Dolores knew that there was no time to reflect as to what she should do,
if her father found her hiding in the embrasure, and yet in those short
seconds a hundred possibilities flashed through her disturbed thoughts.
She might slip past him and run for her life down the corridor, or she
might draw her hood over her face and try to pretend that she was some
one else,--but he would recognize the hood itself as belonging to
Inez,--or she might turn and lean upon the window-sill, indifferently,
as if she had a right to be there, and he might take her for some lady
of the court, and pass on. And yet she could not decide which to
attempt, and stood still, pressing herself against the wall of the
embrasure, and quite forgetful of the fact that the bright moonlight
fell unhindered through all the other windows upon the pavement, whereas
she cast a shadow from the one in which she was standing, and that any
one coming along the corridor would notice it and stop to see who was
there.
There was something fateful and paralyzing in the regular footfall that
was followed instantly by the short echo from the vault above. It was
close at hand now she was sure that at the very next instant she should
see her father's face, yet nothing came, except the sound, for that
deceived her in the silence and seemed far nearer than it was. She had
heard horrible ghost stories of the old Alcazar, and as a child she had
been frightened by tales of evil things that haunted the corridors at
night, of wraiths and goblins and Moorish wizards who dwelt in secret
vaults, where no one knew, and came out in the dark, when all was still,
to wander in the moonlight, a terror to the living. The girl felt the
thrill of unearthly fear at the roots of her hair, and trembled, and the
sound seemed to be magnified till it reëchoed like thunder, though it
was only the noise of an advancing footfall, with a little jingling of
spurs.
But at last there was no doubt. It was close to her, and she shut her
eyes involuntarily. She heard one step more on the stones, and then
there was silence. She knew that her father had seen her, had stopped
before her, and was looking at her. She knew how his rough brows were
knitting themselves together, and that even in the pale moonlight his
eyes were fierce and angry, and that his left hand was resting on the
hilt of his sword, the bony brown fingers tapping the basket nervously.
An hour earlier, or little more, she had faced him as bravely as any
man, but she could not face him now, and she dared not open her eyes.
"Madam, are you ill, or in trouble?" asked a young voice that was soft
and deep.
She opened her eyes with a sharp cry that was not of fear, and she threw
back her hood with one hand as the looked.
Don John of Austria was there, a step from her, the light full on his
face, bareheaded, his cap in his hand, bending a little towards her, as
one does towards a person one does not know, but who seems to be in
distress and to need help. Against the whiteness without he could not
see her face, nor could he recognize her muffled figure.
"Can I not help you, Madam?" asked the kind voice again, very gravely.
Then she put out her hands towards him and made a step, and as the hood
fell quite back with the silk kerchief, he saw her golden hair in the
silver light. Slowly and in wonder, and still not quite believing, he
moved to meet her movement, took her hands in his, drew her to him,
turned her face gently, till he saw it well. Then he, too, uttered a
little sound that was neither a word nor a syllable nor a cry--a sound
that was half fierce with strong delight as his lips met hers, and his
hands were suddenly at her waist lifting her slowly to his own height,
though he did not know it, pressing her closer and closer to him, as if
that one kiss were the first and last that ever man gave woman.
A minute passed, and yet neither he nor she could speak. She stood with
her hands clasped round his neck, and her head resting on his breast
just below the shoulder, as if she were saying tender words to the heart
she heard beating so loud through the soft black velvet. She knew that
it had never beaten in battle as it was beating now, and she loved it
because it knew her and welcomed her; but her own stood still, and now
and then it fluttered wildly, like a strong young bird in a barred cage,
and then was quite still again. Bending his face a little, he softly
kissed her hair again and again, till at last the kisses formed
themselves into syllables and words, which she felt rather than heard.
"God in heaven, how I love you--heart of my heart--life of my life--love
of my soul!"
And again he repeated the same words, and many more like them, with
little change, because at that moment he had neither thought nor care
for anything else in the world, not for life nor death nor kingdom nor
glory, in comparison with the woman he loved. He could not hear her
answers, for she spoke without words to his heart, hiding her face where
she heard it throbbing, while her lips pressed many kisses on the
velvet.
