I could hardly speak, my voice was hoarse, his words had given me such a picture of Juanita up there in the clouds.
"Prince—"
"I am not a Prince, I only have a very ordinary title. If you know England, you understand what a baronet is."
"I know England. Prince, your Princess is waiting for you and sighing out her heart that you have not come to her."
I leapt to my feet and swore a great oath that made the attic room ring.
"You mean?" I shouted.
"Prince, the Lily of all the lilies, the Rose of all the roses, alone, distraught, another Ophelia—no, say rather Juliet with her nurse—has honored me with the story of her love. She never told me whom she longed for, but I knew that it was some one down in the world."
I staggered out a question.
"It is my humble adoration for her which has sharpened all my wits," he answered. "It seemed an accident—though the gods designed it without doubt—that made you save my life to-night, but now I know you are the lover of the Lily. And I am the servant—the happy messenger—of you both."
"You can take a letter from me to her?"