No travellers ever came to the island, and since the day when Miranda had been brought thither, a little baby girl, she had never seen the face of any man except her father. Peacefully the years slipped by, and Miranda had grown into a beautiful young maiden, when one day a terrible storm of thunder and lightning burst over the island. In the midst of the tempest a noble vessel seemed to be sinking, and Miranda ran to entreat her father that, if by his magic arts he had put the waves into such an uproar, he would now allay them. “Be comforted, dear child; there is no harm done,” said her father. “What I have done is only in care for you, and I have so safely ordered this wreck that not a hair of anyone on board shall suffer hurt. Until now we have lived peacefully in this little spot, and you know nothing of what you are, nor that I am anything more than Prospero, the master of a poor enough cell, and your father.” “It never entered into my thoughts to inquire further,” said Miranda. “The time has come when you must know everything,” said Prospero; and laying aside his magic mantle, he bade his daughter sit down beside him, and then he told her the story of their life. “Can you remember a time before we came to this island?” he began. “I do not think you can, for you were then only a few years old.” “Certainly I can,” replied Miranda. “It is far off, and more like a dream than a remembrance. Had I not four or five women once that waited on me?” “You had, Miranda, and more. Twelve years ago your father was the Duke of Milan, and a Prince of power.” “Oh, heaven! what foul play had we that we came from thence? Or was it a blessing that we did?”