Still weeping, Yolanda hurried back with the writing materials, but before entering the room she stopped at the door to dry her tears and stay her sobs. When she entered, she said:--

"There is the quill, father, and there is the ink."

She placed them before the duke and stood trembling with one hand on the table. After a moment she spoke in a voice little above a whisper:--"You will accomplish nothing, my lord, my father, by sending the letter. I shall die before this marriage can take place. I am willing to obey you, but, father, I shall die. Ah, father, pity me."

She fell upon her knees before the duke and tried to put her hands about his shoulders. He repulsed her, and, taking up the quill, signed the letter. After he had affixed his signature and had sealed the missive with his private seal, he folded the parchment and handed it to the bishop, saying:--

"Seal the pouch, my lord, and send Byron, the herald, here to receive our personal instructions."

"The herald has not yet returned from Cambrai, my lord," said De Vergy, who stood near by. "He is expected between the hours of five and six this evening."

"Leave the letter, my lord," said Charles, "and send Byron to me when he arrives. I shall be here at six o'clock to give him full instructions."

The letter was deposited in a small iron box on the table, and the duke left the room, followed closely by the lords and pages.

CHAPTER XV

THE CROSSING OF A "T"

Yolanda and her stepmother remained on the divan in silence for fully an hour after the duke had left. The d.u.c.h.ess was first to speak.

"Be resigned, sweet one, to your fate. It is one common to women. It was my hard fate to be compelled to marry your father. It was your mother's, poor woman, and it killed her. G.o.d wills our slavery, and we must submit. We but make our fate harder by fighting against it."

Yolanda answered with convulsive sobs, but after a while she grew more calm.

"Is there nothing I can do to save myself?" she asked.

"No, sweet one," answered the d.u.c.h.ess.

"Has G.o.d put a curse upon women, mother?" asked Yolanda.

"Alas! I fear He has," answered Margaret. "The Holy Church teaches us that He punishes us for the sin of our mother Eve, but though He punishes us, He loves us, and we are His children. He knows what is best for us here and hereafter."

"He certainly is looking to my _future_ good, if at all," sighed Yolanda. "But I do believe in G.o.d's goodness, mother, and I am sure He will save me. Holy Virgin! how helpless a woman is." She began to weep afresh, and the d.u.c.h.ess tried to soothe her.

"I believe I will pray to the Virgin. She may help us," said the girl, in a voice that was plaintively childlike.

"It is a pious thought, Mary," answered the d.u.c.h.ess.

Yolanda slipped from the divan to the floor, and, kneeling, buried her face in her mother's lap. She prayed aloud:--

"Blessed Virgin, Thou seest my dire need. Help me. My prayer is short, but Thou, Blessed Lady, knowest how fervent it is." The d.u.c.h.ess crossed herself, bowed her head, and murmured a fervent "Amen."

Yolanda rose from her prayer with a brighter face, and exclaimed almost joyfully:--

"It was impious in me to doubt G.o.d's love, mother. I do believe I heard the Blessed Virgin say, 'Help is at hand.' At least, I felt her words, mother."

Yolanda moved about the room aimlessly for several minutes and by chance stopped at the table. She started to take up the quill and ink-well to carry them back to her parlor, which was in Darius (Darius was the name of the tower that rose from the castle battlements immediately above Castleman's House under the Wall), and her eyes rested on the small iron box in which the letter to King Louis had been deposited. An unconscious motive, perhaps it was childish curiosity, prompted her to examine the missive. She took the pouch from the box and found it unsealed. She listlessly drew out the missive and began to read, when suddenly her face grew radiant with joy. She ran excitedly to her mother, who was sitting on the divan, and exclaimed:--

"Oh! mother, the sweet Blessed Virgin has sent help!"

"In what manner, child?" asked the d.u.c.h.ess, fondling Yolanda's hair while the girl knelt beside her.

"Here, mother, here! Here is help; here in this very letter that was intended to be my undoing. I cannot wait to thank the Holy Mother." She crossed herself and buried her face in her mother's lap while she thanked the Virgin.

"What is it, Mary, and where is the help?" asked Margaret, fearing the girl's mind had been touched by her troubles.

"Listen!" cried Yolanda.

