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that nothing should part them. His courtship of Mistress
Sofie was the first serious step he had ever taken in his life,
and it was a point of honor with him to take it fully. There
had always been so many hands ready to lead and direct him,
but he had outgrown all that; he was old enough to walk
alone, and he meant to do it. What was the favor of the
King and the court, what were honor and glory, compared
to his love? For that alone he would strive and sacrifice; in
that alone he would live.
The King, however, let it be known to Christoffer Urne
that he was opposed to the match, and the house was closed
to Ulrik Frederik, who henceforth could see Mistress Sofie
only by stealth. At first this merely fed the flame, but soon
his visits to his betrothed grew less frequent. He became
more clear-sighted where she was concerned, and there
were moments when he doubted her love, and even
wondered whether she had not led him on, that summer day,
while she seemed to hold him off.
The court, which had hitherto met him with open arms,
was cold as ice. The King, who had taken such a warm
interest in his future, was indifference itself. There were no
longer any hands stretched out to help him, and he began
to miss them; for he was by no means man enough to go
against the stream. When it merely ceased to waft him
along, he lost heart instantly. At his birth, a golden thread
had been placed in his hand, and he had but to follow it
upward to happiness and honor. He had dropped this thread
to find his own way, but he still saw it glimmering. What if
he were to grasp it again? He could neither stiffen his back
to defy the King nor give up Sofie. He had to visit her in
secret, and this was perhaps the hardest of all for his pride
to stomach. Accustomed to move in pomp and display, to
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