“In the cedar room I was most happy,” she said; “it seemed that I knew that odour, it was like _home_, and this scent of your pines is the same.” Then I asked her what she wished to say to me. She hesitated for a few moments. Then she put her hand on my arm with the childlike _abandon_ so peculiarly hers. “Tell me what I must do,” she said. “The prince he has gone away to see, someone else he should not go to see.” _She_ asked _me_ such a question! Anger, jealousy! I have been angry often, too often—but jealousy? I have condemned others for that meanest passion in human nature, and now I am punished. I know what it is! “What do you mean?” I said. “I do not understand.” “Ah!” (It was a sob rather than a sigh.) “Monsieur, I am sure you do not understand,” she said, once more standing still, but this time confronting me. “You were good to your wife, I know that!” “I was _not_ good to my wife,” I said, bitterly. “You must not come to me for advice. Ask Lady Forwood, Mrs. Mervyn, anyone, not me!” At that moment I forgot my theory, that Mercedes’ soul and Lilia’s are one and the same; this was the wife of the Prince Andriocchi, and I, daring to love her as no man should dare to love another man’s wife, was burning with jealousy, and was false to Lilia’s memory. “Never tell me you are not good,” she said; “I know better.” The words were ordinary enough. But at the end of her speech she gave a little satisfied laugh—_Lilia’s_ laugh. I felt less human—the ghostly, creepy sensation reasserted itself. “How can you know better?” I said. “I know you are good,” she said. “You are an angel among other men: and I ask you what I am to do. I should feel sorry, should I not, when the prince does wrong?” I felt my breath go—as after a blow. “Certainly,” I said. “Do not think me wicked,” she said, her voice trembling. “Oh, I knew I ought to be sorry when he was going away—and I knew well that he would see someone that he ought not to see while he is away—but I did not feel sorry, I am glad!” “_Glad?_” I said, assuming as shocked a tone as I could—(sinner—liar—when I was transported with joy and relief!). “Surely not _glad_?” “Yes, _glad_,” she said. “Because I should be glad if everyone would go and leave me alone—with you.” “This is foolish,” I said, chidingly. “You will know better when you have seen more of me.” Then I changed the conversation to the subject of her dreams. We were nearing the spot where I meant to test her identity. There was a narrow path between clumps of laurels. This was the path I had traversed alone in my dream years ago—when I emerged into the open I had seen this very woman—this woman I loved—seated on the stone seat opposite to me. Now—she was by my side. As we came across the grass plat I summoned all my courage. I did not know whether I wished to be convinced that she was Lilia—or that she was not. I only felt abject fear—for the first time in my life I was an entire coward: I sickened, I was in a cold sweat.