"Ah, I do understand, Max; I understand only too well," answered the girl.

I have often wondered why Max did not suspect that Yolanda was the Princess Mary; but when I considered that he had not my reasons to lead him to that conclusion, I easily understood his blindness, for even I was unconvinced. Had I not overheard Castleman's conversation with Yolanda on the road to Strasburg, after meeting De Rose, the supposition that the burgher girl travelling unattended with a merchant and his daughter could possibly be the Princess Mary would have been beyond the credence of a sane man. The thought never would have occurred to me.

Even with Castleman's words always ringing in my ears, I was constantly in doubt.

"There is no reason why one should deliberately hasten the day of one's thralldom," said Yolanda, softly. "If one may be free and happy for an hour without breaking those terrible chains of G.o.d's welding, is he not foolish to refuse the small benediction? The memory of it may sweeten the years to come."

"To woman, such a memory is sweet," answered Max, striving to steel his heart against the girl. "To men, it is a bitter regret."

To me he had spoken differently of his pain.

"Then be generous, Little Max, and give me the sweet memory," said the girl, carried away by the swirling impulse of her heart.

"You will not need it," answered Max. "Your lot will be different from mine."

"Yes, it will be different, Max--it will be worse," she cried pa.s.sionately, almost in tears. "I think I shall kill myself when you leave Burgundy." She paused and turned fiercely upon him, "Give me the promise I ask. I demand at least that consolation as my right--as a poor return for what you take from me."

Max gently took her hand, which was at once lost in his great clasp.

"Fraulein, I will not leave Burgundy within a month, whatever the consequences may be," he said tenderly.

"Upon your honor?" she asked, joyously clapping her hands.

"Every promise I make, Fraulein, is on my honor," said Max, seriously.

"So it is, Little Max, so it is," she answered gently. Then they rose and came to the table where Castleman and I were sitting.

Yolanda had gained her point and was joyful over her victory.

Frau Katherine was asleep in a high-backed chair. Twonette slept in a corner of the arbor, her flaxen head embowered in a cl.u.s.ter of leaves and illumined by a stray beam of moonlight that stole between the vines.

"I am going in now. Come, Twonette," said Yolanda, shaking that plump young lady to arouse her. "Come, Twonette."

Twonette slowly opened her big blue eyes, but she was slower in awakening.

"Twonette! Twonette!" cried Yolanda, pulling at the girl's hand. "I declare, if you don't resist this growing drowsiness you will go down in history as the 'Eighth Sleeper,' and will be left snoring on resurrection morn."

When Twonette had awakened sufficiently to walk, we started from the arbor to the house. As we pa.s.sed from beneath the vines, the frowning wall of the castle and the dark forms of its huge towers, silhouetted in black against the moon-lit sky, formed a picture of fierce and sombre gloom not soon to be forgotten.

"The dark, frowning castle reminds one of its terrible lord," said Max, looking up at the battlements.

"It does, indeed," answered Yolanda, hardly above a whisper. Then we went into the house.

"We hope to see you again for supper to-morrow evening, don't we, uncle?" said Yolanda, addressing Max and me, and turning to Castleman.

"Yes--yes, to-morrow evening," said the burgher, hesitatingly.

Max accepted the invitation and we made our adieux.

At the bridge over the Cologne we met Hymbercourt returning to his house from the castle. While we talked, the cavalcade of ladies and gentlemen that we had watched from Castleman's garden cantered up the street.

"You will now see the princess," said Hymbercourt. "She comes with the duke and the d.u.c.h.ess. They left the castle at five, and have been riding in the moonlight."

We stepped to one side of the street as the cavalcade pa.s.sed, and I asked Hymbercourt to point out the princess.

"She rides between the duke--the tall figure that you may recognize by his long beard--and the page carrying a hooded falcon," he answered.

Surely this evidence should have put my mind at rest concerning my hallucination that Yolanda was Mary of Burgundy; but when we reached the inn and Max told me of his conversation with Yolanda the riddle again sprang up like a jack-in-the-box. I felt that I was growing weak in mind. Yolanda's desire to tell Max her secret, and her refusal; her longing for human sympathy, and the lack of it; her wish that he should remain in Peronne for a month--all these made me feel that she was the princess.

I could not help hoping that Hymbercourt was mistaken in pointing out Her Highness. She rode in the shadow of the buildings and the moon was less than half full. Yolanda might have wished to deceive us by pointing out the princess while we watched the cavalcade from Castleman's garden.

