e Somme--within eight leagues of
Peronne--we halted for supper, very tired and weary. While supper was
preparing, we held a consultation, and determined to rest there for the
night. I advised against this course, believing that the duke would pass
that way on his road from Ghent to Peronne. But Yolanda's sweet face
was pinched by weariness, and Twonette was sound asleep. Our horses, I
feared, might fail, and leave us hopelessly in the lurch. Therefore, I
gave the command to offsaddle, and we halted at the inn for the night.

Our host told me his house was full of guests who had arrived two hours
before, but he found a room for Yolanda and Twonette, and told Max and
me to sleep, if we could, on the tap-room floor. After an hour on the
hard boards I went to the stable, and, rousing a groom, gave him a
silver crown for the privilege of sleeping on a wisp of hay. I fell
asleep at once and must have slept like the dead, for the dawn was
breaking when one of our squires wakened me. I could not believe that I
had been sleeping five minutes, but the dim morning light startled me,
and I ordered the horses saddled.

I hastened to the inn and wakened Max, to whose well-covered bones a
board was as soft as a feather bed. While I was speaking to him, I heard
a noise in an adjoining room and saw the door opening. Max and I barely
escaped through an open arch when a commanding figure clad in light
armor entered the tap-room.

I had not seen Charles of Burgundy since he was a boy--he was then Count
of Charolois--but I at once knew with terrifying certainty that I looked
on the most dreaded man in Europe. He had changed greatly since I last
had seen him. He was then beardless; now he wore a beard that reached
almost to his belt, and I should not have recognized in him the young
Count of Charolois. There was, however, no doubt in my mind concerning
his identity.

Even had I failed to see the angry scar on his neck, of which I had
often heard, or had I failed to note the lack of upper teeth (a fact
known to all Europe) which gave his face an expression of savagery, I
should have recognized him by his mien. There was not another man like
him in all the world, and I trust there never will be. His face wore an
expression of ferocity that was almost brutal. The passions of anger,
arrogance, and hatred were marked on every feature; but over all there
was the stamp of an almost superhuman strength, the impress of an iron
will, the expressio