But the Princess Hermione had chosen for her favourite sitting-room a chamber in another part of the castle, so deeply embedded in the rock that the light of day reached it only by an ingenious system of reflectors. Nor could you tell what the season was, for a fire burned there all the year round. The room was not easy of access, nor did the Princess mean it to be. There was one known way into it, by a narrow, winding stair; but if report could be believed, there were several ways out—dark passages leading probably to bolt-holes in the rock. For years no one had troubled to explore them, but they had a fascination for the Princess, who knew them by heart and sometimes surprised her parents by appearing suddenly before them, apparently from nowhere.

She was sitting by the fireside, deep in a chair, and looking at some papers, which neither the firelight nor the twilight reflected down from above quite allowed her to read. Suddenly a shadow fell across the page and she could see nothing. The Princess looked up: a man was standing in front of her, shutting out the firelight; she knew no more than you or I how he had got there, but she was not surprised to see him.

‘Well,’ said the magician, for it was he. ‘Are you still unsatisfied?’

The Princess turned her head, hidden by the chair-back, invisible to us; but the shadow of her features started up on the wall, a shadow so beautiful that (report said) it would not disappear when the Princess turned again, but clung on with a life of its own, until dissolved by the magician.

‘Yesterday, at any rate, was a success,’ the Princess murmured.

‘Will you read me what he said?’ asked the magician.

‘Give me some light,’ she commanded, and the room began to fill with radiance.

The Princess turned over the papers in her lap.

‘Rudolph, Rudolph,’ she muttered. ‘Here he is—Do you really want to hear what the poor oaf says?’

‘Is it like the others?’

‘Exactly the same, only a particularly fine specimen.’

Though she tried to make her voice sound unconcerned, the Princess spoke with a certain relish; and her silhouette, stretched upon the wall, trembled and changed and became less pleasing. She turned and noticed it.

‘Oh, there’s that thing at its tricks again,’ she sighed irritably. ‘Take it away.’

The shadow faded.

‘Well,’ she said, settling herself again in the depths of her chair. ‘Here it is.’

Her voice, slightly mimicking the peasants’ burr, was delicious to hear.

‘ “Most Gracious Princess: Men have been known to pity the past and dread the future, never, it seems to me, with much reason until now. But now I say, in the past there was no Princess Hermione; in the future, in the far future, dearest angel (may you live for ever), there will be none; none to live for, none to die for. Therefore I say, Wretched Past! Miserable Future! And I bless this present hour in which Life and Death are one, one act in your service, one poem in your honour!’

The Princess paused: then spoke in her own voice.

‘Didn’t he deserve eating?’

‘Your Highness, he did.’

‘But now,’ she continued in a brisker tone, ‘I’ve got something different to read to you. Altogether different. In fact I’ve never received anything like it before.’

The shadow, which, like a dog that dreads reproof but cannot bear its banishment, had stolen back to the wall, registered a tiny frown on the Princess’s forehead.

For the letter was certainly an odd one. The writer admitted frankly that he was not brave, nor strong, nor skilled in arms. He was afraid of a mouse, so what could he do against a dragon? The Princess was a lady of high intelligence, she would be the first to see the futility of such a sacrifice. She was always in his thoughts, and he longed to do some tiny service for her. He could not bear to think of her awaiting alone the issue of the combat between her champion and the Dragon. The strain must be terrible. He would count himself ever honoured if she would allow him to bear her company, even behind a screen, even outside the door, during those agonising moments.

‘What a pity I can’t grant his request!’ said the Princess, when she had finished. ‘I like him. I like him for not wanting to offer up his life for me. I like him for thinking that women have other interests than watching men gratify their vanity by running into danger. I like him because he credits me with intelligence. I like him because he considers my feelings, and longs to be near me when there is no glory to be gained by it. I like him because he would study my moods and find out what I needed, and care for me for all the day long, even when I was in no particular danger. I like him because he would love me without a whole population of terrified half-wits egging him on! I like him for a thousand things—I think I love him.’

‘Your Highness! Your Highness!’ said the magician, stirring uneasily. ‘Remember the terms of the spell.’

‘Repeat them: I have forgotten.’

sang the magician cheerfully.

‘That’s all we need to know,’ sighed the Princess, who really recollected the spell perfectly. ‘It always happens that way, and always will. But go on.’

chanted the magician in a lower tone.

‘But if the “he” were Conrad,’ said the Princess teasingly, ‘surely you could make a guess? And now for the last condition.’

The magician’s voice sank to a whisper:

‘Ha! Ha!’ cried the Princess, rocking with laughter so that the shadow on the wall flickered like a butterfly over a flower, ‘all the same I love this Conrad!’

‘He’s but a lad, your Highness, barely turned seventeen.’

‘The best age—I love him.’

‘He’s a slothful sort, his letter shows; a dreamer, not a man.’

‘I love him.’

‘While you were reading, I summoned his likeness here—he is ill-favoured—has lost a front tooth.’

‘Regular features are my abhorrence—I love him.’

‘He is sandy-haired and freckled and untidy in his dress.’

‘Never mind, I love him.’

‘He is self-willed and obstinate; his parents can do nothing with him.’

‘I could: I love him.’

‘He likes insects and crawling things: his pockets are full of spiders and centipedes.’

‘I shall love them for his sake.’

‘He cares for waterfalls and flowers and distant views.’

‘I love him more than ever!’

‘But,’ said the magician, suddenly grave, ‘I’m not sure that he loves you.’

‘Ah!’ cried the Princess, jubilation in her voice. ‘I love him most of all for that!’

There was a pause. The shadow on the wall swooned from the oppression of its beauty, and slid to the floor.

‘But of course he loves me,’ the Princess murmured to herself.

‘Everyone does, and so must he.’

She looked up at the magician for confirmation; but he had gone. Then she saw that something was missing.

‘Magician! Magician!’ she cried. ‘You’ve taken my Conrad’s letter. I want it back!’

But the magician, if he heard her, did not answer.

Conrad’s suggestion, when published in the papers, produced a disagreeable impression. It was called mawkish and unmanly and insulting to the dignity of the Princess. Forester’s Son Wants To Be Male Nurse, ran the headline. However, the letter was so inept, it could not be taken seriously. Conrad was evidently a little weak in the head. The Princess had all the virtues, but especially two: courage and unselfishness. Naturally she would have liked company in the hour of trial—and many were ready to offer it, from the King downwards: she had no need of the services of a woodman’s unlicked cub. But she preferred to spare her friends the sight of her mental and physical anguish. It was the best she could do, she said in her gracious, winning way, to soften the burden a miserable fate had cast, through her, upon her countrymen. So she retired and encountered her dark destiny alone, with the aid of such courage as she could summon. Conrad, the article concluded charitably, was no doubt too thick in the head to understand such delicacy of feeling; but surely his parents might have stopped him from making a fool of himself in public: the noble example of his brothers might have stopped him.