Then, as thought returned, and the first thought was for him, she drew
back a little with a quick movement, and looked up to him with
frightened and imploring eyes.
"We must go!" she cried anxiously, in a very low voice. "We cannot stay
here. My father is very angry--he swore on his word of honour that he
would kill you if you tried to see me to-night!"
Don John laughed gently, and his eyes brightened. Before she could speak
again, he held her close once more, and his kisses were on her cheeks
and her eyes, on her forehead and on her hair, and then again upon her
lips, till they would have hurt her if she had not loved them so, and
given back every one. Then she struggled again, and he loosed his hold.
"It is death to stay here," she said very earnestly.
"It is worse than death to leave you," he answered. "And I will not," he
added an instant later, "neither for the King, nor for your father, nor
for any royal marriage they may try to force upon me."
She looked into his eyes for a moment, before she spoke, and there was
deep and true trust in her own.
"Then you must save me," she said quietly. "He has vowed that I shall be
sent to the convent of Las Huelgas to-morrow morning. He locked me into
the inner room, but Inez helped me to dress, and I got out under her
cloak."
She told him in a few words what she had done and had meant to do, in
order to see him, and how she had taken his step for her father's. He
listened gravely, and she saw his face harden slowly in an expression
she had scarcely ever seen there. When she had finished her story he was
silent for a moment.
"We are quite safe here," he said at last, "safer than anywhere else, I
think, for your father cannot come back until the King goes to supper.
For myself, I have an hour, but I have been so surrounded and pestered
by visitors in my apartments that I have not found time to put on a
court dress--and without vanity, I presume that I am a necessary figure
at court this evening. Your father is with Perez, who seems to be acting
as master of ceremonies and of everything else, as well as the King's
secretary--they have business together, and the General will not have a
moment. I ascertained that, before coming here, or I should not have
come at this hour. We are safe from him here, I am sure."
"You know best," answered Dolores, who was greatly reassured by what he
said about Mendoza.
"Let us sit down, then. You must be tired after all you have done. And
we have much to say to each other."
"How could I be tired now?" she asked, with a loving smile; but she sat
down on the stone seat in the embrasure, close to the window.
It was just wide enough for two to sit there, and Don John took his
place beside her, and drew one of her hands silently to him between both
his own, and kissed the tips of her fingers a great many times. But he
felt that she was watching his face, and he looked up and saw her
eyes--and then, again, many seconds passed before either could speak.
They were but a boy and girl together, loving each other in the tender
first love of early youth, for the victor of the day, the subduer of the
Moors, the man who had won back Granada, who was already High Admiral of
Spain, and who in some ten months from that time was to win a decisive
battle of the world at Lepanto, was a stripling of twenty-three
summers--and he had first seen Dolores when he was twenty and she
seventeen, and now it was nearly two years since they had met.
He was the first to speak, for he was a man of quick and unerring
determinations that led to actions as sudden as they were bold and
brilliant, and what Dolores had told him of her quarrel with her father
was enough to rouse his whole energy at once. At all costs she must
never be allowed to pass the gates of Las Huelgas. Once within the
convent, by the King's orders, and a close prisoner, nothing short of a
sacrilegious assault and armed violence could ever bring her out into
the world again. He knew that, and that he must act instantly to prevent
it, for he knew Mendoza's character also, and had no doubt but that he
would do what he threatened. It was necessary to put Dolores beyond his
reach at once, and beyond the King's also, which was not an easy matter
within the walls of the King's own palace, and on such a night. Don John
had been but little at the court and knew next to nothing of its
intrigues, nor of the mutual relations of the ladies and high officers
who had apartments in the Alcazar. In his own train there were no women,
of course. Dolores' brother Rodrigo, who had fought by his side at
Granada, had begged to be left behind with the garrison, in order that
he might not be forced to meet his father. Doña Magdalena Quixada, Don
John's adoptive mother, was far away at Villagarcia. The Duchess
Alvarez, though fond of Dolores, was Mistress of the Robes to the young
Queen, and it was not to be hoped nor expected that she should risk the
danger of utter ruin and disgrace if it were discovered that she had
hidden the girl against the King's wishes. Yet it was absolutely
necessary that Dolores should be safely hidden within an hour, and that
she should be got out of the palace before morning, and if possible
conveyed to Villagarcia. Don John saw in a moment that there was no one
to whom he could turn.
