chances."

Evidently she meant us to know that she sorrowed for Max's martyrdom,
though how she had learned of his true station in life I could
not guess.

"It is strange," said I to Castleman, when Yolanda and Twonette had left
us, "that Fraeulein Yolanda, who seems to be all laughter and
thoughtlessness, should be so well informed upon the affairs of princes
and princesses, and should take this public matter so much to heart."

"Yes, she is a strange, unfortunate girl," answered Castleman, "and
truly loves her native land. She would, I believe, be another Joan of
Arc, had she the opportunity. She and her father do not at all agree. He
wholly fails to comprehend her."

"Is her father your brother?" I asked. I felt a sense of impertinence in
putting the question, but my curiosity was irresistible.

"Yes," answered Castleman, hesitatingly; then, as if hurrying from the
subject, he continued, "Her mother is dead, and the girl lives chiefly
under my roof."

I wanted to ask other questions concerning Yolanda, but I kept silent. I
had begun to suspect that she was not what she passed for--a burgher
girl; but Castleman was a straightforward, truthful man, and his words
satisfied me. I had, at any rate, to be content with them, since
Yolanda's affairs were none of mine. Had I not been sure that Max's
training and inheritance gave him a shield against her darts, she and
her affairs would have given me deep concern. At that time I had all the
match-making impulses of an old woman, and was determined that no woman
should step between Max and the far-off, almost impossible Princess
of Burgundy.

When we resumed our journey the next morning Yolanda was demure, grave,
and serious; but the bright sun soon had its way with her, and within a
half-hour after leaving the village she was riding beside Max, laughing,
singing, and flashing her eyes upon him with a lustre that dimmed the
sun--at least, so Max thought, and probably he was right. That evening
Max told me much of Yolanda's conversation.

The road we were travelling clung to the Rhine for several leagues. In
many places it was cut from the bank at the water's edge. At others it
ran along the brink of beetling precipices. At one of these Max guided
his horse close to the brink, and, leaning over in his saddle, looked
down the dizzy heights to the river below.

"Please do not ride so near the brink, Sir Max," pleaded Yolanda. "It
frightens me."

Max had little of the