“No person on board the vessel shall be harmed,” said Prospero, soothing her alarm. “I have done this for your sake, Miranda. You wonder—ah! you know not who you are, or whence you came; in fact, you only know that I am your father, and that this cavern is our home. You were scarce three years old when I brought you here; you cannot then remember any previous time?”
“Yes, my father, I can,” replied Miranda.
Then Prospero entreated her to say what remembrance she had of the days of her infancy.
“It is but little,” said the maiden. “It seems indeed like unto a dream, and yet surely there was a time when several women were in attendance on me.”
“That is quite true,” replied Prospero. “How can you recall this?—can it be possible that you remember our coming here?”
“No, I can recall nothing more than I have said, father.”
Upon this Prospero decided that the time had come when he should tell his daughter the story of her life. “Twelve years ago, Miranda,” he began, “I was duke of Milan, and you the heiress of my wealth and a princess. I had a brother younger than myself, to whom I trusted the management of my affairs, little dreaming of his unworthiness. Buried among my books, I neglected all else, and Antonio used this opportunity to gain an influence over my subjects; and then, with the aid of an enemy of mine, the king of Naples, to make himself duke in my place.
“He feared to take our lives by violence, but having forced us on board a vessel, Antonio put out to sea, and then removing us into a smaller boat without sail or mast, left us to what he believed would prove a certain death.
“A lord of my court, by name Gonzalo, had, however, felt some presentiment of danger, and thus had, out of his love for me, taken the precaution of putting food, apparel, and my highly valued books into the boat.”
“Oh, father,” said Miranda, “what a care, what a trouble must I, a little child, have been to you, then!”