In all my life I
have known little of the sweet touch of human sympathy and love, and,
Max, my poor heart yearns for them until at times I feel like the
flowers without the sun and the corn without the rain,--as if I will die
for lack of them. I am almost tempted to tell you all."
"Tell me all, Yolanda," entreated Max, "for I, too, have suffered from
the same want, though my misfortune comes from being born to a high
estate. If you but knew the lonely, corroding misery of those born to a
station above the reach of real human sympathy, you would not envy, you
would pity them. You would be charitable to their sins, and would thank
God for your lowly lot in life. I will tell you my secret. I am
Maximilian of Hapsburg."
"I have known it since the first day I saw you at Basel," answered
Yolanda.
"I have felt sure at times that you did," responded Max, "though I
cannot think how you learned it. Will you tell me of yourself?"
The girl hung her head and hesitated. Once she lifted her face to speak,
but changed her mind.
"Please don't ask me now. I will tell you soon, but not now, not now. Be
patient with me. I do pity you. I do, I do. If we could help each
other--but we cannot, and there is no use longing for it. I sometimes
fear that your attitude is the right one, and that it is best that we
should part and meet no more."
The proposition to part and meet no more was good in theory, but Max
found that the suggestion to make a fact of it frightened him.
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