On the morning of the fourth day after the trial by combat, Yolanda made her appearance at Castleman’s, looking pale and large-eyed.  Max and I had walked down to the House under the Wall before going to dine with the duke.  Soon after we were seated Twonette left, and within five minutes Yolanda came suddenly upon us in the long parlor.  She ran to Max, grasping both his hands.  For a moment she could only say, “Max, Max,” and he remained silent.

When she recovered control of her voice she said:—­

“How proud we are of you, Sir Max!  Uncle and aunt have told me how brave and merciful you were at the combat.”

“Your Highness surely knows all that can be told on the subject, since you were there and took so active a part in the adventure,” answered Max.  “It is I who should be grateful, and I am.  I owe my life to Your Highness.”

“You honor me too much, Sir Max,” said Yolanda, looking up with surprise and bowing low before him.  “Let my elevation be gradual that I may grow accustomed to my rank.  Make of me first a great lady, and then, say, a countess.  Afterward, if I prove worthy, call me princess.”

“We will call you a princess now, Your Highness,” answered Max, not to be driven from his position.

“Very well,” cried Yolanda, with a laugh and a sweeping courtesy.  “If you will have me a princess, a princess I’ll be.  But I will not be the Princess of Burgundy.  She saved your life, and I am jealous of her—­I hate her.”

She stamped her foot, and the angry gleam in her eyes was genuine.  There could be no doubt that she was jealous of the princess.  I could not account for her unique attitude toward herself save on one hypothesis:  she was, even to herself, two distinct persons.  Yolanda was a happy burgher girl; Mary was a wretched princess.  The two widely differing conditions under which she lived were so distinct, and were separated by a gulf so broad, that to her the princess and the burgher girl were in no way related.

With change of condition there was always a change of person.  The unhappy princess would come down the stairway in the wall; God would kindly touch her, and lo! she was transformed into a happy Yolanda.  Yolanda’s light feet would climb the dark stone steps, and God was once more a frowning father.  There must also be added Max’s share in her emotions.  Perhaps she feared the princess as she would have dreaded a rival; since she longed with all her passionate, tender heart to win Max for herself only.  It would have been an easy task, as princess, to win him or any man; but if she could win him as Yolanda, the burgher girl, the prize would be the greatest that could fall to a woman.

The true situation dawned upon me as I stood before Max and watched Yolanda.  I thought of her adroit plan to make trouble with France, and I wanted to shout for joy.  The impossible might yet happen.  God’s hand surely had been in our journeying to Burgundy.  Max might yet win this peerless princess, this priceless girl; or, reverse it if you choose, Mary of Burgundy might win this peerless man, and might at the same time attain the unutterable joy of knowing that she had won him for her own sake.