Perhaps her yearning had led her to hope that he might in the end be willing to fling behind him his high estate for the sake of a burgher girl.  Then, when she had brought him to that resolution, what a joy it would be to turn upon him and say:  “I am not a burgher girl.  I am Princess Mary of Burgundy, and all these things which you are willing to forego for my sake you may keep, and you may add to them the fair land of Burgundy!” Her high estate and rich domains, now the tokens of her thralldom, would then be her joy, since she could give them to Max.

While these bright hopes were filling my mind, Yolanda was playing well her part.  She, too, evidently meant to tell no lies, though she might be forced to act many.  Her fiery outburst against the Princess of Burgundy astonished Max and almost startled me.  Still, the conviction was strong with him that Yolanda was Mary.

“If—­if you are the princess, Yo—­Yolanda,” said Max, evidently wavering, “it were ungracious to deceive me.”

“But I am the princess,” cried Yolanda, lifting her head and walking majestically to and fro.  “Address me not by that low, plebeian name, Yolanda.”

She stepped upon a chair and thence to the top of the great oak table that stood in the middle of the room.  Drawing the chair up after her she placed it on the table, and, seating herself on this improvised throne, lifted one knee over the other, after the manner of her father.  She looked serenely about her in a most amusing imitation of the duke, and spoke with a deep voice:—­

“Heralds!”

No one responded.  So she filled the office of herald herself and cried out:—­

“Oyez!  Oyez!  The princess now gives audience!” Resuming the ducal voice, she continued, “Are there complaints, my Lord Seneschal?” A pause.  “Ah, our guards have stolen Grion’s cow, have they?  The devil take Grion and his cow, too!  Hang Grion for complaining.”  A pause ensues while the duke awaits the next report.  “The Swiss have stolen a sheepskin?  Ah, we’ll skin the Swiss.  My Lord Seneschal, find me fifty thousand men who are ready to die for a sheepskin.  Body of me!  A sheepskin!  I do love it well.”

Yolanda’s audience was roaring with laughter by this time, but her face was stern and calm.

“Silence, you fools,” she cried hoarsely, but no one was silent, and Max laughed till the tears came to his eyes.  Yolanda on her throne was so irresistibly bewitching that he ran to her side, grasped her about the waist, and unceremoniously lifted her to the floor.  When she was on her feet, he raised her hand to his lips and kissed it, saying:—­

“Yolanda or Mary—­it’s all one to me.  There is not another like you in all the world.”

She drew herself up haughtily:  “Sir, this indignity shall cost you dear,” and turning her back on him she moved away three or four paces.  Then she stopped and glanced over her shoulder.  His face had lost its smile, and she knew the joke had gone far enough; so the dimples began to cluster about the quivering corners of her mouth, the long black lashes fell for a moment, a soft radiance came to her eyes, and she asked:—­