“I do not know you, lady,” was her answer.
The one by the doors laughed with a fierce wildness, then threw her arms above her head with abandoned recklessness.
“You do not know me—you!” She laughed again. “You have reason to know me, Princess Sado-ko,” she cried.
Cold and immovable still, the girl who but lately had clung so warmly to her lover, stared now upon the visitor.
“I do not know you,” she repeated in distinct tones. “I am not a princess, lady, but a simple maiden, the daughter of Yamada Kwacho, and named Masago!”
Then, as though she put aside some late physical weakness, the other crossed and faced her.
“I am the maid Masago, with whom you exchanged your state, Princess Sado-ko,” she said.
There was silence for a moment, then the low-toned, deliberate denial of the other one.
“It is not true,” she said.
Masago turned toward the artist.