From time to time he paused, took out his note-book and
made an entry with a pencil; and any spy who had been near enough
would have heard him mumbling words as though he were a poet testing
verses. The voice of the wheels was still faint, and it was plain
the traveller had far outstripped his carriage.
He had drawn very near to where the Princess lay asleep, before his
eye alighted on her; but when it did he started, pocketed his note-
book, and approached. There was a milestone close to where she lay;
and he sat down on that and coolly studied her. She lay upon one
side, all curled and sunken, her brow on one bare arm, the other
stretched out, limp and dimpled. Her young body, like a thing
thrown down, had scarce a mark of life. Her breathing stirred her
not. The deadliest fatigue was thus confessed in every language of
the sleeping flesh. The traveller smiled grimly. As though he had
looked upon a statue, he made a grudging inventory of her charms:
the figure in that touching freedom of forgetfulness surprised him;
the flush of slumber became her like a flower.
'Upon my word,' he thought, 'I did not think the girl could be so
pretty. And to think,' he added, 'that I am under obligation not to
use one word of this!' He put forth his stick and touched her; and
at that she awoke, sat up with a cry, and looked upon him wildly.
'I trust your Highness has slept well,' he said, nodding.
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