"I tell you there is no hope for me, Fräulein," responded Max,
desperately. "It is cruel in you to say there is. It is doubly cruel to
speak jestingly."

"I speak earnestly," said Yolanda. "There is hope. If you win the lady
who gave you the ring, you will be happy. I do not jest."

"You do. You mock me," cried Max. "I tell you, Yolanda, there is in all
the world no woman for me save--save one upon whom I may not think."
Yolanda's face grew radiant, though tears moistened her eyes. "Even
though it were possible for me to defy my parents, to turn my face
against my country, my people, and the sacred traditions of my house, by
asking her to share my life, there could be only wretchedness ahead for
her, and therefore unhappiness for me. The dove and the eagle may not
mate. Consider the fate of sweet Agnes Bernauer, who married Duke Albert
and perished in the Danube. I tell you, Fräulein, I am hopeless. When I
return to my people, I shall do so knowing that life thereafter will be
something to endure, not a blessing to thank God for."

"No, no, Sir Max," murmured the girl, "you do not know."

Max turned upon her almost angrily:--

"A man knows when he lives; a man knows when he is dying, and a man, if
he be worthy of the name, knows when he loves a woman. I am not sure
that the sun shines, Fräulein, than I am that I shall not forget this
woman nor cease to sorrow for her all the days of my life."

"You must not speak such words to me, Sir Max," said Yolanda,
reprovingly. "I, too, must live and be happy if--if I can."