he moment.

"I suppose you are right," sighed Max, speaking gently, though with
decision. "But that duty I'll shirk, and try to make amends in other
ways. I shall never marry. That, Karl, you may depend upon. Styria may
go at my death to Albert of Austria, or to his issue."

"No, no! Max," I cried. He ignored my interruption.

"Along with the countless duties that fall to the lot of a prince are a
few that one owes to himself as a man. There are some sacrifices a man
has no right to inflict upon himself, even for the sake of his family,
his ancestors, or his state." He paused for the space of a minute, and,
dropping his words slowly, continued in a low voice vibrant with
emotion: "There is but one woman, Karl, whom I may marry with God's
pleasure. Her, I may not even think upon; she is as far from me as if
she were dead. I must sacrifice her for the sake of the obligations and
conditions into which I was born; but--" here he hesitated, rose slowly
to his feet, and lifted his hands above his head, "but I swear before
the good God, who, in His wisdom, inflicted the curse of my birth upon
me, that I will marry no other woman than this, let the result be
what it may."

He sank back into the chair and fell forward on the table, burying his
face in his arms. His heart for the moment was stronger than his
resolution.

"That question is settled," thought I. No power save that of the Pope
could absolve the boy from his oath, and I knew that the power of ten
score of popes could not move him from its complete fulfilment. The oath
of Maximilian of Hapsburg, whose heart had never coined a lie, was as
everlasting as the rocks of his native land and, like Styria's mountain
peaks, pierced the dome of heaven.

If Yolanda were not the princess, our journeying to Burgundy had been in
vain, and our sojourn in Peronne was useless and perilous. It could not
be brought to a close too quickly. But (the question mark seems at times
to be the greatest part of life) if Yolanda were Mary of Burgundy, Max
had, beyond doubt, already won the lady's favor, unless she were a
wanton snare for every man's feet. That hypothesis I did not entertain
for a moment. I knew little of womankind, but my limited knowledge told
me that Yolanda was true. Her heart was full of laughter,--a rare, rich
heritage,--and she was little inclined to look on the serious side of
life if she could avoid it; but beneath all there was a real Yolanda,
with a great, tender