“Come back,” I said, “I will think it over.”
“Speak!” said she. “Will you, or will you not?”
I looked at her. She was very old. She could not live long, at best. She might not live until the wedding day. And if she should, a man of my wealth and power could afterward find the means of mitigating the horrors of such a marriage.
“How do I know you can perform your promise?” I asked.
“You need not perform yours until I have performed mine. Come, master tailor, will you or will you not?”
“I will,” said I. “On the day when I receive my fortune from the Prince, I will marry you. Merciful powers!”
“Good,” said she. “Now listen to me. The thread which will hold the button is the single black hair in the tail of the white unicorn, Alb, who feeds in the half-moon pasture of Korbi, by the river Tarn. Listen carefully while I tell you what you must do.”
She then gave me the most minute directions; and when she had finished, she arose and hobbled to the door.
“Stop!” I said. “Tell me who you are, and where you live, and when I shall see you again.”
She answered never a word; she was gone.