Yolanda: Maid of Burgundy | Page 5

sake of an ideal. Many a man, doubtless, would fall short in the estimation of his lady-love were it not for those qualities with which she herself endows him.
Whatever the lady's sentiments may have been, my faith in Hymbercourt's hints concerning them were strengthened by Mary's kindly letter and the diamond ring for Max which came with her father's message to Styria. They were palpable facts, and young Max built an altar in his holy of holies, and laid them tenderly upon it.
Duke Frederick, with my help, composed a letter in reply to Burgundy's message. It required many days of work to bring it to a form sufficient in dignity, yet ample in assent. The missive must answer "yes" so emphatically as to leave no room for doubt in Burgundy's mind, yet it must show no eagerness on the part of Styria. (Duke Frederick always spoke of himself as Styria.) Burgundy must be made to appreciate the honor of this alliance; still, the fact must not be offensively thrust upon him.
The letter was sent, and Charles of Burgundy probably laughed at it. Duke Frederick appointed commissioners and fixed Cannstadt as the place of meeting. Whatever Duke Charles's reasons for making the offer of marriage may have been, they probably ceased to exist soon afterward, for he never even replied to Duke Frederick's acceptance. For months Castle Hapsburg was in a ferment of expectancy. A watch stood from dawn till dusk on the battlements of the keep, that the duke might be informed of the approach of the Burgundian messenger--that never came. After a year of futile waiting the watch was abandoned. Anger, for a time, took the place of expectancy; Duke Frederick each day drowned his ill-humor in a gallon of sour wine, and remained silent on the subject of the Burgundian insult.
Max's attitude was that of a dignified man. He showed neither anger nor disappointment, but he kept the letter and the ring that Mary had sent him and mused upon his love for his ideal--the lady he had never seen.
A letter from Hymbercourt, that reached me nearly two years after this affair, spoke of a tender little maiden in Burgundy, whose heart throbbed with disappointment while it also clung to its ideal, as tender natures are apt to do. This hint in Hymbercourt's letter sank to the tenderest spot in Max's heart.
On Max's twenty-first birthday he was knighted by the emperor. A grand tournament, lasting five days, celebrated the event, and Max proved himself a man among men and a knight worthy of his spurs. I had trained him for months in preparation for this, his first great trial of strength and skill. He was not lacking in either, though they would mature only with his judgment. His strength was beyond compare. A man could hardly span his great arm with both hands.
Soon after Max was knighted, I brought up the subject of his journey into the world. I was again met by parental opposition; but Max was of age and his views had weight. If I could bring him to see the truth, the cause would be won. Unfortunately, it was not his desires I must overcome; it was his scruples. His head and his heart were full of false ideas and distorted motives absorbed from environment, inculcated by parental teaching, and inherited from twenty generations of fantastic forefathers. In-born motives in a conscientious person are stubborn tyrants, and Max was their slave. The time came when his false but honest standards cost him dearly, as you shall learn. But in Max's heart there lived another motive stronger than the will of man; it was love. Upon that string I chose to play.
One day while we were sunning ourselves on the battlements, I touched, as if by chance, on the theme dear to his heart--Mary of Burgundy. After a little time Max asked hesitatingly:--
"Have you written of late to my Lord d'Hymbercourt?"
"No," I answered.
A long pause followed; then Max continued: "I hope you will soon do so. He might write of--of--" He did not finish the sentence. I allowed him to remain in thought while I formulated my reply. After a time I said:--
"If you are still interested in the lady, why don't you go to Burgundy and try to win her?"
"That would be impossible," he answered.
"No, no, Max," I returned, "not impossible--- difficult, perhaps, but certainly not impossible."
"Ah, Karl, you but raise false hopes," he responded dolefully.
"You could at least see her," I returned, ignoring his protest, "and that, I have been told, is much comfort to a lover!"
"Indeed, it would be," said Max, frankly admitting the state of his heart.
"Or it might be that if you saw her, the illusion would be dispelled."
"I have little fear of that," he returned.
"It is true," I continued, "her