Again he took Dolores' hand in his, but with a sort of gravity and
protecting authority that had not been in his touch the first time.
Moreover, he did not kiss her fingers now, and he resolutely looked at
the wall opposite him. Then, in a low and quiet voice, he laid the
situation before her, while she anxiously listened.
"You see," he said at last, "there is only one way left. Dolores, do you
altogether trust me?"
She started a little, and her fingers pressed his hand suddenly.
"Trust you? Ah, with all my soul!"
"Think well before you answer," he said. "You do not quite
understand--it is a little hard to put it clearly, but I must. I know
you trust me in many ways, to love you faithfully always, to speak truth
to you always, to defend you always, to help you with my life when you
shall be in need. You know that I love you so, as you love me. Have we
not often said it? You wrote it in your letter, too--ah, dear, I thank
you for that. Yes, I have read it--I have it here, near my heart, and I
shall read it again before I sleep--"
Without a word, and still listening, she bent down and pressed her lips
to the place where her letter lay. He touched her hair with his lips and
went on speaking, as she leaned back against the wall again.
"You must trust me even more than that, my beloved," he said. "To save
you, you must be hidden by some one whom I myself can trust--and for
such a matter there is no one in the palace nor in all Madrid--no one to
whom I can turn and know that you will be safe--not one human being,
except myself."
"Except yourself!" Dolores loved the words, and gently pressed his hand.
"I thank you, dearest heart--but do you know what that means? Do you
understand that I must hide you myself, in my own apartments, and keep
you there until I can take you out of the palace, before morning?"
She was silent for a few moments, turning her face away from him. His
heart sank.
"No, dear," he said sadly, "you do not trust me enough for that--I see
it--what woman could?"
Her hand trembled and started in his, then pressed it hard, and she
turned her face quite to him.
"You are wrong," she said, with a tremor in her voice. "I love you as no
man was ever loved by any woman, far beyond all that all words can say,
and I shall love you till I die, and after that, for ever--even if I can
never be your wife. I love you as no one loves in these days, and when I
say that it is as you love me, I mean a thousand fold for every word. I
am not the child you left nearly two years ago. I am a woman now, for I
have thought and seen much since then--and I love you better and more
than then. God knows, there is enough to see and to learn in this
court--that should be hidden deep from honest women's sight! You and I
shall have a heaven on this earth, if God grants that we may be joined
together--for I will live for you, and serve you, and smooth all trouble
out of your way--and ask nothing of you but your love. And if we cannot
marry, then I will live for you in my heart, and serve you with my soul,
and pray Heaven that harm may never touch you. I will pray so fervently
that God must hear me. And so will you pray for me, as you would fight
for me, if you could. Remember, if you will, that when you are in battle
for Spain, your sword is drawn for Spain's honour, and for the honour of
every Christian Spanish woman that lives--and for mine, too!"
The words pleased him, and his free hand was suddenly clenched.
"You would make cowards fight like wolves, if you could speak to them
like that!" he said.
"I am not speaking to cowards," she answered, with a loving smile. "I am
speaking to the man I love, to the best and bravest and truest man that
breathes--and not to Don John of Austria, the victorious leader, but to
you, my heart's love, my life, my all, to you who are good and brave and
true to me, as no man ever was to any woman. No--" she laughed happily,
and there were tears in her eyes--"no, there are no words for such love
as ours."
"May I be all you would have me, and much more," he said fervently, and
his voice shook in the short speech.
"I am giving you all I have, because it is not belief, it is certainty.
I know you are all that I say you are, and more too. And I trust you, as
you mean it, and as you need my trust to save me. Take me where you
will. Hide me in your own room if you must, and bolt and bar it if need
be. I shall be as safe with you as I should be with my mother in heaven.
I put my hands between yours."
