“How can you know better?” I said.
“I know you are good,” she said. “You are an angel among other men: and I ask you what I am to do. I should feel sorry, should I not, when the prince does wrong?”
I felt my breath go—as after a blow.
“Certainly,” I said.
“Do not think me wicked,” she said, her voice trembling. “Oh, I knew I ought to be sorry when he was going away—and I knew well that he would see someone that he ought not to see while he is away—but I did not feel sorry, I am glad!”
“Glad?” I said, assuming as shocked a tone as I could—(sinner—liar—when I was transported with joy and relief!). “Surely not glad?”
“Yes, glad,” she said. “Because I should be glad if everyone would go and leave me alone—with you.”
“This is foolish,” I said, chidingly. “You will know better when you have seen more of me.”
Then I changed the conversation to the subject of her dreams. We were nearing the spot where I meant to test her identity.
There was a narrow path between clumps of laurels. This was the path I had traversed alone in my dream years ago—when I emerged into the open I had seen this very woman—this woman I loved—seated on the stone seat opposite to me.