CHAPTER VI.
DUKE CHARLES THE RASH Our caravan travelled with the mournfulness of a funeral procession.
Early in the evening Max spoke to Yolanda:-- "I hear your uncle desires Sir Karl and me to leave you at Metz." "Yes," she answered dolefully, hanging her head, "we part at Metz.

I shall see you there before I leave, and then--and then--ah, Sir Max, I was wrong and you were right; there is no hope." "What of the lady who gave me the ring ?" asked Max, in a feeble effort to banter her.
"She would have made you very happy, Sir Max.

Her estates would have compensated for all losses elsewhere." "You know, that is not true, Yolanda," said Max, earnestly.
"I am not sure, Sir Max," responded the girl, "and do not wish to be sure.

I will see you at Metz, and there we may part.

It is our fate.