“At once,” replied Wilfrid, turning to the door, “trusting I may be permitted to pay my respects to you in the morning, and to apologise more at length.”
Just the faintest shade of fear passed over her face.
“No, no, you must not do that! As you love your life keep this meeting a secret! I speak with good reason. Go! But stay—one moment. Your name?”
“Wilfrid, Lord Courtenay.”
A faint cry escaped the Princess as Wilfrid so held the lamp that its light fell clearly upon his face.
She knew at least his name, if she did not recognise him; that much was certain. Equally certain was it that his name or his presence filled her with some deep emotion. She caught her breath; her colour came and went. If these symptoms were due to love it was a love mingled with dismay, and the dismay seemed to predominate.
Though prudence told Wilfrid that it was high time to go, he could not resist the temptation of lingering to ask,
“Have we met before?”
“Once,” answered the Princess in a softened voice, “and once only, when you saved me from death!”
It must have been in his sleep, then, for he had no recollection of it! Adventures he had known in plenty, but to save the life of either woman or girl was a pleasure that had never yet fallen to his lot, and he said so.