Again he heard her sweet low laughter, full of joy and trust, and she
laid her hands together between his and looked into his eyes, straight
and clear. Then she spoke softly and solemnly.
"Into your hands I put my life, and my faith, and my maiden honour,
trusting them all to you alone in this world, as I trust them to God."
Don John held her hands tightly for a moment, still looking into her
eyes as if he could see her soul there, giving itself to his keeping.
But he swore no great oath, and made no long speech; for a man who has
led men to deeds of glory, and against whom no dishonourable thing was
ever breathed, knows that his word is good.
"You shall not regret that you trust me, and you will be quite safe," he
said.
She wanted no more. Loving as she did, she believed in him without
promises, yet she could not always believe that he quite knew how she
loved him.
"You are dearer to me than I knew," he said presently, breaking the
silence that followed. "I love you even more, and I thought it could
never be more, when I found you here a little while ago--because you do
really trust me."
"You knew it," the said, nestling to him. "But you wanted me to tell
you. Yes--we are nearer now."
"Far nearer--and a world more dear," he answered. "Do you know? In all
these months I have often and often again wondered how we should meet,
whether it would be before many people, or only with your sister Inez
there--or perhaps alone. But I did not dare hope for that."
"Nor I. I have dreamt of meeting you a hundred times--and more than
that! But there was always some one in the way. I suppose that if we had
found each other in the court and had only been able to say a few words,
it would have been a long time before we were quite ourselves
together--but now, it seems as if we had never been parted at all, does
it not?"
"As if we could never be parted again," he answered softly.
For a little while there was silence, and though there was to be a great
gathering of the court, that night, all was very still where the lovers
sat at the window, for the throne room and the great halls of state were
far away on the other side of the palace, and the corridor looked upon a
court through which few persons had to pass at night. Suddenly from a
distance there came the rhythmical beat of the Spanish drums, as some
detachment of troops marched by the outer gate. Don John listened.
"Those are my men," he said. "We must go, for now that they are below I
can send my people on errands with orders to them, until I am alone.
Then you must come in. At the end of my apartments there is a small
room, beyond my own. It is furnished to be my study, and no one will
expect to enter it at night. I must put you there, and lock the door and
take the key with me, so that no one can go in while I am at court--or
else you can lock it on the inside, yourself. That would be better,
perhaps," he added rather hurriedly.
"No," said the girl quietly. "I prefer that you should have the key. I
shall feel even safer. But how can I get there without being seen? We
cannot go so far together without meeting some one."
He rose, and she stood up beside him.
"My apartments open upon the broad terrace on the south side," he said.
"At this time there will be only two or three officers there, and my two
servants. Follow me at a little distance, with your hood over your face,
and when you reach the sentry-box at the corner where I turn off, go in.
There will be no sentinel there, and the door looks outward. I shall
send away every one, on different errands, in five minutes. When every
one is gone I will come for you. Is that clear?"
"Perfectly." She nodded, as if she had made quite sure of what he had
explained. Then she put up her hands, as if to say good-by. "Oh, if we
could only stay here in peace!" she cried.
He said nothing, for he knew that there was still much danger, and he
was anxious for her. He only pressed her hands and then led her away.
They followed the corridor together, side by side, to the turning. Then
he whispered to her to drop behind, and she let him go on a dozen paces
and followed him. The way was long, and ill lighted at intervals by oil
lamps hung from the vault by small chains; they cast a broad black
shadow beneath them, and shed a feeble light above. Several times
persons passed them, and Dolores' heart beat furiously. A court lady,
followed by a duenna and a serving-woman, stopped with a winning smile,
and dropped a low courtesy to Don John, who lifted his cap, bowed, and
went on. They did not look at Dolores. A man in a green cloth apron and
loose slippers, carrying five lighted lamps in a greasy iron tray,
passed with perfect indifference, and without paying the least attention
to the victor of Granada. It was his business to carry lamps in that
part of the palace--he was not a human being, but a lamplighter. They
went on, down a short flight of broad steps, and then through a wider
corridor where the lights were better, though the night breeze was
blowing in and made them flicker and flare.
