"I am worthy of your confidence," said the Prince; "my love is as pure as your own."
"A few days later," continued the Queen, "you knelt before me in the audience-chamber. Surprised at your emotion, I permitted myself to speak of my maid-of-honor. You cried out that you did not love her, casting upon me a look in which all your soul was visible. Do you remember what a scornful, angry air I assumed? If you knew what ineffable joy overwhelmed me: the gazelle seized in the tiger's claws, then let suddenly loose, must feel something of my sensations. I knew then that it was I whom you loved; your look and your emotion told me so. When I left you, I hurried into the gardens and wrote the verses which I gave you so indifferently.
"They lie here upon my heart," said the Prince; "they never leave me."
"Do you recognize this?" said the Kisaki, showing the Prince a fan thrust into the girdle of silver brocade which encircled her waist.
"No," said Nagato; "what may that be?"
She took out the fan, and opened it. It was of white paper, sprinkled with gold. In one corner was a tuft of reeds and two storks flying over; at the other end were four lines of poetry, written in Chinese characters.
"The thing which we love more than all else, we prefer that no one
else should love.
It belongs to another.
So the willow, which takes root in our garden,
Bends, blown by the wind, and adorns our neighbor's wall with
its branches."
"Those are the verses which I wrote in the western orchard!" cried the Prince. "Have you preserved that fan?"
"I never use any other," said the Kisaki.
They broke into pleased laughter, forgetful of their past sufferings, dwelling with delight on this moment of happiness. The Queen no longer spoke of returning to the palace.