“I also want—­” began Twonette.

“You shall wear the duke’s own color, purple, if you will hold your tongue about worthless matters and tell your father what I want,” cried Yolanda, impetuously thrusting Twonette toward Castleman.

“You tell him your own wants,” answered Twonette, pouting.  “Then perhaps his own daughter may have his ear for a moment or two.”

Yolanda laughed at Twonette’s display of ill-temper.

“Well, uncle, since I must tell my own tale, I will begin,” said Yolanda, blushing.  “I want you to go to The Mitre and ask a friend—­two friends—­of yours here to supper this evening.  I have waited a weary time for you to give this invitation, and I will not wait another hour, nay, not another minute.  We have a fat peacock that longs to be killed; it is so fat that it is tired of life.  We have three pheasants that will die of grief if they are not baked at once.  I myself have been feeding them this fortnight past in anticipation of this feast.  We have a dozen wrens for a live pie, so tame they will light on our heads when you cut the crust.  We shall have a famous feast, uncle.  There will be present only tante, you, Twonette, our two guests, and myself.  Now, uncle, the wine is consumed.  Hurry to the inn.”

“My dear child,” said Castleman, seriously, “you know that I am almost powerless to refuse any request you make, but in this case I must do so.”

“Ah, uncle, please tell me why,” coaxed Yolanda, with trouble in her eyes and grief at the corners of her mouth.

“Because you must see no more of this very pleasing young man,” answered Castleman.  “I yielded to your wishes at Basel and brought him with us; I was compelled to send him with you from Metz; but now that our journey is over, I shall thank him and pay him an additional sum, since my goods are safe home, and say farewell to him.  I believe he is a worthy and honorable young man, but we do not know who he is, and if we did—­”

“Ah, but I know who he is,” interrupted Yolanda, tossing her head. “We may not know, but I know, and that is sufficient.”

“Do you know?” asked Castleman.  “Pray tell me of him.  The information was refused me; at least, it was not given.  He is probably of noble birth, but we have nobles here in Peronne whom we would not ask to our house.  We know nothing of this wandering young Max, save that he is honest and brave and good to look upon.”

“In God’s name, uncle, what more would you ask in a man?” cried Yolanda, stamping her foot. “‘Noble, honest, brave, and good to look upon!’ Will not those qualities fit a man for any one’s regard and delight any woman’s heart?  I tell you I will have my way in this.  I tell you I know his degree.  I know who he is and what he is and all about him, though I don’t intend to tell you anything, and would inform you now that it’s no business of yours.”

“Did you coax all this information out of him, you little witch?” asked Castleman, smiling against his will.