A corporal's guard of the household halberdiers came swinging down at a
marching step, coming from the terrace beyond. The corporal crossed his
halberd in salute, but Don John stopped him, for he understood at once
that a sentry had been set at his door.
"I want no guard," he said. "Take the man away."
"The General ordered it, your Highness," answered the man, respectfully.
"Request your captain to report to the General that I particularly
desire no sentinel at my door. I have no possessions to guard except my
reputation, and I can take care of that myself." He laughed
good-naturedly.
The corporal grinned--he was a very dark, broad-faced man, with high
cheek bones, and ears that stuck out. He faced about with his three
soldiers, and followed Don John to the terrace--but in the distance he
had seen the hooded figure of a woman.
Not knowing what to do, for she had heard the colloquy, Dolores stood
still a moment, for she did not care to pass the soldiers as they came
back. Then she turned and walked a little way in the other direction, to
gain time, and kept on slowly. In less than a minute they returned,
bringing the sentinel with them. She walked slowly and counted them as
they went past her--and then she started as if she had been stung, and
blushed scarlet under her hood, for she distinctly heard the big
corporal laugh to himself when he had gone by. She knew, then, how she
trusted the man she loved.
When the soldiers had turned the corner and were out of sight, she ran
back to the terrace and hid herself in the stone sentry-box just
outside, still blushing and angry. On the side of the box towards Don
John's apartment there was a small square window just at the height of
her eyes, and she looked through it, sure that her face could not be
seen from without. She looked from mere curiosity, to see what sort of
men the officers were, and Don John's servants; for everything connected
with him or belonging to him in any way interested her most intensely.
Two tall captains came out first, magnificent in polished breastplates
with gold shoulder straps and sashes and gleaming basket-hilted swords,
that stuck up behind them as their owners pressed down the hilts and
strutted along, twisting their short black moustaches in the hope of
meeting some court lady on their way. Then another and older man passed,
also in a soldier's dress, but with bent head, apparently deep in
thought. After that no one came for some time--then a servant, who
pulled something out of his pocket and began to eat it, before he was in
the corridor.
Then a woman came past the little window. Dolores saw her as distinctly
as she had seen the four men. She came noiselessly and stealthily,
putting down her foot delicately, like a cat. She was a lady, and she
wore a loose cloak that covered all her gown, and on her head a thick
veil, drawn fourfold across her face. Her gait told the girl that she
was young and graceful--something in the turn of the head made her sure
that she was beautiful, too--something in the whole figure and bearing
was familiar. The blood sank from Dolores' cheeks, and she felt a chill
slowly rising to her heart. The lady entered the corridor and went on
quickly, turned, and was out of sight.
Then all at once, Dolores laughed to herself, noiselessly, and was happy
again, in spite of her danger. There was nothing to disturb her, she
reflected. The terrace was long, there were doubtless other apartments
beyond Don John's, though she had not known it. The lady had indeed
walked cautiously, but it might well be that she had reasons for not
being seen there, and that the further rooms were not hers. The Alcazar
was only an old Moorish castle, after all, restored and irregularly
enlarged, and altogether very awkwardly built, so that many of the
apartments could only be reached by crossing open terraces.
When Don John came to get her in the sentry-box, Dolores' momentary
doubt was gone, though not all her curiosity. She smiled as she came out
of her hiding-place and met his eyes--clear and true as her own. She
even hated herself for having thought that the lady could have come from
his apartment at all. The light was streaming from his open door as he
led her quickly towards it. There were three windows beyond it, and
there the terrace ended. She looked at the front as they were passing,
and counted again three windows between the open door and the corner
where the sentry-box stood.
"Who lives in the rooms beyond you?" she asked quickly.
"No one--the last is the one where you are to be." He seemed surprised.
They had reached the open door, and he stood aside to let her go in.
"And on this side?" she asked, speaking with a painful effort.
"My drawing-room and dining-room," he answered.
She paused and drew breath before she spoke again, and she pressed one
hand to her side under her cloak.
"Who was the lady who came from here when all the men were gone?" she
asked, very pale.
* * * * *