On each of the three evenings intervening between the day of this council and the departure of the army, we saw Yolanda at Castleman's. She was always waiting when we arrived. She had changed in many respects, but especially in her attitude regarding Max. She was kind and gentle, but shy. Having dropped her familiar manner, she did not go near him, but sat at a distance, holding Twonette's hand, and silently but constantly watching him, as if she were awaiting something. Her eyes, at times, seemed to be half-indignant interrogation points. At other times I could see in them doubt, waiting, and hope--hope almost tired with yearning. It was no small love that she wanted from Max. She had hoped--perhaps I should say she had longed with little hope--that he would, for the sake of the burgher girl, Yolanda, be willing to turn his back on his family and his land. But now he was leaving, and her dream was about to close, since Max would probably never come back to her. Not the least painful of Yolanda's emotions was the knowledge that she could insure Max's return by telling him that she was the Princess of Burgundy. But she did not want this man whom she loved so dearly, and who, she knew, loved her, if she must win him as princess. She was strangely impelled to reject a reprieve from a life of wretchedness, unless it came through the high court of love. Max, in speaking to me about his return, had wavered many times. One day he would return; the next, he would swallow the bitter draught fate had in store for him. He was a great, honest soul, and to such the call of duty is compelling. On the evening before our departure we went to sup with Castleman. On our way down to the House under the Wall, Max said:-- "Karl, my duty is clear. I must not return to Peronne. If I do, I fear I shall never leave it." I did not answer; but I had resolved that he should return, and I intended that my resolution should become a fact. Yolanda was not present at supper, but she appeared soon after we had risen. We sat under the dim light of a lamp in the long room. Yolanda was on the cushioned bench in the shadow of the great chimney, silently clasping Twonette's hand. Twonette, of course, was silent and serene. Castleman and I talked disjointedly, and Max sat motionless, gazing through the window into the night. After greeting us, Yolanda spoke not a word; but ever in the deep shadow I could see the glow of her eyes looking toward Max. That his heart was filled with a great struggle, I knew, and I believed that Yolanda also knew. We had many preparations to make before our departure next morning at dawn, so after an hour Max and I rose to leave. Twonette, leaving Yolanda, came to us, and the Castlemans all gave us a hearty God-speed. Yolanda sat wordless in the shadow. I went to her and gave her my hand. "Farewell, Fräulein," I said.