“You have also brought me happiness, Yolanda, and I shall be wretched when your father takes you from me.  Twonette is not dearer to me than you.  Whatever befalls, I shall still thank God for the happiness He has given me in you.”

“Ah, uncle, your kind words almost break my heart,” said Yolanda, placing her kerchief to her eyes.  “I wish you would not forgive me for having brought you into this hard case.  I wish you would upbraid me.  I will pray to the Blessed Virgin night and day to protect you from this trouble my wilfulness has brought upon you.  Never again will I be wilful, dear uncle, never again—­with you.  At Strasburg I will make an offering to the Virgin.”

“Make her an offering of this young man on whom you are smiling,” suggested Castleman.  “I would have left him at Basel but for your wilfulness and entreaties.  We know nothing of him save that he is big, honest, brave, gentle, and good to look upon.  I have already warned you against the great favor you show him.  I shall not do so again.  I advise that we leave him at Metz.”

“I will do as you advise,” said Yolanda, mournfully.  “I will offer even this, my first great happiness, to the Virgin.  Surely it will propitiate her.”

This conversation almost deprived me of the power to think.  In a dimly conscious fashion, I wondered whether Castleman could possibly have meant the Duke of Burgundy when he told Yolanda that her father would soon be at Peronne.  I could find no other meaning for his words, and I was almost ready to believe that the brown-eyed, laughing Yolanda was none other than the far-famed Mary of Burgundy, whose tiny hand was sought by every nation of Europe having a marriageable king or prince.

Kings in their dotage and princes in their nonage wooed her.  Old men and babes eagerly sought the favor of this young girl, and stood ready to give their gold, their blood, and the lives of their subjects on even the shadow of a chance to win her.  The battle-field and the bower alike had been wooing-ground for her smiles.  After all this, she had been affianced to the Dauphin of France, and her father would bring the marriage about within a few weeks.  To this girl I had thought to be gracious, and had feared that I might be too condescending.  I then realized what a pitiable ass a man may make of himself by giving his whole time and attention to the task.

Of course I was not sure that Yolanda was the princess.  Her father, spoken of by Castleman, might be, and probably was, a great lord in the duke’s train.  Yolanda might be the love-daughter of Charles of Burgundy.  Many explanations might be given to Castleman’s remarks; but I could not help believing that Yolanda was the far-famed Burgundian princess.  If so, what a marvellous romance was this journey that Max and I had undertaken, and what a fantastic trick fate had played in bringing these two from the ends of the earth to meet in the quaint old Swiss city.  It seemed almost as if their souls had journeyed toward each other, since the beginning of time.