After the hermit left her, Viola found a secret place in the garden where she had often gone to be alone with her most intimate thoughts, and carefully unwrapped the bundle he had given her. She caught her breath as she saw the exquisitely worked silver of the mirror's frame and handle, and then looked into it, as maidens will do. She did not immediately notice anything magical about the mirror, but she did think, without vanity, that she was looking exceptionally pretty today, and she smiled bashfully at her own reflection. And when she did so, the beauty and radiance of her own smile smote her heart, and she thought, again without any vanity or self-consciousness, that she was, after all, lovely and lovable. She re-wrapped the precious thing in its cloth bundle, and hiding it in her bodice next to her heart, she stole back into her chamber and quietly placed it in her secret place next to the rose, under a loose flagstone hidden beneath a pretty silk rug embroidered with flowers.
Thereafter, she went often and looked at her reflection, for it filled her with joy and happiness which she did not quite understand, to see herself as the mirror showed her. And before long, she started to suspect that there was something unusual about this mirror, for her image in other looking-glasses in the castle did not please her as this one did. Her suspicions became certainty when, one night, she held the mirror at arm's length as she was undressing for bed, and saw that there was no scar on her breast. So shocked was she that she dropped it, but thankfully, it did not break. But her heart sank as low again as it had been exalted a moment before, when she looked down and saw the scar still there. She was so angry and disappointed, that she picked up the mirror with the intent to break it on purpose for lying to her; but when she looked in it, her anger melted and she stowed it safely again in its covert.
That night, she thought of Sir Perditus and what his gift could mean, and she was still thinking of him next morning when she looked again in the mirror, and discovered its other use. For as she thought of him, her own image faded and disappeared, and she saw him struggling and fighting his way through a thick forest, cutting at branches and brambles with his sword. And as he cut, he sang a song in rhythm to his strokes, and the song was about her. She blushed furiously, though no one could see her, and looked away as if she had been caught doing something naughty, then hid the mirror away.
Then began for her a struggle in her own heart. For she was determined not to look again, nor to watch him, and to convince herself that she did not want to see him nor know what he was doing. But try as she might, she would weaken from time to time and look--sometimes just for a glance, but sometimes she would give in altogether, looking long and watching as he faced the wood, the river, the plain, and the mountains, and listening as he sang, or recited poetry, or prayed, always about her. And although she believed that his love was based on naivety and ignorance of her hidden ugliness, and knew that she could never accept his love, still it filled her heart and gave her joy to know that someone loved her so, and thought so well of her, and she began to find a courage and confidence that she had never had before, although she herself did not fully recognize what was happening in her heart.
She began to go on long rides, alone, on her beautiful palomino palfrey, and ever she rode further afield from the safety of the castle, and deeper into the farmlands and forests of her father's kingdom, until she even came to its borders and crossed them. She knew that she was putting herself in danger, but she refused all escort, even stubbornly sneaking away after her father had outright forbidden her to go alone any longer, until her parents finally resigned themselves to allowing her her will, for it seemed that the only alternative was to make her a prisoner by force. She could not have said why she did so. Part of her, perhaps, desired to punish her parents for her loneliness, for though she knew in her mind that her father had not meant for her to be hurt, and how sorry he was, still something deep within her held him to blame. Another part of her, maybe, simply desired to break free of their control, for though the rational part of her knew that they had been so very protective of her out of love, something else within her resented the prison which their love had made for her. And perhaps, even, there was part of her which thought that she herself ought to be punished, and that by exposing herself as she did, she was inviting what she really deserved. But perhaps there was another, even more secret part, which was hoping that, if she did fall into danger, that someone would be there to rescue her. She would not have admitted even to herself who she hoped it would be, and even if she had, she would have known that it was impossible, for she had driven him far away, and he could not return unless she herself made the way for him.
But as the days, and weeks, and months passed, something else began to happen on her little adventures, as she called them to herself. She began to see, and talk with, the people who lived in the villages and countryside. And she beheld their needs, for they were simple and humble folk, and her heart was deeply moved within her. She began to bring things from the castle to give away to those who were poor. She stopped and visited with the infirm, the sick, and the lonely, and she would bring her harp with her and play and sing for them, for she loved the joy which it brought to their faces. And the people began to truly love her, not just as a princess and a rumour of beauty and loveliness, but as a woman of tender heart and sweet compassion.
One day, as she rode through a hamlet, she found that a house had been consumed by fire. The family had escaped, but they had lost all their possessions and, worst of all, the young daughter, a pretty girl just in the first bloom of maidenhood, had only just escaped. Her hair had been burned, and she lay on the ground, hiding her head in shame and weeping to break one's heart. Viola turned silently and rode away, but stopped at the nearest town where she knew there was a wigmaker. Him she ordered, though he was loathe to obey, to cut her own long, gorgeous, honey-golden hair and make a wig, and she returned to the hamlet next day with a purse full of gold for the father and a head full of gold for the girl, who was so pleased and overwhelmed that she threw herself on Viola's breast and wailed harder for gratitude than she had the day before for grief. The princess slept that night in her bed with a greater sense of happiness than she thought she had ever known. And she wasn't thinking about her scar.
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