Then, making a series of graceful and fantastic passes in the air with her hands, as if invoking a familiar spirit, she said in low, solemn tones:-- "You may now sit by me, Sir Max.

My words must not be heard by any ears save yours." Max seated himself beside the girl.
"Give me your word that you will tell no one what I am about to do and say," she said.
"I so promise," answered Max, beginning to feel that the situation was almost uncanny.
"Now, place in my hand some jewel or valued article of which I may speak," she said.
Excepting his sword and dagger, Max owned but one article of value--the ring Mary of Burgundy had given him.

He hesitatingly drew it from his finger and placed it in the girl's hand.

She examined it carefully, and said:-- "Now, give me your hand, Sir Max." Her hand was not much larger than a big snowflake in early spring, Max thought, and it was completely lost to sight when his great fingers closed over it.

The velvety softness of the little hand sent a thrill through his veins, and the firm, unyielding strength of his clasp was a new, delicious sensation to the girl.