"Yolanda is very sure of me," I answered.

"Ah, that she is," answered the girl. You see, this was a real case of billing and cooing between December and May.

A short silence followed, during which Yolanda glanced furtively toward Max and Twonette.

"You spoke of your grandfather," said I, "and that reminds me that you promised to tell me the story of the staircase in the wall."

"So I did," answered Yolanda, haltingly. Her attention was at the other end of the room.

"Do you think Twonette a very pretty girl?" she asked.

"Yes," I answered, surprised at the abrupt question. I caught a glimpse of Yolanda's face and saw that I had made a mistake, so I continued hastily: "That is--yes--yes, she is pretty, though not beautiful. Her face, I think, is rather dollish. It is a fine creation in pink and white, but I fear it lacks animation."

"Now for the stairway in the wall," said Yolanda, settling herself with the pretty little movements peculiar to her when she was contented. "As I told you, grandfather built it. Afterward he ceded Peronne to King Louis, and for many years none of our family ever saw the castle. A few years ago King Louis ceded it to my father. Father has never lived here, and has visited Peronne only once in a while, for the purpose of looking after his affairs on the French border. The castle is very strong, and, being here on the border at the meeting of the Somme and the Cologne, it has endured many sieges, but it has never been taken. It is called 'Peronne La Pucelle.'

"Father's infrequent visits to the castle have been brief, and all who have ever known of the stairway are dead or have left Burgundy, save the good people in this house, my mother, my tire-woman, and myself. Three or four years ago, when I was a child, mother and I, unhappy at Ghent and an annoyance to father, came here to live in the castle, and--and--I wonder what Sir Max and Twonette find to talk about--and Twonette and I became friends. I love Twonette dearly, but she is a sly creature, for all she is so demure, and she is bolder than you would think, Sir Karl.

These very demure girls are often full of surprises. She has been sitting there in the shadow with Sir Max for half an hour. That, I say, would be bold in any girl. Well, to finish about the staircase: my bedroom, as I told you, was my grandfather's. One day Twonette was visiting me, and we--we--Sir Max, what in the world are you and Twonette talking about? We can't hear a word you say."

"We can't hear what you are saying," retorted Max.

"I wish you were young, Sir Karl," whispered Yolanda, "so that I might make him jealous."

"Shall we come to you?" asked Max.

"No, no, stay where you are," cried Yolanda; then, turning to me, "Where did I stop?"

"Your bedroom--" I suggested.

"Yes--my bedroom was my grandfather's. One day I had Twonette in to play with me, and we rummaged every nook and corner we could reach. By accident we discovered the movable panel. We pushed it aside, and spurring our bravery by daring each other, we descended the dark stairway step by step until we came suddenly against the oak panel at the foot. We grew frightened and cried aloud for help. Fortunately, Tante Castleman was on the opposite side of the panel in the oak room, and--and--"

She had been halting in the latter part of her narrative and I plainly saw what was coming.

"Tante Castleman was--was--It was fortunate she--was in--" She sprang to her feet, exclaiming: "I'm going to tell Twonette what I think of her boldness in sitting there in the dark with Sir Max. Her father is not here to do it." And that was the last I heard of the stairway in the wall.

Yolanda ran across the room to the bench by the fireplace and stamped her foot angrily before Twonette.

"It--it is immodest for a girl to sit here in the deep shadow beside a gentleman for hours together. Shame, Twonette! Your father is not here to correct you."

Castleman had left the room.

Twonette laughed, rose hurriedly, and stood by Yolanda in front of Max.

Yolanda, by way of apology, took Twonette's hand, but after a few words she coolly appropriated her place "in the deep shadow beside a gentleman." A princess enjoys many privileges denied to a burgher girl.

When a girl happens to be both, the burgher girl is apt to be influenced by the princess, as the princess is apt to be modified by the life of the burgher girl. Presently Yolanda said:--

"Please go, Twonette, and mix a bowl of wine and honey. Yours is delicious. Put in a bit of allspice, Twonette, and pepper, beat it well, Twonette, and don't spare the honey. Now there's a good girl. Go quickly, but don't hurry back. Haste, you know, Twonette, makes waste, and you may spoil the wine."

Twonette laughed and went to mix the wine and honey. I walked back to the other end of the room, and sat down by a window to watch the night gather without. I was athrill with the delightful thought that, all unknown to the world, unknown even to himself, Max, through my instrumentality, was wooing Mary of Burgundy within fifty feet of where I sat. He was not, of course, actively pressing his suit, but all unconsciously he was taking the best course to win her heart forever and ever. Now, with a propitious trick of fortune, my fantastic dream, conceived in far-off Styria, might yet become a veritable fact. By what rare trick this consummation might be brought about, I did not know, but fortune had been kind so far, and I felt that her capricious ladyship would not abandon us.

Yolanda turned to Max with a soft laugh of satisfaction, settled her skirts about her, as a pleased woman is apt to do, and said contentedly:--

"There, now!"

"Fraulein, you are very kind to me," said Max.

"Yes--yes, I am, Sir Max," she responded, beaming on him. "Now, tell me what you and Twonette have been talking about."

"You," answered Max.

A laugh gurgled in her throat as she asked:--

"What else?"

"I'll tell you if you will tell me what you and Sir Karl were saying,"

he responded.

"Ah, I see!" she exclaimed, clapping her hands gleefully. "You were jealous."

"I admit it," he answered, so very seriously that one might have thought him in earnest. "And you, Fraulein?"

"I jealous?" she responded, with lifted eyebrows. "You are a vain man, Sir Max. I was not jealous--only--only a tiny bit--so much--" and she measured the extent of her jealousy on the pink tip of her little finger. "I am told you were falconing with the Duke of Burgundy to-day.

If you go in such fine company, I fear we shall see little of you."

"There is no company finer than--than--" Max checked his tongue.

"Say it, Max, say it," she whispered coaxingly, leaning toward him.

"Than you, Fraulein." The girl leaned back contentedly against the wall, and Max continued: "Yes, his lordship was kind to me, and most gracious.

I cannot believe the stories of cruelty I hear of him. I have been told that on different occasions he has used personal violence on his wife and daughter. If that be true, he must be worse than the brutes of the field, but you may be sure, Yolanda, the stories are false."

"Alas! I fear they are too true," responded the girl, sighing in memory of the afternoon.

"He is a pleasing companion when he wishes to be," said Max, "and I hear his daughter, the princess, is much like him."

"Heavens!" exclaimed Yolanda, "I hope she is like him only when he is pleasing."

"That is probably true," said Max.

"There is where I am really jealous, Max--this princess--" she said, leaning forward and looking up into his face with unmistakable earnestness.

"Why?" asked Max, laughing.

"Because men love wealth and high estate. There are scores of men--at least, so I have been told--eager to marry this princess, who do not even know that she is not hideous to look upon and vixenish in temper.

They would take her gladly, with any deformity, physical, mental, or moral, for the sake of possessing Burgundy."

"But I am told she is fair and beautiful," said Max.

"Believe it not," said Yolanda, sullenly. "Whoever heard of a rich princess who was not beautiful? Anne and Joan, daughters of King Louis, are always spoken of as paragons of beauty; yet those who know tell me these royal ladies are hideous. King Louis has nicknamed Joan 'The Owlet' because she is little, ill-shapen, and black. Anne is tall, large of bone, fat, and sallow. He should name her 'The Giantess of Beaujeu'; and the little half-witted Dauphin he should dub 'Knight of the Princely Order of House Rats.'"

That she was deeply in earnest there could be no doubt.