Thus it was that Orlando, dipping his pen in the ink, saw the mocking face of the lost Princess and asked himself a million questions instantly which were as arrows dipped in gall. Where was she; and why had she left him? Was the Ambassador her uncle or her lover? Had they plotted? Was she forced? Was she married? Was she dead?⁠—all of which so drove their venom into him that, as if to vent his agony somewhere, he plunged his quill so deep into the inkhorn that the ink spurted over the table, which act, explain it how one may (and no explanation perhaps is possible⁠—Memory is inexplicable), at once substituted for the face of the Princess a face of a very different sort. But whose was it, he asked himself?