"It is strange," said I to Castleman, when Yolanda and Twonette had left us, "that Fräulein Yolanda, who seems to be all laughter and thoughtlessness, should be so well informed upon the affairs of princes and princesses, and should take this public matter so much to heart."
"Yes, she is a strange, unfortunate girl," answered Castleman, "and truly loves her native land. She would, I believe, be another Joan of Arc, had she the opportunity. She and her father do not at all agree. He wholly fails to comprehend her."
"Is her father your brother?" I asked. I felt a sense of impertinence in putting the question, but my curiosity was irresistible.
"Yes," answered Castleman, hesitatingly; then, as if hurrying from the subject, he continued, "Her mother is dead, and the girl lives chiefly under my roof."
I wanted to ask other questions concerning Yolanda, but I kept silent. I had begun to suspect that she was not what she passed for--a burgher girl; but Castleman was a straightforward, truthful man, and his words satisfied me. I had, at any rate, to be content with them, since Yolanda's affairs were none of mine. Had I not been sure that Max's training and inheritance gave him a shield against her darts, she and her affairs would have given me deep concern. At that time I had all the match-making impulses of an old woman, and was determined that no woman should step between Max and the far-off, almost impossible Princess of Burgundy.
When we resumed our journey the next morning Yolanda was demure, grave, and serious; but the bright sun soon had its way with her, and within a half-hour after leaving the village she was riding beside Max, laughing, singing, and flashing her eyes upon him with a lustre that dimmed the sun--at least, so Max thought, and probably he was right. That evening Max told me much of Yolanda's conversation.
The road we were travelling clung to the Rhine for several leagues. In many places it was cut from the bank at the water's edge. At others it ran along the brink of beetling precipices. At one of these Max guided his horse close to the brink, and, leaning over in his saddle, looked down the dizzy heights to the river below.
"Please do not ride so near the brink, Sir Max," pleaded Yolanda. "It frightens me."
Max had little of the braggadocio spirit about him, but no rightly constituted young man is entirely devoid of the desire to "show off" in the presence of timid and interesting ladies. Without that spirit of "show-off," what would induce our knights to meet in glorious tournaments? Without it, what would our chivalry amount to? Without it, why should a peacock spread its tail? I do not belittle it, since from this spirit of "show-off" arises one great good--respect for the opinion of our fellow-man. So Max, with a dash of "show-off" in his disposition, laughed at Yolanda's fears and answered that he was in no danger.
"It is very brave in you, Sir Max, to go so near the brink," said Yolanda, ironically, "but do you remember what Sir Karl said concerning 'wise bravery'? There can be no need for your bravery, and therefore no wisdom in it. Were there good reason why you should go near the brink, I should despise you if you refused; but there is no reason and, since it frightens me, I wish you would remain in the road."