The proposition to part and meet no more was good in theory, but Max found that the suggestion to make a fact of it frightened him.
"Let us not speak of that now," he said. "The parting will come soon enough. You will surely deem me cold and unworthy, Fräulein, but you cannot understand. One may not call a man hard and selfish who plucks out his eye for the sake of a God-imposed duty, or who deliberately thrusts away happiness and accepts a life of misery and heartache because of the chains with which God bound him at his birth."
"Ah, I do understand, Max; I understand only too well," answered the girl.
I have often wondered why Max did not suspect that Yolanda was the Princess Mary; but when I considered that he had not my reasons to lead him to that conclusion, I easily understood his blindness, for even I was unconvinced. Had I not overheard Castleman's conversation with Yolanda on the road to Strasburg, after meeting De Rose, the supposition that the burgher girl travelling unattended with a merchant and his daughter could possibly be the Princess Mary would have been beyond the credence of a sane man. The thought never would have occurred to me. Even with Castleman's words always ringing in my ears, I was constantly in doubt.
"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."