WHO IS YOLANDA?
Next morning Yolanda came to breakfast smiling, bedimpled, and sparkling as a sunlit mountain brook. Max, who was gloomy, took her sprightliness amiss, thinking, no doubt, that her life also ought to be darkened by the cloud that he thought was over-shadowing him. There was no doubt in my mind that Yolanda had inspired a deep and lasting passion in Max, though he was, I hoped, mistaken in the belief that it would darken his life. But I would not give a kreutzer for a young fellow who does not feel that life is worthless without his lady-love.
Yolanda did not take kindly to clouds of any sort, and she soon scattered those that Max had conjured up. After we had resumed our journey Max fell back to ride with her.
"Sir Max," she said, "if you allow yourself to become The Knight Doleful, I will not only cease having speech with you, but I will laugh at you."
The latter she did then and there. This from a burgher girl of Peronne to a prince of the House of Hapsburg! The good duke and duchess would have swooned with horror had they known of it. Max was inclined to be angry, but, unfortunately for his ill-humor, he caught a glimpse of her face, and he, too, laughed.
"I fear I am a great fool," he said. Yolanda did not contradict him. She simply shrugged her shoulders as if to say, "That unfortunate condition is apt, at times, to overtake the best of men."
Soon our little cavalcade came together, and we rode, laughing, and all talking at once, for a league or more.
Our road had parted from the river at one of its great bends, and for an hour we had been slowly climbing a long hill. When we reached the top, we unsaddled for dinner in the shade of a tree by the wayside. A hundred yards from the road was a dense copse of undergrowth and bushes on the edge of the forest. Off to the east flowed the majestic Rhine, a league distant, and to the north ran the road like a white ribbon, stretching downhill to the valley and up again to the top of another hill, distant perhaps a half-league.
While we were eating dinner, a cloud of dust arose from the hilltop north of us, and immediately began descending in our direction. At intervals, in the midst of the dust-cloud, we caught glimpses of men on horseback riding at full gallop. This unwelcome sight brought our dinner to an end. I at once ordered the sumpter mules taken to the copse on the forest's edge, and directed every man to look to his arms and armor. I asked Twonette and Yolanda to go with the mules, and Yolanda became angry.
"I go with the mules? Sir Karl, you forget yourself," cried the young lady, drawing herself up with the dignity of a princess royal. Twonette ran as rapidly as her feet could take her to seek refuge with the mules, but Yolanda, with flashing eyes, declared:
"I will remain here."
I felt that an apology was due to this burgher girl.
"I will gladly apologize later, Fräulein, but now I have only time to beg that you will conceal yourself. These men probably are robbers. If they see you, we shall be compelled to fight them, however great their numbers. If we find their force too large for us, we may easily ransom the mules and their packs, but we could make no terms for you. If they are Black Riders, they will prefer a little gold to a great deal of silk, but they will prefer you and Fräulein Twonette to a great deal of gold."
"I would not pay them one piece of gold," cried Yolanda, defiantly. "Give me an arquebuse. I will help you fight."
The brave little heroine astonished me.
"Would you prefer that Max or your good uncle and perhaps some of our poor mule-leaders should be killed by these pigstickers," I asked, "or would you compound with them in some reasonable way? Shall we fight them?"
"No, no," she answered, "wise bravery is better. I suppose I shall learn the lesson some day."
While the troop of horsemen were under the crest of the hill, Yolanda ran across the open to a place of concealment beside Twonette. Hardly was she hidden when the dust-cloud rose from the brink of the hill, and five men, well though roughly armed, galloped up to us and drew their horses back upon their haunches.
"What have we here?" demanded the captain, a huge German. Their grimy armor and bearded faces besmeared with black marked them as Black Riders. I was overjoyed to see that they numbered but five.
"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.
Fearing the return of the Schwartreiter with reënforcements, we lost no time in resuming our journey, Max and Yolanda quickly finished their dinner, but Castleman, Twonette, and myself did not care to eat.
Within ten minutes after Max had killed the captain of the Black Riders we were on our road travelling downhill, very joyful in our victory and very proud of our knight, Sir Max. We left the dead men by the roadside, but took with us two fine horses as compensation for our trouble. The captain's great charger Max appropriated for his own. He will appear again in this chronicle.
We rode silently but joyfully. Twonette slowly recovered from her fright, and the pink crept back to her cheeks. The pink had not left Yolanda's cheeks, nor had her nerves been disturbed by the adventures of the morning. Max tried hard to suppress his exuberance of spirit, and Yolanda laved him in the sunshine of her smiles.
