I hastened to the inn and wakened Max, to whose well-covered bones a
board was as soft as a feather bed. While I was speaking to him, I heard
a noise in an adjoining room and saw the door opening. Max and I barely
escaped through an open arch when a commanding figure clad in light
armor entered the tap-room.
I had not seen Charles of Burgundy since he was a boy--he was then Count
of Charolois--but I at once knew with terrifying certainty that I looked
on the most dreaded man in Europe. He had changed greatly since I last
had seen him. He was then beardless; now he wore a beard that reached
almost to his belt, and I should not have recognized in him the young
Count of Charolois. There was, however, no doubt in my mind concerning
his identity.
Even had I failed to see the angry scar on his neck, of which I had
often heard, or had I failed to note the lack of upper teeth (a fact
known to all Europe) which gave his face an expression of savagery, I
should have recognized him by his mien. There was not another man like
him in all the world, and I trust there never will be. His face wore an
expression of ferocity that was almost brutal. The passions of anger,
arrogance, and hatred were marked on every feature; but over all there
was the stamp of an almost superhuman strength, the impress of an iron
will, the expression of an exhaustless energy, and the majesty of a
satanic bravery. If Yolanda was the daughter of this terrible man, and
if he should discover that I had her hidden in the room above his head,
I should never eat another breakfast.
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