To this girl I had thought to be
gracious, and had feared that I might be too condescending. I then
realized what a pitiable ass a man may make of himself by giving his
whole time and attention to the task.
Of course I was not sure that Yolanda was the princess. Her father,
spoken of by Castleman, might be, and probably was, a great lord in the
duke's train. Yolanda might be the love-daughter of Charles of Burgundy.
Many explanations might be given to Castleman's remarks; but I could not
help believing that Yolanda was the far-famed Burgundian princess. If
so, what a marvellous romance was this journey that Max and I had
undertaken, and what a fantastic trick fate had played in bringing these
two from the ends of the earth to meet in the quaint old Swiss city. It
seemed almost as if their souls had journeyed toward each other, since
the beginning of time.
That the princess should be abroad with Castleman and his daughter
unattended by even a lady-in-waiting seemed improbable--almost
impossible.
My wavering mind veered with each moment from the conviction that
Yolanda was the princess to a feeling of certainty that she was not, and
back again. That she was the princess seemed at one moment indubitably
true; the next moment it appeared absurdly impossible. Still,
Castleman's words rang in my ears.
I was glad that Max was riding a hundred yards behind me. My first
determination was that he should know nothing of what I had heard. My
second was that he and I should leave the party at Metz.
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