On one occasion he returned from the bridge, and without lighting the
lamp, sat on the arm of my chair. The moonlight streaming through the
window illumined his head as with a halo. He tossed the damp curls from
his face, and his eyes were aglow with joy. There was no need to tell me
what had happened, but he told me.
"Ah, Karl, I've seen the star," he cried triumphantly. He was but a
boy-man, you must remember.
"I was sure you would see her," I answered. "How did you bring the
meeting about?"
"I did not bring it about," he answered, laughing softly. "The star came
to the child."
"All things come to him that waits at the bridge," I replied
sarcastically. He paid no heed to the sarcasm, but continued:--
"She happened to be near the bridge when I got there, and she came to
me, Karl,--she came to me like a real star falling out of the darkness."
That little fact solved once more my great riddle--at least, it solved
it for a time. Yolanda was not Mary of Burgundy. I had little knowledge
of princesses and their ways, but I felt sure they were not in the habit
of lurking in dark places or wandering by sluggish moats in the black
shadow of a grim castle. A princess would not and could not have been
loitering by the bridge near the House under the Wall. Castleman's words
concerning Yolanda's residence under his roof came back and convinced me
that my absurd theory concerning her identity was the dream of a madman.
"She happened to be near the bridge?" I asked, with significant
emphasis.
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