Rosa obeyed, for the Prince was fixing his eyes upon her, but he had scarcely turned them again to his paper when she bashfully retired to the door.
The Prince finished his letter.
During this time, the greyhound went up to Rosa, surveyed her and began to caress her.
“Ah, ah!” said William to his dog, “it’s easy to see that she is a countrywoman of yours, and that you recognise her.”
Then, turning towards Rosa, and fixing on her his scrutinising, and at the same time impenetrable glance, he said,—
“Now, my child.”
The Prince was scarcely twenty-three, and Rosa eighteen or twenty. He might therefore perhaps better have said, My sister.
“My child,” he said, with that strangely commanding accent which chilled all those who approached him, “we are alone; let us speak together.”
Rosa began to tremble, and yet there was nothing but kindness in the expression of the Prince’s face.
“Monseigneur,” she stammered.