“By the sea she departed,” said the duke, “and she has never come back. Yet she will come, they say.”
“Not at all,” answered the duke. “Such things seen in the light of Paris appear altogether ridiculous; but away in Morgania there are thousands of good people—or thousands of foolish people, if you wish—” the duke corrected himself, in terror of the mocking smile of Caracal, his professor of skepticism—“thousands of foolish people who talk of nothing else and await her return.”
“But when did she go away?” asked Miss Rowrer.
“Oh, ah!—well—a thousand years ago,” answered the duke.
“A thousand years ago!” exclaimed Miss Rowrer, amused by these stories of fairy duchesses and poor mountaineers sitting by the sea and watching from father to son for Morgana. “But who has foretold her return?” she asked.
“An old sorceress who lives like an owl in the hollow of a rock.”
“Really!”
“Truly and really! People come to consult her from every quarter. She makes her fire on three red stones, observes the sky and the stars, traces serpents on the sand—and then this old woman foretells the future. Now, according to her prediction, the cycle of time has swung round and Morgana is coming, bringing in her arms the fortune of Morgania. Events, we must acknowledge, seem to bear out the sorceress: the country is deeply troubled; I shall soon be obliged to go back myself—and you can imagine whether it is amusing for me? Oh, I wish I were a simple citizen of Paris!”
“Eh bien, monseigneur!” said Miss Rowrer, “in that case, abdicate, abdicate. But first tell me, I beg of you, the legend of Morgana.”