As the Prince made his way through the crowded avenues of the Bergen streets to an accompaniment of scowls punctuated by feeble, forced cheers, he cut a goodly enough figure to win many an admiring, if reluctant, glance from bright eyes.  With his broad shoulders, his erect, well-knit figure clothed in purple velvet, his stern, swarthy face crowned by a white-plumed hat, Christian looked every inch a Prince.

To-day, too, he was in his most amiable mood, with a smile ready to leap to his lips, and many a gracious wave of the hand and sweep of plumed hat to acknowledge the grudged salutes of his subjects.  He could be charming enough when he pleased, and this was a day of high good-humour; for his mind was full of the pleasure that awaited him.  Even Frau Sigbrit’s scowl was chased away when his eyes were drawn to her towering figure, and with a swift smile he singled her out for the honour of a special salute.

When the Prince at last arrived in the market-square, he was greeted by a procession of the prettiest maidens in Bergen who, in white frocks and with flower-wreathed hair, advanced to pay him the homage of demure eyes.  But among them all, the loveliest girls of the city, Christian saw but one—­a girl younger than almost any other, but so radiantly lovely that his eyes fixed themselves on her as if entranced, until her cheeks flamed a vivid crimson under the ardour of his gaze.  “No need to point her out,” he whispered delightedly to Valkendorf, “I see your ’little dove,’ and she is all you have told me and more.”

Before many hours had passed, a Court official appeared at Frau Sigbrit’s cottage door with a command from the Prince to her and her daughter to attend a State ball the following evening.  If the poor market-woman had had a crown laid at her feet, her surprise and consternation could scarcely have been greater.  But she would make a bigger sacrifice of inclination than this for the “little dove” who filled her heart, and who, she remembered, was destined to be a Queen; and decking her in all the finery her modest purse could command and with a taste of which few would have suspected she was capable, the market stall-keeper stalked majestically through the avenue of gorgeous flunkeys, her little Princess with downcast eyes following demurely in her wake.

All the fairest women of Bergen were gathered at this ball, the host of which was their coming King, but it was to the fruit-seller’s daughter that all eyes were turned, in homage to such a rare combination of beauty, grace, and modesty.  Many a fair lip, it is true, curled in mockery, recognising in the belle of the ball the low-born girl of the market-place; but it was the mockery of jealousy, the scornful tribute to a loveliness greater than their own.