Once more the riddle was solved. A few more solutions and there would be a mad Styrian in Burgundy. My reflections were after this fashion: Princesses, after all, do wander by the moat side and loiter by the bridge. Princesses do go on long journeys with no lady-in-waiting to do their bidding and no servants ready at their call. Yolanda was Mary of Burgundy, thought I, and Max had been throwing away G.o.d-given opportunities. Had she not seen Max from the battlements, and had she not fled at sight of the duke? These two small facts were but scant evidence of Yolanda's royalty, but they seemed sufficient.

"What would you have me say, Karl?" asked Max. "You would not have me speak more than I have already said and win her love beyond her power to withdraw it. That I sometimes believe I might do, but if my regard for her is true, I should not wish to bring unhappiness to her for the sake of satisfying my selfish vanity. If I am not mistaken, a woman would suffer more than a man from such a misfortune."

Here, truly, was a generous love. It asked only the privilege of giving, and would take nothing in return because it could not give all. If Yolanda were Mary of Burgundy, Max might one day have a reward worthy of his virtue. Yolanda's sweetness and beauty and Mary's rich domain would surely be commensurate with the n.o.blest virtue. I was not willing that Max should cease wooing Yolanda--if I might give that word to his conduct--until I should know certainly that she was not the princess.

This, I admit, was cruel indifference to Yolanda's peace of mind or pain of heart, if Max should win her love and desert her.

Because of a faint though dazzling ray of hope, I encouraged Max after this to visit the bridge over the moat, dangerous though it was; and each night I received an account of his doings. Usually the account was brief and pointless. He went, he stood upon the bridge, he saw the House under the Wall, he returned to the inn. But a night came when he had stirring adventures to relate.

At the time of which I am writing every court in Europe had its cl.u.s.ter of genteel vagabonds,--foreigners,--who stood in high favor. These hangers-on, though perhaps of the n.o.blest blood in their own lands, were usually exiles from their native country. Some had been banished for crimes; others had wandered from their homes, prompted by the love of roaming so often linked with unstable principles and reckless dispositions. Burgundy under Charles the Rash was a paradise for these gentry. The duke, who was so parsimonious with the great and wise Philip de Comines that he drove him to the court of Louis XI, was open-handed with these floating villains.

In imitation of King Louis's Scotch guard, Charles had an Italian guard.

The wide difference in the wisdom of these princes is nowhere more distinctly shown than in the quality of the men they chose to guard them. Louis employed the simple, honest, brave Scot. Charles chose the most guileful of men. They were true only to self-interest, brave only in the absence of danger. The court of Burgundy swarmed with these Italian mercenaries, many of whom had followed Charles to Peronne. Count Campo-Ba.s.so, who afterward betrayed Charles, was their chief. Among his followers was a huge Lombard, a great bully, who bore the name of Count Calli.

On the evening of which I speak Max had hardly stepped on the bridge when Yolanda ran to him.

"I have been waiting for you, Sir Max," she said. "You are late. I feared you would not come. I have waited surely an hour, though I am loath to confess it lest you think me a too willing maiden."

"It would be hard, Fraulein, for me to think you too willing--you are but gracious and kind, and I thank you," answered Max. "But you have not waited an hour. Darkness has fallen barely a quarter of that time."

"I was watching long before dark on the battlements, and--"

"On the battlements, Fraulein?" asked Max, in surprise.

"I mean from--from the window battlements in uncle's house. I've been out here under the trees since nightfall, and that seems to have been at least an hour ago. Don't you understand, Sir Max?" she continued, laughing softly and speaking as if in jest; "the longer I know you the more shamefully eager I become; but that is the way with a maid and a man. She grows more eager and he grows less ardent, and I doubt not the time will soon arrive, Sir Max, when you will not come at all, and I shall be left waiting under the trees to weep in loneliness."

Max longed to speak the words that were in his heart and near his lips, but he controlled himself under this dire temptation and remained silent. After a long pause she stepped close to him and asked:--

"Did you not want me to come?"

Max dared not tell her how much he had wanted her to come, so he went to the other extreme--he must say something--and, in an excess of caution, said:--

"I would not have asked you to come, Fraulein, though I much desired it; but sober judgment would prompt me to wish that--that is, I--ah, Fraulein, I did not want you to come to the bridge."

