“Karl, if a woman’s face is burned on a man’s heart, he knows it when he sees it.”

“You know Yolanda’s face, certainly, and I doubt if Yolanda will thank you for mistaking another’s for it.”

“I have made no mistake, Karl,” he answered.

“I am not so sure,” I replied.  “The girl you placed in my arms seemed taller by half a head than Yolanda.  I noticed her while she was standing.  She seemed rounder and much heavier in form; but I, too, thought she was Yolanda, and, after all, you may be right.”

“I caught but a glimpse of her face, and that poorly,” said Max.  “It is difficult to see anything looking downward out of a helmet; one must look straight ahead.  But the glimpse I had of her face satisfied me.”

“Do not be too sure, Max.  I once took another man for myself.”  Max laughed.  “I am sure no one could have told us apart.  He was the Pope, and I his cousin.  Yolanda herself once told me—­I believe she has also told you—­that she has the honor to resemble the princess.”

I did not wish to lie to Max, and you will note that I did not say the princess was not Yolanda.  Still, I wished him to remain ignorant upon the important question until Yolanda should see fit to enlighten him.  I was not sure of her motive in maintaining the alias, though I was certain it was more than a mere whim.  How great it was I could not know.  Should she persist in it I would help her up to the point of telling Max a downright falsehood.  There I would stop.

We spent two evenings at Castleman’s, but did not see Yolanda.  On the first evening, after an hour of listlessness, Max hesitatingly asked:—­

“Where is Yo—­that is, the princess has not been here this evening.”

“The princess!” exclaimed Frau Kate.  “No, she has not been here this evening—­nor the duke, nor the king of France.  No titled person, Sir Count, save yourself, has honored us to-day.  Our poor roof shelters few such.”

“I mean Yolanda,” said Max.  Good-natured Frau Kate laughed softly, and Twonette said, with smiling serenity:—­

“Yolanda’s head will surely be turned, Sir Count, when she hears you have called her the princess.  So much greatness thrust upon her will make it impossible for us to live with her.”

“She rules us all as it is, sweet soul,” said Castleman.

“Yolanda is ill upstairs, Sir Count,” said Frau Kate.  “She wanted to come down this evening, but I commanded otherwise.  Twonette, go to her.  She will be lonely.”

Twonette rose, courtesied, and departed.  This splendid bit of acting almost made me doubt that Yolanda was the princess, and it shook Max’s conviction to its very foundation.

I wish to warn you that the deception practised upon Max by Yolanda will seem almost impossible, except on the hypothesis that Max was a very simple fellow.  But the elaborate scheme designed and executed by this girl, with the help of the Castlemans and myself,—­all of whom Max had no reason to distrust,—­would have deceived any man.  Max, though simple and confiding where he trusted,—­judging others’ good faith by his own,—­was shrewd for his years, and this plan of Yolanda’s had to be faultless, as it really was, to mislead him.