“I thought the august sun had touched my brain,” he said. “I knew that your face was familiar to me, and because you are the image of one to whom—”
He broke off, flushing under the glance of her soft, searching eyes.
“To whom you are betrothed,” she finished quietly.
“Yes,” he said.
“And her name is Masago?” she asked musingly.
“Yes.”
“And she looks like me?” She raised her face, and looked at him somewhat wistfully.
“Sweet princess,” he said, carried away by the expression within her eyes, “her beauty is like unto the moon’s—cold, far, and distant, but yours—yours warms me like the glow of the sun. You are indeed the child of the sun-god.”
She smiled faintly.
“Are you the artist-man of whom they speak?” she asked.