“Who is it?” I whispered.
“The Princess,” replied Hugh, as the figure detached itself from the gateway and glided slowly and cautiously across the terrace in the ghostlike, roseate light of dawn.
It was indeed the Princess Neit-akrit, alone and unattended; she had wrapped a veil close round her figure, but her head was bare, and the colour of her hair was unmistakable.
She came straight towards us and presently caught sight of us both. She stopped, looking round her as if she wished to flee, then she put a finger to her mouth and came up quite close to Hugh.
“Hush!” she whispered. “Dost wonder, I know, to see me here alone at this hour, without even Sen-tur by my side. And yet I came because I wished to speak to thee alone.”
“Thou dost indeed honour me,” said Hugh, quietly, while I made a discreet movement to retire.
“Tell thy counsellor he need not go,” she said. “I know that thou and he are one, and I am not ashamed of that which I would say.”
“Wilt go within then, Princess? The morning is cold.”
“Nay! what I would say will not take long; yet I could not sleep till I had told it thee. The night seemed oppressive. I wandered into the garden, and Isis led my steps to thy church. I thought thou wast asleep, and that I would sit beside thee, not waking thee, yet telling thee of this thing which lies so heavy on my heart. I thought to whisper it gently lest thou wake, to murmur it so that thou, half dreaming, shouldst hear my voice, and hearing it, dream on.”
She certainly had that indefinable charm—an exquisite voice—and both Hugh and I listened to her strange words, charmed by its sweet-sounding melody.