Hymbercourt whistled his astonishment.

“We are out to see a little of the world, and I need not tell you how important it is that we remain unknown while in Burgundy.  I bear my own name; the young count has assumed the name of his mother’s family and wishes to be known as Sir Maximilian du Guelph.”

“I shall not mention your presence even to my wife,” he replied.  “I advise you not to remain in Burgundy.  The duke takes it for granted that Styria will aid the Swiss, or at least will sympathize with them in this brewing war, and I should fear for your safety were he to discover you.”

“I understand the duke recently arrived in Peronne?” I asked.

“Yes,” answered Hymbercourt, “we all came yesterday morning.”

“How is the fair princess?  Did she come with you?” I asked, fearing to hear his reply.

“She is well, and more beautiful than ever before,” he answered.  “She did not come with us from Ghent; she has been here at the castle with her stepmother, the Duchess Margaret.  They have lived here during the last two or three years.  The princess met her father just inside the Postern, lovely and fresh as a dew-dipped rose.”

“She met her father just inside the Postern?” I asked, slowly dropping my words in astonishment.  “She was in the castle yard when her father entered,—­and at the Postern?”

“Yes, she took his hand and sprang to a seat behind him,” answered Hymbercourt.

“She met him inside the Postern, say you?” I repeated musingly.

“What is there amazing about so small an act?” asked Hymbercourt.  “Is it not natural that she should greet her father whom she has not seen for a year?”

“Indeed, yes,” I replied stumblingly, “but the weather is very hot, and—­and I was thinking how much I should have enjoyed witnessing the meeting.  She doubtless was dressed in gala attire for so rare an occasion?” I asked, wishing to talk upon the subject that touched me so nearly.  Yolanda was in short skirts, stained and travel-worn, when she left us.

“Indeed she was,” answered Hymbercourt.  “I can easily describe her dress.  She loves woman’s finery, and I must confess that I too love it.  She wore a hawking costume; a cap of crimson—­I think it was velvet—­with little knots on it and gems scattered here and there.  A heron’s plume clasped with a diamond brooch adorned the cap.  Her hair hung over her shoulders.  It is very dark and falls in a great bush of fluffy curls.  When her headgear is off, her hair looks like a black corona.  She is wonderfully beautiful, wonderfully beautiful.  Her gown was of red stuff.  Perhaps it was of velvet like the cap.  It was hitched up with a cord and girdle, with tassels of gold lace and—­and—­Sir Karl, you are not listening.”

“I am listening,” I replied.  “I am greatly interested.  Her gown—­she wore a gown—­she wore a gown—­”

“Yes, of course she wore a gown,” laughingly retorted Hymbercourt.  “Your lagging attention is what I deserve, Sir Karl, for trying in my lame fashion to describe a woman’s gear to a man who is half priest, half warrior.  I do not wonder that you did not follow me.”