“No, no,” she cried, “it was glorious.  The excitement was worth a lifetime of monotony; it was delightful.  I could feel my heart beat all the time, and no woman is sure she lives until she feels the beating of her heart.”

I suspected a double meaning in her words, but no trace of self-consciousness was visible in her face.

“I have often wondered, Fraeulein, if the papers reached the castle before the duke arrived?” asked Max.

“What papers?” queried Yolanda.

“Why, the papers we made the mad race to deliver,” answered Max.

“Oh, y-e-s,” responded the girl, “they arrived just in time.”

“And were delivered at the gate?” I suggested.

A quick, angry glance of surprise shot from Yolanda’s eyes, and rising from her chair she entered the house.  Twonette followed her, and the two did not return for an hour.  I was accumulating evidence on the subject of my puzzling riddle, but I feared my last batch might prove expensive.  I saw the mistake my tongue had led me into.  Many a man has wrecked his fortune by airing his wit.

When Yolanda returned, she sat at a little distance from us, pouting beautifully.  The cause of her unmistakable ill-humor, of course, was known only to me, and was a source of wonder to Max.  At the end of five minutes, during which there had been little conversation, Max, who was amused at Yolanda’s pouting, turned to her, and said:—­

“The Fates owe me a few smiles as compensation for their frowns during the last three weeks.  Won’t you help them to pay me, Fraeulein?”

Her face had been averted, but when Max spoke she turned slowly and gave him the smile he desired as if to say, “I am not pouting at you.”

Her act was so childlike and her face so childishly beautiful that we all smiled with amusement and pleasure.  Yolanda saw the smiles and turned on us, pouting though almost ready to laugh.  She rose from her chair, stamped her foot, stood irresolutely for a moment, and then breaking into a laugh, drew her chair to our little circle—­next to Max—­and sat down.

“Tante, is supper never to be served?” she asked.  “I am impatient to see the live wren pie.”

“Live wren pie?” asked Max, incredulously.

“Yes.  Have you never seen one?” asked Yolanda.

“Surely not,” he replied.

“Ah, you have a treat in store,” she exclaimed, clapping her hands enthusiastically.  “Uncle carves the pie, the wrens fly out, you open your mouth, and the birds, being very small, fly down your throat and save you the trouble eating them.  They are trained to do it, you know.”

A chorus of laughter followed this remarkable statement.  Max leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees, looked at the ground for the space of half a minute, and said:—­

“I was mistaken in saying that I had never partaken of the dish.  While at Basel I foolishly opened my mouth, and a beautiful little bird flew down my throat to my heart.”