"My hair had been cut short when I was ill. That made me feel as if the thing really was to be. One day I sent out and bought some—some clothes, ready made, and put them on. That settled it, for I was sure no one would ever know me, or the truth. One thing suggested another. I thought of travelling with a caravan—then I changed my mind to donkeys, and that led to Innocentina. I'd gone out with her up into the mountains, donkey-back, every day from Mentone two years ago. She had talked to me about Aosta. Her mother's people came from there. Always since, I had wanted to go. I wrote her. I began to make preparations for a long journey."
"You got the bag!" I exclaimed.
"Oh, that bag! I should have died if any English-speaking person had found it, and read my diary, which was to be used—partly—as notes for a book—if I should ever write it. I would have offered even a bigger reward, if you had let me. But I must go on:—they will come—Molly and Jack. I went out to Lucerne, where Innocentina joined me with the donkeys; but it wasn't till we were away in the wilds that—that the Boy appeared. I didn't mean to visit any very big towns afterwards, for it wasn't civilisation I wanted; but—you came into the story, and I did lots of things I hadn't meant to do—because of you, Man."
"And I did lots of things I hadn't meant to do—because of you, Boy."
"It was doing different things from what I planned that worked all the mischief. If we hadn't gone to Aix, we wouldn't have gone up Mont Revard; and if we hadn't gone up Mont Revard, the Prince wouldn't have had to vanish."
"If he hadn't, would the Princess have appeared—for me? Or would she always have been passing—passing—I not dreaming of her presence, though she was by my side?"
"Who can tell? Each event in life seems to be propped up against all the others, like a tower of children's bricks. Anyway, we did go, and Something had sent up to the snowy top of that mountain in Savoie the very last man in the world—except one—I would have chosen to meet. It was—his brother—the younger brother of the man I had found out. He wasn't sure of me, I could tell: for he had never seen me with my hair short; and I had got so thin, and my face so brown; but he suspected, and he is a gossiping sort of fellow. If he had had a chance to see me by daylight, he would have been sure, and then there would be some wild story flashing all over America. That is why I ran away. But it hurt me to leave you like that, Man."
"It cut off all my arms and legs, and my head, and left me only a trunk," I murmured.
"I couldn't think what else to do; indeed, I could hardly think at all. But I knew Molly and Jack were going to Chambéry to spend a day, and I thought I might catch them there, if I hurried. You see, Molly and I wrote to each other sometimes, though I never said a word about you. I didn't dream you'd knew them, until one day you announced things you'd said to Molly in a letter, which—which—well, things which would need a lot of explanation, too difficult for black and white."
"By Jove!" I exclaimed. "Now I know where I'd seen your handwriting before. It was in a letter which Molly dropped almost on my head, from a balcony at Martigny, and there was a photograph––"