I could not, by my utmost effort, force myself entirely away from the belief that Yolanda was the princess, and I was near to telling Max of my suspicions; but doubt came before my words, and I remained silent.

Before many days I was glad of my caution.

"I knew," said Max, "that I would pain you, Karl, by this determination to return to Styria without so much as an effort to do--to do what we-- what you wished; but it must be as I say. I must leave Burgundy and go back to my strait-jacket. I have lived my life, Karl, I have had my portion of sweet joy and sweeter pain. The pain will give me joy as long as I live. Now for my duty to my father, my house, and my ancestors."

"But your duty to all these lies here in Peronne," I answered, almost stifled by the stupendous import of the moment.

"I suppose you are right," sighed Max, speaking gently, though with decision. "But that duty I'll shirk, and try to make amends in other ways. I shall never marry. That, Karl, you may depend upon. Styria may go at my death to Albert of Austria, or to his issue."

"No, no! Max," I cried. He ignored my interruption.

"Along with the countless duties that fall to the lot of a prince are a few that one owes to himself as a man. There are some sacrifices a man has no right to inflict upon himself, even for the sake of his family, his ancestors, or his state." He paused for the s.p.a.ce of a minute, and, dropping his words slowly, continued in a low voice vibrant with emotion: "There is but one woman, Karl, whom I may marry with G.o.d's pleasure. Her, I may not even think upon; she is as far from me as if she were dead. I must sacrifice her for the sake of the obligations and conditions into which I was born; but--" here he hesitated, rose slowly to his feet, and lifted his hands above his head, "but I swear before the good G.o.d, who, in His wisdom, inflicted the curse of my birth upon me, that I will marry no other woman than this, let the result be what it may."

He sank back into the chair and fell forward on the table, burying his face in his arms. His heart for the moment was stronger than his resolution.

"That question is settled," thought I. No power save that of the Pope could absolve the boy from his oath, and I knew that the power of ten score of popes could not move him from its complete fulfilment. The oath of Maximilian of Hapsburg, whose heart had never coined a lie, was as everlasting as the rocks of his native land and, like Styria's mountain peaks, pierced the dome of heaven.

If Yolanda were not the princess, our journeying to Burgundy had been in vain, and our sojourn in Peronne was useless and perilous. It could not be brought to a close too quickly. But (the question mark seems at times to be the greatest part of life) if Yolanda were Mary of Burgundy, Max had, beyond doubt, already won the lady's favor, unless she were a wanton snare for every man's feet. That hypothesis I did not entertain for a moment. I knew little of womankind, but my limited knowledge told me that Yolanda was true. Her heart was full of laughter,--a rare, rich heritage,--and she was little inclined to look on the serious side of life if she could avoid it; but beneath all there was a real Yolanda, with a great, tender heart and a shrewd, helpful brain. She was somewhat of a coquette, but coquetry salts a woman and gives her relish. It had been a grievous waste on the part of Providence to give to any girl such eyes as Yolanda's and to withhold from her a modic.u.m of coquetry with which to use them. Taken all in all, Yolanda, whoever she was, would grace any station in life. But if she were not the princess, I would be willing to give my life--nay, more, I would almost be willing to take hers--rather than see her marry Maximilian of Hapsburg. Happiness could not come from such a union.

Should Max marry a burgher girl, his father and mother would never look upon his face again. It would alienate his subjects, humble his house, and bring him to the level of the meanest n.o.ble on the Danube. To all these dire consequences Max was quite as wide awake as I. He had no intention of bringing them upon his house, though for himself he would have welcomed them. So I felt little uneasiness; but when a great love lays hold upon a great heart, no man may know the outcome.

CHAPTER VIII

ON THE MOAT BRIDGE

Awaiting Castleman's return, we remained housed up at The Mitre, seldom going farther abroad than Grote's garden save in the early morning or after dark. But despite our caution trouble befell us, as our burgher friend had predicted.

Within a week Max began to go out after dark without asking me to accompany him. When he came into our room late one evening, I asked carelessly where he had been. I knew where he had been going, and had burned to speak, but the boy was twenty-two. Within the last few months he had grown out of my tutelage, and his native strength of character had taught me to respect him and in a certain way to fear him. From the promptness of his reply I thought that he had wished me to ask concerning his outgoing and incoming.

"I have been to the bridge over the moat, near Castleman's House under the Wall," he answered.

"What did you there?" I asked, seeing his willingness to be questioned.

"I stood there--I--I--" He paused, laughed, and stammered on. "I looked at the castle and at the moat, like a silly fool, and--and--"

"Castleman's house?" I suggested, helping him out.

"Y-e-s," he answered hesitatingly, "I could not help seeing it. It is close by the bridge--not twenty paces distant."

"Did you see any one else--except the house?" I asked.

