"Love a dead man! That won't last," thought Tika.
But from that day forth Fatkoura ceased to talk to her; she did not even permit the girl to remain in her presence. Tika wept outside the door; her mistress pretended not to hear her. Yet she missed her maid more than she was willing to confess. This companion of her misfortunes, this confidant of her griefs and her sorrows, was a necessity of her life. Captivity seemed harder to her since she had exiled her from her side; she especially missed the girl's conversation. Finally, she resolved to forgive her, and to confess to her that the Prince still lived. She accordingly summoned her.
The repentant Tika knelt in the centre of the room, hid her face behind her flowing sleeves, and her tears fell fast.
"You will never mention the Prince of Tosa to me again," said Fatkoura.
"Never, mistress," sobbed Tika; "except to curse him."
"Well, I forgive you. Talk to me of my beloved as you used to do."
"Alack! he is dead," said Tika; "I can only mourn with you."
"Don't you think I was speedily consoled?"
Tika, in surprise, looked up at her mistress, who smiled.
"Why, I thought—" she stammered, "I thought he was wrong to submit to defeat in your presence."