"Fraulein!" interrupted Yolanda, angrily stamping her foot, "or Yolanda--call me either. If I give you the privilege, you should value it sufficiently to use it."

"Yolanda, I will sin no more," I responded. Her face broke into a smile, and she took my arm, laughing contentedly.

I walked out to the garden--Yolanda danced out--and we sat with the others under the shade of the arbor vines. Castleman and Max drank sparingly of wine and honey, while I sipped orange water with Yolanda, Twonette, and Frau Kate.

"What do you think of Burgundy, Sir Max?" asked the burgher.

"I like Grote's inn well," answered Max. "I like the castle dungeon ill.

I have seen little else of Burgundy save in our journey down the Somme.

Then I saw nothing but the road on the opposite bank. Had I tried to see the country I should have failed; the dust-cloud we carried with us was impenetrable." He turned to Yolanda, "That was a hard journey for you, Fraulein."

"No, no," she cried, "it was glorious. The excitement was worth a lifetime of monotony; it was delightful. I could feel my heart beat all the time, and no woman is sure she lives until she feels the beating of her heart."

I suspected a double meaning in her words, but no trace of self-consciousness was visible in her face.

"I have often wondered, Fraulein, if the papers reached the castle before the duke arrived?" asked Max.

"What papers?" queried Yolanda.

"Why, the papers we made the mad race to deliver," answered Max.

"Oh, y-e-s," responded the girl, "they arrived just in time."

"And were delivered at the gate?" I suggested.

A quick, angry glance of surprise shot from Yolanda's eyes, and rising from her chair she entered the house. Twonette followed her, and the two did not return for an hour. I was acc.u.mulating evidence on the subject of my puzzling riddle, but I feared my last batch might prove expensive.

I saw the mistake my tongue had led me into. Many a man has wrecked his fortune by airing his wit.

When Yolanda returned, she sat at a little distance from us, pouting beautifully. The cause of her unmistakable ill-humor, of course, was known only to me, and was a source of wonder to Max. At the end of five minutes, during which there had been little conversation, Max, who was amused at Yolanda's pouting, turned to her, and said:--

"The Fates owe me a few smiles as compensation for their frowns during the last three weeks. Won't you help them to pay me, Fraulein?"

Her face had been averted, but when Max spoke she turned slowly and gave him the smile he desired as if to say, "I am not pouting at you."

Her act was so childlike and her face so childishly beautiful that we all smiled with amus.e.m.e.nt and pleasure. Yolanda saw the smiles and turned on us, pouting though almost ready to laugh. She rose from her chair, stamped her foot, stood irresolutely for a moment, and then breaking into a laugh, drew her chair to our little circle--next to Max--and sat down.

"Tante, is supper never to be served?" she asked. "I am impatient to see the live wren pie."

"Live wren pie?" asked Max, incredulously.

"Yes. Have you never seen one?" asked Yolanda.

"Surely not," he replied.

"Ah, you have a treat in store," she exclaimed, clapping her hands enthusiastically. "Uncle carves the pie, the wrens fly out, you open your mouth, and the birds, being very small, fly down your throat and save you the trouble eating them. They are trained to do it, you know."

A chorus of laughter followed this remarkable statement. Max leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees, looked at the ground for the s.p.a.ce of half a minute, and said:--

"I was mistaken in saying that I had never partaken of the dish. While at Basel I foolishly opened my mouth, and a beautiful little bird flew down my throat to my heart."

Frau Castleman coughed, and the burgher moved in his chair and swallowed half a goblet of wine. Twonette laughed outright at the pretty turn Max had made upon Yolanda, and I ridiculously tried to keep my face expressionless. Yolanda laughed flutteringly, and the long lashes fell.

"That was prettily spoken, Sir Max," she said, smiling. "No Frenchman could improve upon it. You are constantly surprising me."

"Are Frenchmen apt at such matters, Fraulein?" I asked.

"I have known but few Frenchmen," she responded. "You know Burgundy and France are natural enemies, like the cat and the dog. I have little love for the French. I speak only from hearsay."

"You will do well to learn to like them," I suggested. "Burgundy itself will soon be French, if the Princess Mary weds the Dauphin."

By speaking freely of the princess, I hoped Yolanda might believe that, whatever my surmises were concerning her ident.i.ty, I did not suspect that she was Mademoiselle de Burgundy.

Yolanda sighed, but did not answer. Silence fell upon our little party, and after a long pause I turned to Twonette:--

"I remember that Franz told me at Basel, Fraulein Twonette, that you and this famous Princess Mary of Burgundy were friends."

"Yes," answered Twonette, with an effort not to smile, "she has, at times, honored me with her notice."

"Out of that fact grows Twonette's serene dignity," laughed Yolanda. "On the strength of this acquaintance she quite lords it over us at times, and is always reminding me of the many haughty virtues of her friend as a pattern that I should follow. You see, I am incessantly confronted with this princess."

I thought it was a pretty piece of acting, though the emphasis of her dislike for the princess was unmistakably genuine.

"The duke has graciously invited us to the castle," I said, "and I hope to have the honor of seeing the princess."

When I spoke of the duke's invitation, I at once caught Yolanda's attention.

"You will not meet the princess if you go to the castle," said Yolanda.

"She is an ill-natured person, I am told, and is far from gracious to strangers."

"I do not hope for such an honor," I replied. "I should like merely to see her before I leave Burgundy. That is all the favor I ask at her hands. She is a lady famed throughout all Europe for her beauty and her gentleness."

"She doesn't merit her fame," responded Yolanda, carefully examining her hands folded in her lap, and glancing nervously toward Max.

"Do you know Her Highness?" I asked.

"I--I have heard enough of her and have often seen her," she replied.

"She usually rides out with her ladies at this hour. From the upper end of the garden you may soon see her come through the Postern gate, if you care to watch."

"I certainly should like to see her," I answered, rapidly losing faith in my conclusion that Yolanda was the princess.

The Castlemans did not offer to move, but Yolanda, springing to her feet, said, "Come," and led the way.

The upper end of the garden, as I have told you, was on the banks of the Cologne at a point where it flowed into the castle moat. The castle wall, sixty feet high at that point, bordered the west side of the garden. The moat curved along the right side, and the river flowed past the upper end. Castleman's house faced south, and stood on the lower end of the strip of ground that lay between the castle wall and the moat.

The Postern was perhaps three hundred yards north from the upper end of Castleman's garden. Since it was on the opposite side of the river, one could reach the Postern, from Castleman's house, only by going up to the town bridge and back to the castle by the street that followed the north side of the Cologne.

We all walked to the upper end of the garden, and stood leaning against the low stone wall at the river's edge. We had waited perhaps ten minutes when we heard a blare of trumpets and saw a small cavalcade of ladies and gentlemen ride from the castle and pa.s.s over the drawbridge.

"The lady in scarlet is the d.u.c.h.ess," said Castleman.