"No," he returned promptly. "I did not want to see any one else. If I had I should have entered the house."

"Why, then, did you go to the bridge?" I queried.

"I cannot answer that question even to myself," he replied. "I--I--there is a constant hungering for her, Karl, that I cannot overcome; it seems as if I am compelled to go to the bridge, though I know I should not. It is very foolish in me, I am sure, but--"

"I heartily agree with you," I answered. "It is not only foolish, it is rash; and it may bring you great trouble."

I did not deem it necessary to tell him that he was following in the footsteps of his race. I left him to suppose that he was the only fool of the sort that had ever lived. The thought would abate his vanity.

"But I _must_ go to the bridge," he continued, finishing the sentence I had interrupted, "and I do not see how there can be evil in it."

"No, Max, it Is not wrong in itself," I said reprovingly; "but Castleman, evidently for good reasons, asked you to stay away from his house, and counselled us to remain close at the inn. It has also this evil in it for you, aside from the danger: it will make your duty harder to perform. When a man longs for what he may not have, he should not think upon it, much less act on it. Our desires, like covetousness and jealousy, feed upon themselves. We may, if we but knew it, augment or abate them at will."

"I shall always think on--on my love for Yolanda," he replied. "I would not abate it one jot; I would augment it in my heart. But, Karl--you see, Karl, it is not a question of my own strength to resist. I need no strength. There is no more reason for you to warn me against this danger than to admonish a child not to long for a star, fearing he might get it. The longing may be indulged with impunity; the star and the danger are out of reach."

I had nothing to say; Max was stronger and n.o.bler than ever I had believed.

Max continued to go to the bridge, and I made no effort to prevent him.

Meddling mars more frequently than it mends, and when the Fates are leading, a man is a fool to try to direct their course. Whatever was to be would be. Fate held Max by the hand and was leading him. I almost feared to move or to speak in his affairs, lest I should make a mistake and offend these capricious Fates. The right or the wrong of his visits to the moat depended entirely upon the answer to my riddle, "Who is Yolanda?" and I dared not put it to the touch.

On one occasion he returned from the bridge, and without lighting the lamp, sat on the arm of my chair. The moonlight streaming through the window illumined his head as with a halo. He tossed the damp curls from his face, and his eyes were aglow with joy. There was no need to tell me what had happened, but he told me.

"Ah, Karl, I've seen the star," he cried triumphantly. He was but a boy-man, you must remember.

"I was sure you would see her," I answered. "How did you bring the meeting about?"

"I did not bring it about," he answered, laughing softly. "The star came to the child."

"All things come to him that waits at the bridge," I replied sarcastically. He paid no heed to the sarcasm, but continued:--

"She happened to be near the bridge when I got there, and she came to me, Karl,--she came to me like a real star falling out of the darkness."

That little fact solved once more my great riddle--at least, it solved it for a time. Yolanda was not Mary of Burgundy. I had little knowledge of princesses and their ways, but I felt sure they were not in the habit of lurking in dark places or wandering by sluggish moats in the black shadow of a grim castle. A princess would not and could not have been loitering by the bridge near the House under the Wall. Castleman's words concerning Yolanda's residence under his roof came back and convinced me that my absurd theory concerning her ident.i.ty was the dream of a madman.

"She happened to be near the bridge?" I asked, with significant emphasis.

"Perhaps I should not have used the word 'happened,'" returned Max.

"I thought as much. What did she have to say for herself, Max?"

"If I were not sure of your devotion, Karl, I should not answer a question concerning Yolanda put in such a manner," he replied; "but I'll tell you. When I stepped on the bridge, she came running to me from the shadow of the trees. Her arms were uplifted, and she moved so swiftly and with such grace one could almost think she was flying--"

"Witches fly," I interrupted. My remark checked his flow of enthusiasm.

After a long silence I queried, "Well?"

Max began again.

"She gave me her hand and said: 'I knew you would come again, Sir Max. I saw you from the battlements last night and the night before and the night before that. I could not, with certainty, recognize you from so great a distance, but I was sure you would come to the bridge--I do not know why, but I was sure you would come; so to-night I too came. You cannot know the trouble I took or the risk I ran in coming. You have not seen me for many days, yet you remember me and have come five times to the bridge. I was wrong when I said you would forget the burgher girl within a fortnight. Sir Max, you are a marvel of constancy.' At that moment the figures of two men appeared on the castle battlements, silhouetted against the moon; they seemed of enormous stature, magnified in the moonlight. One of them was the Duke of Burgundy. I recognized him by his great beard, of which I have heard you speak. Yolanda caught one glimpse of the men and ran back to the house without so much as giving me a word of farewell."

"What did you say during the brief interview?" I asked.

"Not one word," he replied.

"By my soul, you are an ardent lover," I exclaimed.

"I think she understood me," Max replied, confidently; and doubtless he was right.