the first hour of meeting her that the girl's mind was
marvellously keen; but that a maid of seventeen or eighteen, in her
position, should have so firm a grasp of international affairs and
should possess so clear a conception of the troublous situation in
western Europe, astounded me.

In eastern Europe, where we were not blinded by neighborly hatred and
local jealousies, the truth of Yolanda's statement had long been
apparent. We carried our prophecy further and predicted that the
headlong passions of Charles the Rash would soon result in his death or
overthrow.

My point in dragging in this heavy load of political lore is this: In
case of the death of Charles of Burgundy, the future of western Europe
would depend on the brains and the bravery of the man who should marry
the Princess Mary. I felt that Max was chosen of God for that destiny.
Should he succeed in defending Burgundy against France, he would become
the most powerful man in Europe. No event save death could keep him from
achieving the imperial crown.

If the existing treaty of marriage between Mary and the Dauphin of
France were carried out, and if the Dauphin as king should possess
one-half the wisdom of his father, Louis, all western Europe would soon
be France. If this treaty were to fail and the Princess Mary espouse a
man capable of defending her territory, Burgundy would still remain a
wall of protection to the smaller states of the Rhine.

A long silence followed Yolanda's outburst, but her words had so
astonished me that my supper for the evening was finished. Castleman
plied his knife industriously; Yolanda nibbled at a piece of meat
between her dainty fingers, and Twonette gazed serenely out of the
open window.

Yolanda's words and Castleman's constraint filled me with wonder. There
was to me a mystery about this little beauty that had not been touched
on by my friend from Peronne. I hoped to gain information on the point
by inducing Yolanda to talk. She was willing enough.

"Fraeulein," I said, "I quite agree with you. It is a matter of surprise
to me that these noblemen you mention do not see the truth as you
state it."

"They are fools, Sir Karl, sodden fools," exclaimed Yolanda. "You could
buy their souls for a sou. King Louis buys them with an empty promise
of one."

"Why does not Duke Charles buy them?" I asked. "'Tis said he has
enormous quantities of ready gold in Luxembourg Castle."

"Because, Sir Karl," she responded almost