“I cannot help laughing,” she said, suiting the action to the word, “over our tragic parting at Metz.  We were separated a whole day!”

“But we supposed it was to be for a very long time,” said Max.  “We—­that is, I—­feared I should never see you again.  As it was, the day seemed long to me, Fraeulein.”

The girl laughed joyously.  She had, you remember, offered Max to the Virgin at Strasburg.  Perhaps part of her joy was because the Queen of Heaven had returned him to her.

“I should like to try a separation for many days,” she said.

“You will soon have the opportunity,” returned Max, with wounded vanity.  She paid no heed to his remark, and continued:—­

“The second day would not seem so long to you.  The third would be still shorter, and at the end of a fortnight—­nay, at the end of a week—­you would wonder how you were ever brought to fix your eyes on a poor burgher girl, even for a passing moment—­you, a great lord.  You see, I have no vast estates to hold you constant, such as those possessed by the forward lady who sent you the letter and the ring.  Do you know, Sir Max, if I were very fond of you,—­if I were your sweetheart,—­I should be jealous of this brazen lady, very jealous.”

There was a glint in her eyes that might have caused one to believe the jealousy already existed.

“Your raillery ill becomes you,” said Max, half sullenly.  “If I forget my rank and hold it of small account for your sake, you should not make a jest of it.”

You see, he had not entirely washed out of himself the ceremonious starch of Hapsburg.

She glanced quickly toward him and answered poutingly:—­

“If you don’t like my jesting, Sir Max, you may leave me to ride alone.”

“You asked me to ride with you,” returned Max, “but if you have changed your mind and insist on being ill-tempered, I will—­”

She reached out her hand, and, grasping his bridle-reins, threw them over the pommel of her saddle.

“Now let me see what you will do, my great Lord Somebody,” she cried defiantly.  “You shall not only ride beside me, but you shall also listen good-humoredly to my jests when I am pleased to make them, and bear with my ill-humor when I am pleased to be ill-humored.”

Max left the bridle-reins in her hand, but did not smile.  She was not to be driven from her mood.

“You are such a serious person, Sir Max, that you must, at times, feel yourself a great weight—­almost burdensome—­to carry about.”  She laughed, though his resentment had piqued her, and there was a dash of anger in her words.  “Ponderous persons are often ridiculous and are apt to tire themselves with their own weight—­no, Sir Max, you can’t get away.  I have your reins.”

“I can dismount,” returned Max, “and leave you my horse to lead.”

He turned to leave his saddle, but she caught his arm, rode close to his side, and, slipping her hand down his sleeve, clasped his hand—­if a hand so small as hers can be said to clasp one so large as his.