my life.  She is to be a Queen one day.  It has been revealed to me in my dreams.  But when the day dawns it will be the saddest in my life.”  And with further amiable words and a final courtly salute, Valkendorf continued his stroll, secretly promising himself a further acquaintance with the dragon and her “little dove.”

This was the first of many morning strolls in the Bergen market, in which the Chancellor spent delightful moments at Frau Sigbrit’s stall, each leaving him more and more a slave to her daughter’s charms; for he quickly found that to her physical perfections were allied a low, sweet voice, every note of which was musical as that of a nightingale, a quiet dignity and refinement as far removed from her station as her simple print frock with the bunch of roses nestling in the white purity of her bosom, and a sprightliness of wit which even her modesty could not always repress.

Thus it was that, when Valkendorf at last returned to Upsala and the Court of his master, Christian, his tongue was full of the praises of the “market-beauty” of Bergen, whose charms he pictured so glowingly that the Prince’s heart became as inflamed by a sympathetic passion as his mind by curiosity to see such a siren.  “I shall not rest,” he said to his Chancellor, “until I have seen your ‘little dove’ with my own eyes; and who knows,” he added with a laugh, “perhaps I shall steal her from you!”

It was in vain that Valkendorf, now alarmed by his indiscretion, began to pour cold water on the flames he had lit.  Christian had quite lost his susceptible heart to the rustic and unknown beauty, and vowed that he could not rest until he had seen her with his own eyes.  And within a month he was riding into Bergen, with Valkendorf by his side, at the head of a brilliant retinue.