Whenever he had seen the widow this subconsciousness had asserted itself, forewarning him that he had known her long before that transatlantic voyage.

Now, under a light of fantastic splendor, these vague thoughts assumed definite shape.
The sleeper thought he was looking at Freya clad in a bodice with flowing sleeves adjusted to the arms with filagree buttons of gold; some rather barbarous gems were adorning her bosom and ears, and a flowered skirt was covering the rest of her person.

It was the classic costume of a farmer's wife or daughter of other centuries that he had seen somewhere in a painting.

Where ?...

Where ?...
"Dona Constanza!..." Freya was the counterpart of that august Byzantian queen.