He gave a long look at the inanimate shape that was so perfect a representation of his mother, and then he turned upon the Princess a look of more intense horror than before.
“What are you doing?” he asked, in a low voice.
“No harm!” she answered lightly. “Your mother hates and fears me. I cannot endure that. I am making her love me. I am making her desire your presence here with me.”
For a while they stood in silence by the side of the vessel and its flaming contents; then suddenly Hilary cried out: “I cannot bear it! Put an end to this terrible spell!”
“Yes,” said the Princess, “I will, but not to its results.”
She drew the screen before the seated figure, and threw something into the vessel that instantly quenched the flame.
Then she led Hilary from the room, and they walked up and down beneath the trees, talking of things as lovers talk—things that interested themselves but none other.
When Hilary returned home his mother rose from her couch and held out her hand to him. She drew him to sit beside her.
“Hilary,” she said, “something tells me you have been with the Princess Fleta. It is well, and I am glad. She is a good friend for you; ask her if I shall come to see her.”
Hilary rose without replying. The dew stood on his brow. For the first time he was conscious of actual fear, and the fear he felt was of the woman he loved.