The little old woman laughed gayly. "Forsake you? that is impossible.
But it is just possible you may forsake me. Not probable though. Your
mother never did, and she was a queen. The sweetest queen in all the
world was the Lady Dolorez."

"Tell me about her," said the boy eagerly. "As I get older I think I can
understand more. Do tell me."

"Not now. You couldn't hear me for the trumpets and the shouting. But
when you are come to the palace, ask for a long-closed upper room, which
looks out upon the Beautiful Mountains; open it and take it for your
own. Whenever you go there you will always find me, and we will talk
together about all sorts of things."

"And about my mother?"

The little old woman nodded--and kept nodding and smiling to herself
many times, as the boy repeated over and over again the sweet words he
had never known or understood--"my mother--my mother."

"Now I must go," said she, as the trumpets blared louder and louder, and
the shouts of the people showed that they would not endure any delay.
"Good-by, good-by! Open the window and out I fly."

Prince Dolor repeated gayly the musical rhyme--but all the while tried
to hold his godmother fast.

Vain, vain! for the moment that a knocking was heard at his door the sun
went behind a cloud, the bright stream of dancing motes vanished, and
the little old woman with them--he knew not where.