The burgher and Twonette might have been drawn into the plot against us by the impetuous will of this saucy little witch. Many things, I imagined, had happened which would have appeared absurd to a sane man--but I was not sane. I wished to believe that Yolanda was the princess, and I could not get the notion out of my head.

Yolanda's forwardness with Max, if she were Mary of Burgundy, could easily be explained on the ground that she was a princess, and was ent.i.tled to speak her mind. I was sure she was a modest girl, therefore, if she were of lowly birth, she would have hesitated to speak so plainly to Max. So, despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary, I refused to be convinced that Yolanda was not Mademoiselle de Burgundy. I loved the thought so dearly that I could not and would not part with it. That night, while I lay pondering over the riddle, I determined to do no more guessing, and let the Fates solve it for me. They might give me the answer soon if I would "give it up."

The next evening we went to Castleman's house, but we did not see Yolanda. Frau Kate said she was indisposed, and we ate supper without her. It was a dull meal,--so much does a good appet.i.te wait upon good company,--and for the first time I realized fully the marvellous quality of this girl's magic spell. Max, of course, was disappointed, and we walked back to The Mitre in silence.

CHAPTER XIII

A BATTLE IN MID AIR

A day or two after the supper of the wren pie, Max bought from a pedler a gray falcon most beautifully marked, with a scarlet head and neck, and we sent our squires to Hymbercourt, asking him to solicit from the duke's seneschal, my Lord de Vergy, permission to strike a heron on the marshes. The favor was easily obtained, and we went forth that afternoon to try the new hawk.

The hours pa.s.sed quickly. The hawk was perfectly trained, and as fierce as a mountain wildcat. Its combats in mid air were most exciting. It would attack its prey and drive it back to a point nearly over our heads. There it waged the battle of death. It had killed three herons, all of which had fallen at our feet, and we were returning home when a fourth rose from the marsh. We were on a side road or path, perhaps five hundred yards from the main highway.

At the moment Max gave wing to his bird, two ladies and three gentlemen came up the road, returning to Peronne, and halted to witness the aerial combat. That they were of the court, I could easily see by their habits, though the distance was so great that I could not distinguish their faces.

Never did hawk acquit itself more n.o.bly. It seemed to realize that it had a distinguished audience. The heron opened the battle desperately, and persisted in keeping its course to the south. The hawk, not ready for battle till the prey should be over our heads, circled round and round the heron, constantly striking, but carefully avoiding the _coup de grace_. After the birds had flown several hundred yards away from us, and were growing small in the distance, the heron, less hardy than its knightly foe, showed signs of weariness and confusion. It changed its course, still flying away from us. This did not suit the hawk, and it continued circling about its faltering prey with a vicious swiftness well calculated to inspire terror. Its movements became so rapid that it appeared to describe a gray circle about the heron. These circles, with the heron as the centre, constantly grew smaller, and after a time we could see that the birds were slowly but surely approaching us.

When they were almost over our heads, the hawk rose with incredible swiftness above its prey, and dropped like a bolt of gray lightning upon the heron. Then followed a struggle that lasted while the birds fell three hundred feet. When within fifty feet of the ground the hawk suddenly spread its wings and stood motionless in mid air, watching its vanquished foe as it fell to a spot within ten yards of where we stood.

The movement of the falcon in descending to us can only be described as a settling or gradual sinking, with outstretched, motionless wings. When Max piped, the bird flew to its master's wrist and held down its beak for the hood.

At the close of the battle, the gentlemen of our little audience clapped their hands, and the ladies waved their kerchiefs. Max and I raised our caps and reined our horses toward the main road. As we approached, the ladies and one of the gentlemen resumed their journey toward Cambrai Gate, but the others awaited us. When we reached them we found, to our surprise, Duke Charles and my Lord d'Hymbercourt.

"Ah, it is our unknown knight who was so eager to fight Count Calli,"

exclaimed the duke.

"And still eager, Your Grace," answered Max. He uncovered upon approaching the duke, but after a moment said, "By Your Grace's leave,"

and resumed his cap. I, of course, remained uncovered. The duke showed surprise and irritation as he answered:--

"Since you do not see fit to tell us who you are, you should have the grace to remain uncovered."

Max glanced quickly at the duke's face, and removed his cap, as he answered, smiling:--

"If it pleases Your Grace, I will remain uncovered even though I be the Pope himself."

The duke saw the humor of the situation and replied:--