Don John was a man not easily taken off his guard, but he started perceptibly at Dolores’ question.  He did not change colour, however, nor did his eyes waver; he looked fixedly into her face.

“No lady has been here,” he answered quietly.

Dolores doubted the evidence of her own senses.  Her belief in the man she loved was so great that his words seemed at first to have destroyed and swept away what must have been a bad dream, or a horrible illusion, and her face was quiet and happy again as she passed him and went in through the open entrance.  She found herself in a vestibule from which doors opened to the right and left.  He turned in the latter direction, leading the way into the room.

It was his bedchamber.  Built in the Moorish manner, the vaulting began at the height of a man’s head, springing upward in bold and graceful curves to a great height.  The room was square and very large, and the wall below the vault was hung with very beautiful tapestries representing the battle of Pavia, the surrender of Francis the First, and a sort of apotheosis of the Emperor Charles, the father of Don John.  There were two tall windows, which were quite covered by curtains of a dark brocade, in which the coats of Spain and the Empire were woven in colours at regular intervals; and opposite them, with the head to the wall, stood a vast curtained bedstead with carved posts twice a man’s height.  The vaulting had been cut on that side, in order that the foot of the bed might stand back against the wall.  The canopy had coats of arms at the four corners, and the curtains were of dark green corded silk, heavily embroidered with gold thread in the beautiful scrolls and arabesques of the period of the Renascence.  A carved table, dark and polished, stood half way between the foot of the bedstead and the space between the windows, where a magnificent kneeling-stool with red velvet cushions was placed under a large crucifix.  Half a dozen big chairs were ranged against the long walls on each side of the room, and two commodious folding chairs with cushions of embossed leather were beside the table.  Opposite the door by which Dolores had entered, another communicated with the room beyond.  Both were carved and ornamented with scroll work of gilt bronze, but were without curtains.  Three or four Eastern, rugs covered the greater part of the polished marble pavement, which here and there reflected the light of the tall wax torches that stood on the table in silver candlesticks, and on each side of the bed upon low stands.  The vault above the tapestried walls was very dark blue, and decorated with gilded stars in relief.  Dolores thought the room gloomy, and almost funereal.  The bed looked like a catafalque, the candles like funeral torches, and the whole place breathed the magnificent discomfort of royalty, and seemed hardly intended for a human habitation.

Dolores barely glanced at it all, as her companion locked the first door and led her on to the next room.  He knew that he had not many minutes to spare, and was anxious that she should be in her hiding-place before his servants came back.  She followed him and went in.  Unlike the bedchamber, the small study was scantily and severely furnished.  It contained only a writing-table, two simple chairs, a straight-backed divan covered with leather, and a large chest of black oak bound with ornamented steel work.  The window was curtained with dark stuff, and two wax candles burned steadily beside the writing-materials that were spread out ready for use.

“This is the room,” Don John said, speaking for the first time since they had entered the apartments.

Dolores let her head fall back, and began to loosen her cloak at her throat without answering him.  He helped her, and laid the long garment upon the divan.  Then he turned and saw her in the full light of the candles, looking at him, and he uttered an exclamation.

“What is it?” she asked almost dreamily.

“You are very beautiful,” he answered in a low voice.  “You are the most beautiful woman I ever saw.”

The merest girl knows the tone of a man whose genuine admiration breaks out unconsciously in plain words, and Dolores was a grown woman.  A faint colour rose in her cheek, and her lips parted to smile, but her eyes were grave and anxious, for the doubt had returned, and would not be thrust away.  She had seen the lady in the cloak and veil during several seconds, and though Dolores, who had been watching the men who passed, had not actually seen her come out of Don John’s apartments, but had been suddenly aware of her as she glided by, it seemed out of the question that she should have come from any other place.  There was neither niche nor embrasure between the door and the corridor, in which the lady could have been hidden, and it was hardly conceivable that she should have been waiting outside for some mysterious purpose, and should not have fled as soon as she heard the two officers coming out, since she evidently wished to escape observation.  On the other hand, Don John had quietly denied that any woman had been there, which meant at all events that he had not seen any one.  It could mean nothing else.

Dolores was neither foolishly jealous nor at all suspicious by nature, and the man was her ideal of truthfulness and honour.  She stood looking at him, resting one hand on the table, while he came slowly towards her, moving almost unconsciously in the direction of her exquisite beauty, as a plant lifts itself to the sun at morning.  He was near to her, and he stretched out his arms as if to draw her to him.  She smiled then, for in his eyes she forgot her trouble for a moment, and she would have kissed him.  But suddenly his face grew grave, and he set his teeth, and instead of taking her into his arms, he took one of her hands and raised it to his lips, as if it had been the hand of his brother’s wife, the young Queen.

“Why?” she asked in surprise, and with a little start.

“You are here under my protection,” he answered.  “Let me have my own way.”

“Yes, I understand.  How good you are to me!” She paused, and then went on, seating herself upon one of the chairs by the table as she spoke.  “You must leave me now,” she said.  “You must lock me in and keep the key.  Then I shall know that I am safe; and in the meantime you must decide how I am to escape ­it will not be easy.”  She stopped again.  “I wonder who that woman was!” she exclaimed at last.

“There was no woman here,” replied Don John, as quietly and assuredly as before.

He was leaning upon the table at the other side, with both hands resting upon it, looking at her beautiful hair as she bent her head.

“Say that you did not see her,” she said, “not that she was not here, for she passed me after all the men, walking very cautiously to make no noise; and when she was in the corridor she ran ­she was young and light-footed.  I could not see her face.”