Within three hours we were safely housed at a village by the Rhine. Castleman, finding me alone, said:--
"You, Sir Karl, and Sir Max little know the value of the friend you have made this day."
"I thank you, good Castleman," I answered, hardly liking so great an air of condescension on the part of a burgher. An afterthought suggested that perhaps Castleman had not referred to himself as the friend we had made. Strange thoughts and speculations had of late been swarming in my mind until they had almost taken the form of a refrain, "Who is Yolanda?" Though the question repeated itself constantly by day and by night, I received no whisper of an answer.
We travelled slowly, and it was not until the second day after our conflict with the Black Riders that we found ourselves near Strasburg. A league from the city gates we met Raoul de Rose, a herald of the Duke of Burgundy. Yolanda recognized his banner at a distance and hastily veiled herself. Twonette remained unveiled.
We halted, and De Rose, who was travelling alone, safe under a herald's privileges, drew rein beside Castleman and me, who had been riding in advance of our cavalcade. While Castleman was talking to De Rose, Yolanda and Twonette rode forward, passing on that side of the highway which left Castleman and me between them and the herald.
"Ah, good Castleman," said De Rose, "you are far from home these troublous times."
"Your words imply bad news, monsieur," returned Castleman. "I have already heard hints of trouble, though all was quiet when I left Peronne."
"When did you leave?" asked the herald.
"More than two months ago," answered Castleman.
"With our rapidly moving duke, two months is ample time to make a deal of trouble, to gain victories, and to compel peace among his quarrelsome neighbors," answered De Rose. "It is publicly known that I carry defiance to the Swiss. They cannot comply with Burgundy's terms, and war will surely follow. Our duke will teach these Swiss sheep to stop bleating, and when this war is finished, the dominion of Burgundy will include the Alps. Duke Charles will have fresh ice for his dinner every day--ice from the mountain tops."
"That is all he will get from the barren Swiss land, I fear," remarked Castleman.
"But if he wants it?" answered De Rose, shrugging his shoulders.
"Yes," returned Castleman, "if the duke wants it, God give it him; but I am sorry to see war with so peaceful a people as the Swiss."
"There are many persons in Burgundy foolish enough to agree with you," answered De Rose, laughingly, "but for my part, the will of my master is my will."
"Amen!" said the cautious burgher.
De Rose smiled, and said:--
"There is but one will in Burgundy, and that will be done."
"Where is the duke?" asked Castleman.
"He is at home in Ghent," answered the herald.
"Is he to remain there?" asked the burgher, displaying a sudden interest.
"I believe he goes soon to Peronne to look after his affairs, on the French border, and to see the duchess and the princess before leaving for Switzerland. It is also publicly known that the duke, while at Peronne, intends to arrange for the immediate marriage of the princess to the Dauphin. He wishes to tie the hands of King Louis before making war elsewhere, and he is going to Peronne to cause this marriage to be celebrated before he leaves Burgundy."
"Sacred God!" exclaimed the usually phlegmatic burgher. "We must hasten home. Farewell, Monsieur de Rose. Your news indeed is bad--your news of war."
Castleman urged "Last Week" to an unwonted pace, and drew rein beside Yolanda. I followed slowly, and unintentionally overhead him say:--
"Your father will soon be in Peronne. The duke leaves Ghent within a day or two."
"Holy Virgin!" cried Yolanda, excitedly. "We must make all haste, good uncle. Hereafter we must travel night and day. We must double our retinue at Strasburg and hasten forward regardless of danger and fatigue. I wish we were across Lorraine and well out of Metz. If this war begins, Lorraine will surely turn upon Burgundy."
"I begged you not to come upon this journey," said Castleman, complainingly.
"I know you did, uncle," returned Yolanda, repentantly.
"But you would come," continued Castleman, determined to give vent to his feelings. "I could not dissuade you, and now if the duke leaves Ghent--if your father reaches Peronne--before we return, God help us all."
"Yes, dear uncle," said Yolanda, humbly; "as usual, I was at fault. I have been a source of trouble and danger to you nearly all my life, and you, of all persons in the world, I would make happy."
I was riding ten paces behind Castleman, but the wind came toward me, and I was an involuntary listener. What I had heard was of such tremendous import to Max that I could not bring myself to rein back my horse, though I despised myself for listening. I believe that moment was, of all my life, the greatest test of my love for Max. No less a motive could have induced me to become an eavesdropper. Castleman was silent for a short time, and then I heard him say:--
"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.
That the princess should be abroad with Castleman and his daughter unattended by even a lady-in-waiting seemed improbable--almost impossible.
My wavering mind veered with each moment from the conviction that Yolanda was the princess to a feeling of certainty that she was not, and back again. That she was the princess seemed at one moment indubitably true; the next moment it appeared absurdly impossible. Still, Castleman's words rang in my ears.
