“It is the will of our most gracious lord that I announce to the court the impending marriage of Her Grace, the Princess, Mademoiselle de Burgundy, to the princely Dauphin of France, son to our lord’s royal ally, King Louis.  His Grace of Burgundy hopes within three weeks to open his campaign against the Swiss, and it is his intention to cause the marriage ceremony to take place before his departure.  When the details have been arranged, they will be announced to the court.”

The bishop had barely stopped speaking when the shutter in the chancel of the ladies’ gallery above the throne opened, and a voice rang through the vast audience hall, like the tones of an alarm bell:—­

“Make one more announcement, please, my Lord Bishop.  Say that if this wondrous ceremony is to come off within three weeks, the Dauphin of France must be content with a dead bride.”

No one saw the face of the speaker.  The shutter closed, and a deep silence fell upon the room.  The duke sprang angrily to his feet; his face was like a thunder-cloud.  He looked toward the ladies’ gallery, and stood for a moment like the incarnation of wrath.  A puzzled expression followed the glare of anger; and within a moment he laughed, and waved his hands to the heralds, directing them to cry the rising.  The audience was dismissed, and the courtiers left the hall, laughing in imitation of their lord and master.

Nothing could be more indicative of cruelty than the laughter that followed the passionate protest of the unhappy princess.  To the duke, and of course to his courtiers, the girl’s suffering and the fate that was in store for her were mere matters of mirth.  They laughed at her pain as savages laugh at the agonies of a tortured victim.

I was so startled by the cry of the princess that for a time I could not think coherently.  My first clear thought was of Yolanda.  If she were the princess, this sacrifice that is practised without a protest throughout the world had come home to me, for Yolanda had nestled in my heart.  That she, the gentle, the tender, the passionate, the sensitive, should be the victim of this legalized crime; that she, innocent of all fault, save that she had been born a girl, should be condemned to misery because the laws of chivalry and the laws of God, distorted by men to suit their purposes, declared her to be the chattel of her father, moved me as I was never moved before.  My sympathy for this rare, sweet girl, so capable of joy, so susceptible to pain, almost brought tears to my eyes; for I could not help thinking that she was the suffering princess.

When the courtiers had left the great hall Hymbercourt, Max, and I approached the duke.  Hymbercourt and I made obeisance on bended knee, but Max saluted the duke with a low bow.  After the duke had spoken, Max said:—­

“I hope Your Grace has not forgotten your promise to honor me by accepting the falcon you admired yesterday.”