She laughed softly and said:--

"Now, Little Max, you do not speak the truth. You did want me to come, else why do you come to the bridge? Why do you come?"

In view of all the facts in the case the question was practically unanswerable unless Max wished to tell the truth, so he evaded by saying:--

"I do not know."

She looked quickly up to his face and stepped back from him:--

"Did you come to see Twonette? I had not thought of her. She is but drained milk and treacle. Do you want to see her, Sir Max? If so, I'll return to the house and send her to you."

"Fraulein, I need not answer your question," returned Max, convincingly.

"But I love Twonette. I know you do not come to see her, and I should not have spoken as I did," said Yolanda, penitently.

Perhaps her penitential moods were the most bewitching--certainly they were the most dangerous--of all her many phases.

"You know why I come to the bridge, even though I do not," said Max.

"Tell me, Fraulein, why I come."

"That is what you may tell me. I came to hear it," she answered softly, hanging her head.

"I may not speak, Fraulein," he replied, with a deep, regretful sigh.

"What I said to you on the road from Basel will be true as long as I live, but we agreed that it should not again be spoken between us. For your sake more than for mine it is better that I remain silent."

Yolanda hung her head, while her fingers were nervously busy with the points of her bodice. She uttered a low laugh, flashed her eyes upon him for an instant, and again the long lashes shaded them.

"You need not be _too_ considerate for my sake, Sir Max," she whispered; "though--though I confess that I never supposed any man could bring me to this condition of boldness."

Max caught her hands, and, clasping them between his own, drew the girl toward him. The top of her head was below his chin, and the delicious scent from her hair intoxicated his senses. She felt his great frame tremble with emotion, and a thrill of exquisite delight sped through every fibre of her body, warming every drop of blood in her veins. But Max, by a mighty effort, checked himself, and remained true to his self-imposed renunciation in word and act. After a little time she drew her hands from his, saying:--

"You are right, Max, to wish to save yourself and me from pain."

"I wish to save you, Yolanda. I want the pain; I hope it will cling to me all my life. I want to save you from it."

"Perhaps you are beginning too late, Max," said the girl, sighing, "but--but after all you are right. Even as you see our situation it is impossible for us to be more than we are to each other. But if you knew all the truth, you would see how utterly hopeless is the future in which I at one time thought I saw a ray of hope. Our fate is sealed, Max; we are doomed. Before long you shall know. I will soon tell you all."

"Do you wish to tell me now, Fraulein?" he asked.

"No," she whispered.

"In your own good time, Yolanda. I would not urge you."

Max understood Yolanda's words to imply that her station in life was even lower than it seemed, or that there was some taint upon herself or her family. Wishing to a.s.sure her that such a fact could not influence him, he said:--

"You need not fear to tell me all concerning yourself or your family.

There can be no stain upon you, and even though your station be less than--"

"Hush, Max, hush," she cried, placing her hand protestingly against his breast. "You do not know what you are saying. There is no stain on me or my family."

Max wondered, but was silent; he had not earned the right to be inquisitive.

The guard appeared at that moment on the castle battlements, and Max and Yolanda sought the shelter of a grove of trees a dozen paces from the bridge on the town side of the moat. They seated themselves on a bench, well within the shadow of the trees, and after a moment's silence Max said:--

"I shall not come to the bridge again, Fraulein. I'll wait till your uncle returns, when I shall see you at his house. Then I'll say farewell and go back to the hard rocks of my native land--and to a life harder than the rocks."

"You are right in your resolve not to come again to the bridge," said Yolanda, "for so long as you come, I, too, shall come--when I can. That will surely bring us trouble sooner or later. But when Uncle Castleman returns, you must come to his house, and I shall see you there. As to your leaving Peronne, we will talk of that later. It is not to be thought of now."

She spoke with the confidence of one who felt that she might command him to stay or order him to go. She would settle that little point for herself.

"I will go, Fraulein," said Max, "soon after your uncle's return."

"Perhaps it will be best, but we will determine that when we must--when the time comes that we can put it off no longer. Now, I wish you to grant me three promises, Sir Max. First, ask me no questions concerning myself. Of course, you will ask them of no one else; I need not demand that promise of you."