His first impulse, to extinguish the light, was checked by the thought that the fear occasioned by the sudden darkness might elicit a scream from her. Better to stand still and be openly seen than to glide, a terrifying black shape, from the room. A glance toward the bed showed him a hand coming forth from between the curtains—a hand as white as the sleeve of the nightdress that clothed the arm of the wearer. The drapery parted, revealing a beautiful face and figure—the living original of the miniature! Overwhelmed with surprise Wilfrid stood, as breathless and as still as if he had suddenly fallen under a spell of enchantment. He had loved her from the first moment of setting eyes upon her portrait, but now the actual sight of the living princess increased that love tenfold. Could it be true that he, and he only, held a place in her heart, and that for a space of more than eight years? If eight years previously in Saxony he had exercised so powerful an impression upon her girlish imagination, she should surely know him again? But though he hoped and looked for it, she betrayed no sign of recognition. Indeed, the only emotion expressed in her widening eyes was wonder. “What are you doing here?” she asked. Her voice—and one more soft and musical had never fallen upon Wilfrid’s ear—seemed to have the effect of breaking the spell that had held him. He bowed with all the grace he was capable of. “I am an English traveller, a midnight arrival, who has been erroneously led to believe that this was his bedroom. I cannot sufficiently express my regret at having disturbed you in this unceremonious fashion.” There was about Wilfrid that air of good breeding that marked him as a gentleman, and gave to his words the stamp of truth. Her suspicions, if she had had any, were gone in a moment. “Then, sir, please to withdraw,” she said, in a tone of gentle dignity. “At once,” replied Wilfrid, turning to the door, “trusting I may be permitted to pay my respects to you in the morning, and to apologise more at length.” Just the faintest shade of fear passed over her face. “No, no, you must not do that! As you love your life keep this meeting a secret! I speak with good reason. Go! But stay—one moment. Your name?” “Wilfrid, Lord Courtenay.” A faint cry escaped the Princess as Wilfrid so held the lamp that its light fell clearly upon his face. She knew at least his name, if she did not recognise him; that much was certain. Equally certain was it that his name or his presence filled her with some deep emotion. She caught her breath; her colour came and went. If these symptoms were due to love it was a love mingled with dismay, and the dismay seemed to predominate. Though prudence told Wilfrid that it was high time to go, he could not resist the temptation of lingering to ask, “Have we met before?” “Once,” answered the Princess in a softened voice, “and once only, when you saved me from death!”