ssive natural heat of his blood he
drank nothing but water. His Grace was restless; and, although there was
no lack of courtesy, I fancied he did not wish us to remain. So after
our cups were emptied I asked permission to depart. The duke acquiesced
by rising, and said, turning to Max:--

"May we not try our new hawk together this afternoon?"

"With pleasure, Your Grace," responded Max.

"Then we'll meet at Cambrai Gate near the hour of two," said the duke.

"I thank Your Grace," said Max, bowing.

On our way back to the inn, I told Max of my meeting with the princess,
and remarked upon her resemblance to Yolanda.

"You imagined the resemblance, Karl. There can be but one Yolanda in the
world," said Max. "Her Highness, perhaps, is of Yolanda's complexion and
stature,--so Yolanda has told me,--and your imagination has furnished
the rest."

"Perhaps that is true," said I, fearing that I had already spoken too
freely.

So my great riddle was at last solved! The Fates had answered when I
"gave it up." I was so athrill with the sweet assurance that Yolanda was
the princess that I feared my secret would leap from my eyes or spring
unbidden from my lips.

I cast about in my mind for Yolanda's reasons in wishing to remain
Yolanda to Max, and I could find none save the desire to win his heart
as a burgher girl. That, indeed, would be a triumph. She knew that every
marriageable prince in Europe coveted her wealth and her estates. The
most natural desire that she or any girl could have would be to find a
worthy man who would seek her for her own sake. As Yolanda, she offered
no inducement save herself. The girl was playing a daring game, and
a wise one.

True, there appeared to be no possibility that she could ever have Max
for her husband, even should she win his heart as Yolanda. In view of
the impending and apparently unavoidable French marriage, the future
held no hope. But when her day of wretchedness should come, she would,
through all her life, take comfort from the sweetest joy a woman can
know--that the man she loved loved her because she was her own fair
self, and for no other reason. There would, of course, be the sorrow of
regret, but that is passive, while the joy of memory is ever active.

When Max and I had departed, the duke turned to Hymbercourt and said:--

"The bishop's letter is not sufficiently direct. It is my desire to
inform King Louis that this marriage shall take place at once--now!
_Now_!