“Do not fear for me, Karl,” answered Max, laughingly.  “We are not apt to take hurt from dangers we see.”

“Do you clearly see the danger?” I suggested.

“I clearly see,” he responded.  “I admire Fraeulein Yolanda as I have never admired any other woman.  I respect her as if she were a princess; but one of the penalties of my birth is that I may not think of her nor of one of her class.  She is not for me; she is a burgher maiden—­out of my reach.  For that reason I feel that I should respect her.”

The attitude of Max toward Yolanda was a real triumph of skill and adroitness over inherited convictions and false education.  She had brought him from condescension to deference solely by the magic of her art.  Or am I wrong?  Was it her artlessness?  Perhaps it was her artful artlessness, since every girl-baby is born with a modicum of that dangerous quality.

“Perhaps you are right, Karl,” added Max.  “I may underrate the power of this girl.  As you have said, she is a little witch.  But beneath her laughter there is a rare show of tenderness and strength, which at times seems pathetic and almost elfin.  You are right, Karl.  I will devote myself to Twonette hereafter.  She is like a feather-bed in that she cannot be injured by a blow, neither can she give one; but Yolanda—­ah, Karl, she is like a priceless jewel that may be shattered by a blow and may blind one by its radiance.”

But Max’s devotion to Twonette was a failure.  She was certainly willing, but Yolanda would have none of it, and with no equivocation gave every one to understand as much.  Still, she held Max at a respectful distance.  In fact, this Yolanda handled us all as a juggler tosses his balls.  Max must not be too attentive to her, and he must not be at all attentive to Twonette.  In this arrangement Twonette acquiesced.  She would not dare to lift her eyes to one upon whom Yolanda was looking!

Here was illustrated the complete supremacy of mind over matter.  Castleman, Twonette, Franz and his frau, Max and I, all danced when the tiny white hand of Yolanda pulled the strings.  A kiss or a saucy nod for Castleman or Twonette, a smile or a frown for Max and me, were the instruments wherewith she worked.  Deftly she turned each situation as she desired.  Max made frequent efforts to obtain a private moment with her, that he might ask a few questions concerning her wonderful knowledge of his ring—­they had been burning him since the night of her sorcery—­but, though she knew quite well his desire to question her, she gave him no opportunity.

During the time that Castleman was buying his silks, the members of our little party grew rapidly in friendship.  In culture, education, and refinement, the Castlemans were far above any burghers I had ever known.  Franz and his wife, though good, simple people, were not at all in Castleman’s class.  They felt their inferiority, and did not go abroad with us, though we supped daily with them.  Each evening supper was a little fete followed by a romp of amusement, songs, and childish games in the frau’s great parlor.