“We are wasting time, Count Calli,” spoke the duke.  “Take up the gage or demand a court.  The charge made by Sir Max will certainly justify a court of chivalry in ordering the combat.  The truth or falsity of that charge you and Sir Max must prove on each other’s bodies.  His desire to remain unknown the court will respect; he has ample precedent.  If you are convinced by the word of our Lord d’Hymbercourt and myself that he is of birth and station worthy to engage with you in knightly and mortal combat, you can ask no more.  Few courts of chivalry, I take it, would hold the evidence inconclusive.  Take up or leave the gage, Sir Count, and do one or the other at once.”

Calli walked over to the gauntlet and, taking it from the floor, held it in his right hand while he bent his knee before the duke.  He did not look toward Max, but turned in the direction of his friends and tucked the gauntlet in his girdle as he strode away.

“We appoint this day twelve days, on a Sunday afternoon, for the combat,” said Charles.  “Then these men shall do their endeavor, each upon the other; and may God give victory to the right!”

* * * * *

That evening, as usual, Max and I were at Castleman’s.  Yolanda did not come down till late, but when she came she clung silently to Max, and there was a deep pathos in her every word and glance.  As we left, I went back and whispered hurriedly to her:—­

“Have no fear, dear one.  Our Max will take no harm.”

My words were bolder than my heart, but I thought to comfort her.

“I have no fear, Sir Karl,” she said, in a trembling voice.  “There is no man so strong and brave as Max.  He is in the right, and God is just.  The Blessed Virgin, too, will help him.  It would be sacrilege to doubt her.  I do not doubt.  I do not fear, Sir Karl, but, oh, my friend—­” Here she buried her face on my breast and wept convulsively.  Her words, too, had been bolder than her heart—­far bolder.

The brooding instinct in me—­the faint remnant of mother love, that kind Providence has left in every, good man’s heart—­longed to comfort her and bear her pains.  But I was powerless to help her, and, after all, her suffering was wholesome.  In a moment she continued, sobbing while she spoke:—­

“But—­oh! if by any mischance Max should fall; if by treachery or accident—­oh, Sir Karl, my heart is breaking.  Do not let Max fight.”  These words were from her woman’s heart.  “His station will excuse him, but if the affair has gone too far for him to withdraw, tell him to—­to leave Burgundy, to run away, to—­”

“Yolanda, what are you saying?” I asked.  “Would you not rather see him dead than a coward?”

“No, no, Sir Karl,” she cried, wrought almost to a frenzy by her grief and fear.  “No, no, anything but dead.”

“Listen to reason, Yolanda,” I answered.  “I, who love Max more than I love the blood of my heart, would kill him with my own hand rather than have cause to call him coward and speak the truth.”