I was glad that Max was riding a hundred yards behind me. My first determination was that he should know nothing of what I had heard. My second was that he and I should leave the party at Metz. If I were to disclose to Max my suspicions concerning Yolanda, I well knew that it would be beyond my power or that of any man to prevent his journeying to Peronne.
This meeting with the princess far from home, one might suppose, was the event of all others that I desired, but the situation presented many points to be considered. If we should conduct Yolanda to Peronne and should reach that city after the duke's arrival, there would be untold trouble for us, if (oh, that mighty if!) she were the Princess Mary. I was thoroughly frightened, since I could not know what trouble I might bring to Max. We might, with comparative safety, visit Peronne at a later period; but I sincerely hoped that Yolanda would offer Max to the Virgin when we reached Metz.
If Yolanda were the princess, and if the duke with his intentions regarding her immediate marriage, should reach Peronne and find his daughter absent, his wrath against all concerned would be unappeasable. If he should learn that she had been absent from Peronne on this journey, even though she reached home before her father, Castleman would probably lose his head for the crime of taking her, and all concerned in the journey might meet with evil fortune. Any of these catastrophes might occur if she were the princess. If she were not the princess, some other great catastrophe, hinted by Castleman and dreaded by Yolanda, might happen; and it is well for disinterested persons to remain away from the scene of impending trouble.
Aside from all these good reasons for cutting short our journey to Peronne, was the fact that our motive for going there had ceased to exist. The princess was soon to become the wife of the Dauphin. If Yolanda were not the princess, there was still good reason why we should abandon her at Metz. She was dangerously attractive and was gaining too great a hold on Max. We were under contract to escort Castleman to Peronne, and no danger should prevent us from fulfilling our agreement; but if Castleman should voluntarily release us, our obligation would cease.
As we passed under the portcullis at Strasburg, Max spurred his horse to Yolanda's side. She neither lifted her veil nor gave any sign of recognition. The news of impending war had been discussed, and Max supposed Yolanda was frightened. He spoke reassuringly to her, and she answered:--
"I thank you, Sir Max, but our danger is greater than you know."
It was four o'clock when we reached Strasburg, where we stopped at The Cygnet. Soon after we entered the inn, Twonette and Yolanda went forth, heavily veiled, and walked rapidly in the direction of the cathedral. Yolanda was going to make her offering to the Virgin of the man she loved; surely woman could make no greater.
When Yolanda and Twonette had gone, Castleman asked me to assist him in procuring a score of men-at-arms. They might be needed in crossing Lorraine from Strasburg to Metz.
"I shall travel night and day till we reach home," said Castleman. "I have news of war that hastens us, and--and it is most important that Yolanda should deliver certain papers at the castle before the duke arrives at Peronne. If she reaches the castle one hour or one minute after the duke, the results will be evil beyond remedy."
"I sincerely hope there may be no delay," I answered, believing that the papers were an invention of Castleman's.
"Yes," responded the burgher; "and, Sir Karl, I deem it best for all concerned that you and Sir Max part company with us at Metz. I thank you for your services, and hope you will honor us by visiting Peronne at some future time. But now it is best that you leave us to pursue our journey without you."
Castleman's suggestion was most welcome to me, and I communicated it to Max when I returned to the inn. He was sorrowful; but I found that he, too, felt that he should part from Yolanda.
Castleman and I found the burgomaster, to whom we paid five hundred guilders (a sum equal to his entire annual salary), and within an hour a troop of twenty men-at-arms awaited us in the courtyard of The Cygnet. Castleman barely touched his meat at supper, though he drank two bottles of Johannesburg; Max ate little, and I had no appetite whatever.
When Yolanda returned, I said:--
"Fräulein, will you not eat?"
"I do not care to eat," she replied, and I could easily see that she was struggling to keep back the tears. "Let us resume our journey at once. I see the men-at-arms are waiting."
Our rare days of sunshine had surely been weather-breeders. We were all under a dark cloud.
We left Strasburg by the north gate, and, as the city fell back of us, Max, riding by my side, asked:--
"What is the evil news that has cast this gloom over Yolanda and good Castleman? If our friends are in danger, I would not leave them at Metz, and you would not have me do so."
"The evil news grows out of the war," I answered evasively. "I heard every word spoken by the herald and Castleman. The burgher is wise to hasten home. If he delays his journey even for a day, he may find Burgundy--especially Lorraine--swarming with lawless men going to the various rendezvous. He also tells me he has important papers that must be delivered in the castle before the duke arrives at Peronne."
"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."