sought by every nation of Europe having a marriageable king or prince.

Kings in their dotage and princes in their nonage wooed her. Old men
and babes eagerly sought the favor of this young girl, and stood ready
to give their gold, their blood, and the lives of their subjects on even
the shadow of a chance to win her. The battle-field and the bower alike
had been wooing-ground for her smiles. After all this, she had been
affianced to the Dauphin of France, and her father would bring the
marriage about within a few weeks. 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