“I am the one selected,” he replied, twisting his moustache and striving to look the enticingness of a male man on love adventure bent.
“Strange,” she said. “I saw not your face in the Mirror of the World. There is ... some mistake, eh?”
“A mistake,” he acknowledged readily, reading certain knowledge in her eyes. “It was the drink. There is magic in it that made me speak the message of my heart to you, I want you so.”
Again, with laughing eyes, she summoned the waiting woman and had his pottery mug replenished.
“A second mistake, perhaps will now result, eh?” she teased, when he had downed the drink.
“No, O Queen,” he replied. “Now all is clarity. My true heart I can master. Francis Morgan, the one who kissed your hand, is the man selected to be your husband.”
“It is true,” she said solemnly. “His was the face I saw, and knew from the first.”
Thus encouraged, Torres continued.
“I am his friend, his very good best friend. You, who know all things, know the custom of the marriage dowry. He has sent me, his best friend, to inquire into and examine the dowry of his bride. You must know that he is among the richest of men in his own country, where men are very rich.”
So suddenly did she arise on the divan that Torres cringed and half shrank down, in his panic expectance of a knife-blade between his shoulders. Instead, the Queen walked swiftly, or, rather, glided, to the doorway to an inner apartment.