“What is that to you?” I asked, putting on a bold front, though I feared our mule-leaders would make but a sorry fight should we come to blows.

“That depends on what you have,” responded our swart friend, coolly.  “Whatever you have, so much it is to us.”

“What will you take in gold, my good man, and let us go our way in peace with our cargo of silks?” asked Castleman.

“By your leave, friend,” said I, interrupting the negotiations, “I am in command when fighting is to be done.  Let me settle with this fellow.”

“Settle now, if you are so keen,” cried the big German, drawing his sword and spurring his horse upon me.  I could not have withstood the unexpected onrush, and certainly would have met with hard blows or worse, had not Max come to my rescue.  I hurriedly stepped back, and the German, in following me, rode near a large stone by the roadside.  He had, doubtless, passed the stone many times in his travels up and down the road, but the thought probably had never occurred to him that it would be the cause of his death.  The most potential facts in our lives are usually too insignificant to attract attention.

When the German charged me, Max sprang upon the stone and dealt the swart ruffian a blow such as no man may survive.  Max’s great battle-axe crushed the Black Eider’s helmet as if it were an egg-shell, and the captain of our foes fell backward, hanging by his stirrups.  One of our squires shot one of the robbers, and the remaining three took flight.  Max caught the captain’s horse, and coolly extricated the dead man’s feet from the stirrups.  Then he thrust the body to the roadside with the indifference of a man whose life has been spent in slaughter.  Among his many inheritances, Max probably had taken this indifference, together with his instinctive love of battle.  He was not quarrelsome, but he took to a fight as naturally as a duck takes to water.

When the robbers had left, Yolanda came running from her hiding-place.  She was not frightened; she was aglow with excitement.  She, too, must have inherited the love of battle.  Twonette was trembling with fear.

“Ah, Sir Max, it was beautifully done,” said Yolanda.  “You sprang upon the rock with the quickness of a panther, and the blow was dealt with the strength of a lion.  I saw it all.  When your battle-axe rose above the robber’s head, death was written on the steel.  It was beautiful to see you kill him, Sir Max.  Strength is always beautiful in the eyes of a woman, but it is doubly so when used in her defence and linked with ‘wise bravery.’  I thank you, Sir Karl, for teaching me that word.  Sir Max, I—­I cannot thank you now.”

She stopped speaking and covered her face with her hands.  In a moment she partly recovered composure and smiled her gratitude through a little shower of tears.  Max was, of course, aglow with pleasure at Yolanda’s praise, but he bore his honors meekly.  He did not look upon his tremendous feat of arms as of much importance.