"If you were a court lady," said Prince Hugh, "you would know that one
glove is of no use to anyone."
"If you were a beggar, Sir," she replied, "you would be glad to have one
hand warm."
"I shall never be a beggar," returned the Prince proudly.
"Yet you begged your father for a cloth-of-silver falcon hood this
morning."
Prince Richard laughed and his brother stared. "Are you a witch?" asked
the latter.
"No, I am not a witch. I lost my way in the gardens before I found the
right path. You were talking in the arbor by the edge of the lake, and
you implored your father, the King, like a beggar on the street corner."
Prince Hugh's cheeks were red as peonies. "Your words are too bold,
beggar-maid. If you will not sell your glove, I will take it."
She stretched out her arm. "You will not be able to take what is
not yours!"
"Will I not!" and he rushed at her and began to tug at the glove. His
face grew redder and redder, but he could not strip off the glove, which
seemed to have grown to the maid's arm. Suddenly he caught sight of his
fiery countenance in the little round mirror, and he left off pulling at
the glove, but his failure aroused emulation in the heart of Prince
Richard, who now began to tug at the glove as if it were heavy armor.
The Princess Myrtle grew as white as a snow-drop in pale wintry sunshine,
for it seemed to her that all three of the princes were of base metal
beneath their noble bearing. "Look in the mirror," she said pitifully,
"and tell me what you see!"
"His own red face, I warrant, as I saw mine," cried Prince Hugh; then
Prince Richard seeing how flushed his face was, drew away sulkily; and
the Princess walked from them up and up through the parterres of flowers
to the terrace where the King stood in the evening light, his cloak blown
out, so that the satin lining showed like a great magnolia petal. His
long fingers rested on the marble balustrade, and the royal rings winked
wickedly at the Princess.