I was especially anxious that Max should devote himself
to Twonette, but, as I had expected, Yolanda’s
attractions were far too great to be resisted.
There was a slight Walloon accent in her French and
German (we all spoke both languages) that gave to
her voice an exquisite cadence. I spoke to her
in Walloonish, and she was so pleased that she seemed
to nestle toward me. In the midst of an animated
conversation she suddenly became silent, and I saw
her watching Max’s hand. I thought she was
looking at his ring. It was the one that Mary
of Burgundy had given him.
YOLANDA THE SORCERESS
Several days passed, during which we saw the Castlemans
frequently. One evening after supper, when we
were all sitting in the parlor, Yolanda enticed Max
to an adjoining room, on the excuse of showing him
an ancient piece of tapestry. When it had been
examined, she seated herself on a window bench and
indicated a chair for Max near by. Among much
that was said I quote the following from memory, as
Max told me afterward:—
“So you are from Italy, Sir Max?” queried
Yolanda, stealing a glance at his ring.
“Yes,” returned Max.
“From what part, may I ask?” continued
the girl, with a slight inclination of her head to
one side and a flash from beneath the preposterously
long lashes toward his hand.
“From—from Rome,” stammered
Max, halting at even so small a lie.
“Ah, Sir Karl said you were from Lombardy,”
answered the girl.
“Well—that is—originally,
perhaps, I was,” he returned.
“Perhaps your family lives in both places?”
she asked very seriously.
“Yes, that is the way of it,” he responded.
“Were you born in both places?” asked
Yolanda, without the shadow of a smile. Max was
thinking of the little lie he was telling and did not
analyze her question.
“No,” he answered, in simple honesty,
“you see I could not be born in two places.
That would be impossible.”
“Perhaps it would be,” replied Yolanda,
with perfect gravity. Max was five years her
senior, but he was a boy, while she had the self-command
of a quick-witted woman, though she still retained
the saucy impertinence of childhood. Slow-going,
guileless Max began to suspect a lurking intention
on Yolanda’s part to quiz him.
“Did not Sir Karl say something about your having
been born in Styria?” asked the girl, glancing
slyly at the ring.
“No, he did not,” answered Max, emphatically.
“I suppose I was born in Rome—no,
I mean Lombardy—but it cannot matter much
to you, Fraeulein, where I was born if I do not wish
to tell.”
The direct course was as natural to Max as breathing.
The girl was startled by his abruptness. After
a pause she continued:—
“I am sure you are not ashamed of your birthplace,
and—”
He interrupted her sharply:—
