ll tell you my secret. I am
Maximilian of Hapsburg."

"I have known it since the first day I saw you at Basel," answered
Yolanda.

"I have felt sure at times that you did," responded Max, "though I
cannot think how you learned it. Will you tell me of yourself?"

The girl hung her head and hesitated. Once she lifted her face to speak,
but changed her mind.

"Please don't ask me now. I will tell you soon, but not now, not now. Be
patient with me. I do pity you. I do, I do. If we could help each
other--but we cannot, and there is no use longing for it. I sometimes
fear that your attitude is the right one, and that it is best that we
should part and meet no more."

The proposition to part and meet no more was good in theory, but Max
found that the suggestion to make a fact of it frightened him.

"Let us not speak of that now," he said. "The parting will come soon
enough. You will surely deem me cold and unworthy, Fraeulein, but you
cannot understand. One may not call a man hard and selfish who plucks
out his eye for the sake of a God-imposed duty, or who deliberately
thrusts away happiness and accepts a life of misery and heartache
because of the chains with which God bound him at his birth."

"Ah, I do understand, Max; I understand only too well," answered the
girl.

I have often wondered why Max did not suspect that Yolanda was the
Princess Mary; but when I considered that he had not my reasons to lead
him to that conclusion, I easily understood his blindness, for even I
was unconvinced. Had I not overheard Castleman's conversation with
Yolanda on the road to Strasburg, after meeting De Rose, the supposition
that the burgher girl travelling unattended with a merchant and his
daughter could possibly be the Princess Mary would have been beyond the
credence of a sane man. The thought never would have occurred to me.
Even with Castleman's words always ringing in my ears, I was
constantly in doubt.

"There is no reason why one should deliberately hasten the day of one's
thralldom," said Yolanda, softly. "If one may be free and happy for an
hour without breaking those terrible chains of God's welding, is he not
foolish to refuse the small benediction? The memory of it may sweeten
the years to come."

"To woman, such a memory is sweet," answered Max, striving to steel his
heart against the girl. "To men, it is a bitter regret."

To me he had spoken differently of his pain.

"Then be generous, Little Max, and give