The drapery parted, revealing a beautiful face and figure—the living original of the miniature!
Overwhelmed with surprise Wilfrid stood, as breathless and as still as if he had suddenly fallen under a spell of enchantment.
He had loved her from the first moment of setting eyes upon her portrait, but now the actual sight of the living princess increased that love tenfold. Could it be true that he, and he only, held a place in her heart, and that for a space of more than eight years? If eight years previously in Saxony he had exercised so powerful an impression upon her girlish imagination, she should surely know him again? But though he hoped and looked for it, she betrayed no sign of recognition. Indeed, the only emotion expressed in her widening eyes was wonder.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
Her voice—and one more soft and musical had never fallen upon Wilfrid’s ear—seemed to have the effect of breaking the spell that had held him.
He bowed with all the grace he was capable of.
“I am an English traveller, a midnight arrival, who has been erroneously led to believe that this was his bedroom. I cannot sufficiently express my regret at having disturbed you in this unceremonious fashion.”
There was about Wilfrid that air of good breeding that marked him as a gentleman, and gave to his words the stamp of truth.
Her suspicions, if she had had any, were gone in a moment.
“Then, sir, please to withdraw,” she said, in a tone of gentle dignity.