ond. But Charles of Burgundy, dubbed by this
prone world "The Bold" and "The Rash," would take the greatest fall. Of
him and his fair daughter I shall speak in this history.

At the time of which I write Louis XI reigned over France, Edward IV
ruled in England, and his sister, the beautiful Margaret of York, was
the unhappy wife of this Charles the Rash, and stepmother to his gentle
daughter Mary. Charles, though only a duke in name, reigned as a most
potent and despotic king over the fair rich land of Burgundy. Frederick
of Styria was head of the great house of Hapsburg, and Count Maximilian,
my young friend and pupil, was his heir.

Of the other rulers of Europe I need not speak, since they will not
enter this narrative. They were all bad enough,--and may God have mercy
on their souls.

* * * * *

Most of the really tragic parts in the great drama of history have been
played by women. This truth I had always dimly known, yet one does not
really know a fact until he feels it. I did not realize the extent to
which these poor women of history have suffered in the matter of
enforced marriages, until the truth was brought home to me in the person
of Mary, Princess of Burgundy, to whose castle, Peronne La Pucelle, my
pupil, Maximilian of Hapsburg, and I made a journey in the year 1476.

My knowledge of this fair lady began in far-off Styria, and there I
shall begin my story.

* * * * *

In times of peace, life in Hapsburg Castle was dull; in times of war it
was doleful. War is always grievous, but my good mistress, the Duchess
of Styria, was ever in such painful dread lest evil should befall her
only child, Maximilian, that the pains of war-time were rendered doubly
keen to those who loved Her Grace.

After Maximilian had reached the fighting age there was too little war
to suit him. Up to his eighteenth year he had thrice gone out to war,
and these expeditions were heart-breaking trials for his mother.
Although tied to his mother's apron strings by bonds of mutual love, he
burned with the fire and ambition of youth; while I, reaching well
toward my threescore years, had almost outlived the lust for strife. Max
longed to spread his wings, but the conditions of his birth held him
chained to the rocks of Styria, on the pinnacle of his family's empty
greatness.

Perched among the mountain crags, our castle was almost impregnable; but
that was its only vir