“It is strange,” said Max, “that
news of merely a general nature should produce so
gloomy an effect; but, if you heard all that De Rose
said, that must be the only cause.”
“I cannot say,” I responded, “what
the cause may be. All I know is that De Rose
spoke of the impending war, and said that the duke
was hastening to Peronne for the purpose of consummating
the French marriage at once. There is now no
reason why we should journey to Peronne. My air-castles
have crumbled about my ears in fine shape.”
“I am not sorry, Karl,” replied Max.
“During the last fortnight I have changed.
Should my marriage with the princess, by any marvellous
chance, become possible, it would now be wholly for
the sake of her estates, and I despise myself when
I try to think that I wish to bring it about.
Ah, Karl, it is now impossible even to hope for this
marriage, and I tell you I am glad of it. We
will see the world, then we will return to Styria;
and I shall thank you all my life for having made a
man of me.”
DUKE CHARLES THE RASH
Our caravan travelled with the mournfulness of a funeral
procession. Early in the evening Max spoke to
Yolanda:—
“I hear your uncle desires Sir Karl and me to
leave you at Metz.”
“Yes,” she answered dolefully, hanging
her head, “we part at Metz. I shall see
you there before I leave, and then—and then—ah,
Sir Max, I was wrong and you were right; there is
no hope.”
“What of the lady who gave me the ring?”
asked Max, in a feeble effort to banter her.
“She would have made you very happy, Sir Max.
Her estates would have compensated for all losses
elsewhere.”
“You know, that is not true, Yolanda,”
said Max, earnestly.
“I am not sure, Sir Max,” responded the
girl, “and do not wish to be sure. I will
see you at Metz, and there we may part. It is
our fate. We must not be doleful, Sir Max, we
must be—we must be—happy and
brave.” Her poor little effort to be happy
and brave was piteous.
Castleman soon fell back with Yolanda, and Max rode
forward beside me.
At midnight we offsaddled by a stream in a forest
and allowed our horses and mules to rest until sunrise.
Then we took up our journey again, and by forced marches
reached Metz one morning an hour before dawn.
We waited in a drizzling rain till the gates opened,
and, after a long parley with the warder, entered
the city. We were all nearly exhausted, and our
poor mules staggered along the streets hardly able
to carry their burdens another step. Two had
fallen a half-league outside of Metz; and three others
fell with their loads within the city gates.
Castleman had determined to stop with a merchant friend,
and after what seemed a long journey from the gates
we halted at the merchant’s house. Our
host left us in his parlor while he went to arrange
for breakfast. When he had gone Castleman turned
to me:—