Her excitement was so great that she could hardly see the words the bishop's scrivener had written.

"Listen, listen! Father in this letter first tells the king that he--that is, father, you understand--is going to war with Lorraine--no, with Bourbon. I am wrong again. Father is so constantly warring with some one that I cannot keep track of his enemies--against the Swiss.

See, mother, it is the Swiss. He says he will go--will start--will begin the war--no, I am wrong again. I can hardly see the words. He says he will march at the head of a Burgundian army--poor soldiers, I pity them--within three weeks. Ah, how short that time seemed when I heard the letter read an hour ago. How long it is now! I wish he would march to-morrow. Three long weeks!"

"But, my dear, how will that help you?" asked the d.u.c.h.ess. "In what manner will--"

"Do not interrupt me, mother, but hear what follows. Father says he will march in three weeks and 'begs that His Majesty of France will _now_ move toward the immediate consummation of the treaty existing between Burgundy and France looking to the marriage of the Princess, Mademoiselle de Burgundy, with the princely Dauphin, son to King Louis.'

In that word 'now,' mother, lies my help."

"In what manner does help lie in the word 'now,' child?" asked the d.u.c.h.ess.

"In this, mother. 'Now' is a little word of three letters, n-o-v. See, mother, the letter 'v' is not perfectly made. We will extend the first p.r.o.ng upward, cross it and make 't' of it, using the second p.r.o.ng as a flourish. Then the letter will read, 'begs that His Majesty of France will _not_ move toward the immediate consummation of the treaty.' What could be more natural than that my father should wish nothing of importance to occur until after this war with Switzerland is over? The French king, of course, will answer that he will not move in the matter, and his letter will throw father into a delightful frenzy of rage. It may even induce him to declare war against France, and to break off the treaty of marriage when he returns from Switzerland. He has often done battle for a lesser cause. It will at least prevent the marriage for the present. It may prevent it forever."

"Surely that cannot be; King Louis will immediately explain the mistake to your father," suggested Margaret.

"But father, you know, will not listen to an explanation if he fears it may avert blows," returned Yolanda; "and he will be sure not to believe King Louis whose every word he doubts. I shall enjoy King Louis' efforts to explain. 'Hypocrite,' 'liar,' 'coward,' 'villain,' will be among father's most endearing terms when speaking of His Majesty. If by chance the error of 'not' for 'now' be discovered, the Bishop of Cambrai and father will swear it is King Louis who has committed the forgery. But should the worst come, our 't' will have answered its purpose, at least for the present. The bishop may suffer, but I care not. He did his part in bringing about this marriage treaty, bribed, doubtless, by King Louis' gold. In any case, we have no reason to const.i.tute ourselves the bishop's guardians. We have all we can do to care for ourselves--and more."

She sprang to her feet and danced about the room, ardently kissing the letter she had so recently dreaded.

"Mary, you frighten me," said the d.u.c.h.ess. "If we should be discovered in changing this letter, I do believe your father would kill us. I do not know that it would be right to make the alteration. It would be forgery, and that, you know, is a crime punishable by death."

"_We_ shall not be discovered," said Mary. "You must have no part in this transaction, mother. Father would not kill me; I am too valuable as a chattel of trade. With my poor little self he can buy the good-will of kings and princes. I am more potent than all his gold. This alteration can be no sin; it is self-defence. Think how small it is, mother. It is only a matter of the crossing of a 't.' But I care not how great the crime may be; I believe, mother, I would commit murder to save myself from the fate father wishes to put upon me."

"You frighten me, child," said Margaret. "I tremble in terror at what you propose to do."

"I, too, am trembling, mother," sighed Yolanda, "but you must now leave the room. You must know nothing of this great crime."

The girl laughed nervously and tried to push her mother from the room.

"No, I will remain," said the d.u.c.h.ess. "I almost believe that you are right, and that the Virgin has prompted you to do this to save yourself."

"I know she has," answered Yolanda, crossing herself. "Now leave me. I must waste no more time."

"I will remain with you, Mary," said Margaret, "and I will myself make the alteration. Then I'll take all the blame in case we are discovered."

Margaret rose, walked over to the table, and took up the quill. She trembled so violently that she could not control her hand.