I left them to it and went upstairs to my chamber. It was lit with two or three candles in silver holders--I had made the place quite habitable by now--and lying on my bed, covered with an eiderdown, his eyes feverish, his face flushed, lay the Mandarin. His eyes opened and he smiled. It was the first time I had seen the delicate, melancholy lips light up in a real smile. "What's that for?" I said, as I sat down by the bedside. "You are so big, and strong, Prince," he replied, "and large and confident; and your disguise fell from you as you came in and I saw you as you were." I knelt beside the bed and my breath came thick and fast. "For God's sake don't play with me," I said, "not that you are doing that. You have met Her--Miss Morse I mean, my Juanita?" "Prince, she has deigned to give me her confidence in some degree. I do my work in the wonderful library that Mr. Morse has built. It's a great hall, full of the rarest volumes; and there are long windows from which one can look down upon London and gaze beyond the City to where the wrinkled sea beats around the coast. And, day by day, in her loneliness, the Fairest of Maidens has come to this high place and taken a book of poems, sat in the embrasure, and stared down at the world below." He raised a thin hand and held it upright. It was so transparent that the light of a candle behind turned it to blood red. "Let my presumptuous desires be forever silent," he chanted. "'East is east and west is west,' and I erred gravely. But, worship is worship, and worship is sacrifice." I could hardly speak, my voice was hoarse, his words had given me such a picture of Juanita up there in the clouds. "Prince--" "I am not a Prince, I only have a very ordinary title. If you know England, you understand what a baronet is." "I know England. Prince, your Princess is waiting for you and sighing out her heart that you have not come to her." I leapt to my feet and swore a great oath that made the attic room ring. "_You mean?_" I shouted. "Prince, the Lily of all the lilies, the Rose of all the roses, alone, distraught, another Ophelia--no, say rather Juliet with her nurse--has honored me with the story of her love. She never told me whom she longed for, but I knew that it was some one down in the world." I staggered out a question. "It is my humble adoration for her which has sharpened all my wits," he answered. "It seemed an accident--though the gods designed it without doubt--that made you save my life to-night, but now I know you are the lover of the Lily. And I am the servant--the happy messenger--of you both." "You can take a letter from me to her?" "Indeed, yes." "My friend, tell me, tell me all about her. Is she happy?--no, I know she cannot be that--but--" He lifted himself up in the bed, and there was something priest-like in his attitude as he folded his thin hands upon his breast and spoke.