“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 me the sweet memory,” said the girl, carried away by the swirling impulse of her heart.

“You will not need it,” answered Max.  “Your lot will be different from mine.”

“Yes, it will be different, Max—­it will be worse,” she cried passionately, almost in tears.  “I think I shall kill myself when you leave Burgundy.”  She paused and turned fiercely upon him, “Give me the promise I ask.  I demand at least that consolation as my right—­as a poor return for what you take from me.”

Max gently took her hand, which was at once lost in his great clasp.

“Fraeulein, I will not leave Burgundy within a month, whatever the consequences may be,” he said tenderly.

“Upon your honor?” she asked, joyously clapping her hands.

“Every promise I make, Fraeulein, is on my honor,” said Max, seriously.

“So it is, Little Max, so it is,” she answered gently.  Then they rose and came to the table where Castleman and I were sitting.

Yolanda had gained her point and was joyful over her victory.

Frau Katherine was asleep in a high-backed chair.  Twonette slept in a corner of the arbor, her flaxen head embowered in a cluster of leaves and illumined by a stray beam of moonlight that stole between the vines.

“I am going in now.  Come, Twonette,” said Yolanda, shaking that plump young lady to arouse her.  “Come, Twonette.”

Twonette slowly opened her big blue eyes, but she was slower in awakening.

“Twonette!  Twonette!” cried Yolanda, pulling at the girl’s hand.  “I declare, if you don’t resist this growing drowsiness you will go down in history as the ‘Eighth Sleeper,’ and will be left snoring on resurrection morn.”

When Twonette had awakened sufficiently to walk, we started from the arbor to the house.  As we passed from beneath the vines, the frowning wall of the castle and the dark forms of its huge towers, silhouetted in black against the moon-lit sky, formed a picture of fierce and sombre gloom not soon to be forgotten.

“The dark, frowning castle reminds one of its terrible lord,” said Max, looking up at the battlements.

“It does, indeed,” answered Yolanda, hardly above a whisper.  Then we went into the house.

“We hope to see you again for supper to-morrow evening, don’t we, uncle?” said Yolanda, addressing Max and me, and turning to Castleman.