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“Sir,” replied Rose, “I am the daughter of a poor woodcutter, who lives in the forest;–it is late, and I beg you will not detain me.”

“You are a wayward beauty, indeed!” replied the prince, for so he was; “but as my way lies in that direction, I hope you will permit me to see you home.”

“It is not in my power to prevent you,” said Rose, without raising her eyes.

The prince at this moment remarked that she had been weeping, and, delighted to have an opportunity of offering sympathy and consolation, entreated her to impart her grief to him. “I am not actuated by mere curiosity,” added he; “I never can behold a woman in tears without feeling moved to the bottom of my soul! Tell me your distress, and I will neither sleep nor eat till I have aided you.”

Rose timidly raised her lovely blue eyes, to see whether the countenance of the prince harmonised with his discourse; but although he was not actually ugly, his features wore an expression too stern and hypocritical to invite her confidence. She therefore walked silently forward, and when near the cottage felt so uneasy, that, for the first time, she invented a lie in order to get rid of him. “You seem to compassionate my sorrows,” said she; “meanwhile you only increase them. When my mother sees me accompanied by a great gentleman like you, she will beat me, and not believe that you have followed me against my will.”

This reasoning appeared so just to the prince, who felt himself affected by a passion such as he had never before experienced, that he consented to retire, entreating Rose to meet him the next evening at the same hour. She refused to give a decisive answer, and returned home much dejected; recalling all the words of the stranger, and almost reproaching herself for having behaved so harshly to him.

The following day Rose took mechanically the same route, going always in the path by which her parents might be expected. Her provisions being nearly exhausted, she feared to die of hunger, and began to think that this gentleman, who had been repulsed so rudely, could, perhaps, obtain news of her family. Suddenly beholding him leaning against a tree, looking very melancholy and dejected, she threw herself at his feet, bathed in tears, and said–

“Sir, a wretch who has lost everything dear, supplicates your compassion. You are so kind–so tender-hearted–“

“What does the vile creature want!” exclaimed the prince, with a savage expression. “How dare you have the impertinence to address me? I wonder what prevents me from shooting you. I lost my sport all yesterday in following a pretty girl, here is game of a new description.”

Rose started up, overwhelmed with terror, while the prince laughed most brutally. It was not till that moment she recollected that this her black day, which accounted for his not recognising her. “Ah!” thought she, “this is the humane man who could not behold a woman weep; because my colour displeases him, he is ready to take my life. No hope now remains for me–my misfortunes are at their height!”

Rose wept all night; yet she could not prevent herself from returning to the same spot on the following day; she felt irresistibly led thither, dreading, and yet wishing, to meet the prince.

He had been already waiting above an hour, and accosted her with a degree of respect quite unusual for him; but he was in love, and love makes the worst of people better for the time.

“Cruel beauty!” said he, in a courtier-like style, to which Rose was little accustomed, “what have I not suffered during your absence! I even remained all night in the wood, in expectation of you, and the queen my mother despatched messengers everywhere, fearing some accident had befallen me.”

“The queen, your mother!” exclaimed Rose. “Are you, then, the son of a queen?”

“I have betrayed myself!” said the prince, striking his forehead in a theatrical manner. “Yes, it is true, I have that misfortune. You will now fear me; and what we fear, we never love.”