“You believe me, do you not?” asked Don John, bending over the table a little, and speaking very anxiously.

She turned her face up instantly, her eyes wide and bright.

“Should I be here if I did not trust you and believe you?” she asked almost fiercely.  “Do you think ­do you dare to think ­that I would have passed your door if I had supposed that another woman had been here before me, and had been turned out to make room for me, and would have stayed here ­here in your room ­if you had not sent her away?  If I had thought that, I would have left you at your door forever.  I would have gone back to my father.  I would have gone to Las Huelgas to-morrow, and not to be a prisoner, but to live and die there in the only life fit for a broken-hearted woman.  Oh, no!  You dare not think that, ­you who would dare anything!  If you thought that, you could not love me as I love you, ­believing, trusting, staking life and soul on your truth and faith!”

The generous spirit had risen in her eyes, roused not against him, but by all his question might be made to mean; and as she met his look of grateful gladness her anger broke away, and left only perfect love and trust behind it.

“A man would die for you, and wish he might die twice,” he answered, standing upright, as if a weight had been taken from him and he were free to breathe.

She looked up at the pale, strong features of the young fighter, who was so great and glorious almost before the down had thickened on his lip; and she saw something almost above nature in his face, ­something high and angelic, yet manly and well fitted to face earthly battles.  He was her sun, her young god, her perfect image of perfection, the very source of her trust.  It would have killed her to doubt him.  Her whole soul went up to him in her eyes; and as he was ready to die for her, she knew that for him she would suffer every anguish death could hold, and not flinch.

Then she looked down, and suddenly laughed a little oddly, and her finger pointed towards the pens and paper.

“She has left something behind,” she said.  “She was clever to get in here and slip out again without being seen.”

Don John looked where she pointed, and saw a small letter folded round the stems of two white carnations, and neatly tied with a bit of twisted silk.  It was laid between the paper and the bronze inkstand, and half hidden by the broad white feather of a goose-quill pen, that seemed to have been thrown carelessly across the flowers.  It lay there as if meant to be found, only by one who wrote, and not to attract too much attention.

“Oh!” he exclaimed, in a rather singular tone, as he saw it, and a boyish blush reddened his face.

Then he took the letter and drew out the two flowers by the blossoms very carefully.  Dolores watched him.  He seemed in doubt as to what he should do; and the blush subsided quickly, and gave way to a look of settled annoyance.  The carnations were quite fresh, and had evidently not been plucked more than an hour.  He held them up a moment and looked at them, then laid them down again and took the note.  There was no writing on the outside.  Without opening it he held it to the flame of the candle, but Dolores caught his wrist.

“Why do you not read it?” she asked quickly.

“Dear, I do not know who wrote it, and I do not wish to know anything you do not know also.”

“You have no idea who the woman is?” Dolores looked at him wonderingly.

“Not the very least,” he answered with a smile.

“But I should like to know so much!” she cried.  “Do read it and tell me.  I do not understand the thing at all.”

“I cannot do that.”  He shook his head.  “That would be betraying a woman’s secret.  I do not know who it is, and I must not let you know, for that would not be honourable.”

“You are right,” she said, after a pause.  “You always are.  Burn it.”

He pushed the point of a steel erasing-knife through the piece of folded paper and held it over the flame.  It turned brown, crackled and burst into a little blaze, and in a moment the black ashes fell fluttering to the table.

“What do you suppose it was?” asked Dolores innocently, as Don John brushed the ashes away.

“Dear ­it is very ridiculous ­I am ashamed of it, and I do not quite know how to explain it to you.”  Again he blushed a little.  “It seems strange to speak of it ­I never even told my mother.  At first I used to open them, but now I generally burn them like this one.”

“Generally!  Do you mean to say that you often find women’s letters with flowers in them on your table?”

“I find them everywhere,” answered Don John, with perfect simplicity.  “I have found them in my gloves, tied into the basket hilt of my sword ­often they are brought to me like ordinary letters by a messenger who waits for an answer.  Once I found one on my pillow!”

“But” ­Dolores hesitated ­“but are they ­are they all from the same person?” she asked timidly.  Don John laughed, and shook his head.

“She would need to be a very persistent and industrious person,” he answered.  “Do you not understand?”

“No.  Who are these women who persecute you with their writing?  And why do they write to you?  Do they want you to help them?”

“Not exactly that;” he was still smiling.  “I ought not to laugh, I suppose.  They are ladies of the court sometimes, and sometimes others, and I ­I fancy that they want me to ­how shall I say? ­to begin by writing them letters of the same sort.”

“What sort of letters?”

“Why ­love letters,” answered Don John, driven to extremity in spite of his resistance.

“Love letters!” cried Dolores, understanding at last.  “Do you mean to say that there are women whom you do not know, who tell you that they love you before you have ever spoken to them?  Do you mean that a lady of the court, whom you have probably never even seen, wrote that note and tied it up with flowers and risked everything to bring it here, just in the hope that you might notice her?  It is horrible!  It is vile!  It is shameless!  It is beneath anything!”

“You say she was a lady ­you saw her.  I did not.  But that is what she did, whoever she may be.”

“And there are women like that ­here, in the palace!  How little I know!”

“And the less you learn about the world, the better,” answered the young soldier shortly.

“But you have never answered one, have you?” asked Dolores, with a scorn that showed how sure she was of his reply.

“No.”  He spoke thoughtfully.  “I once thought of answering one.  I meant to tell her that she was out of her senses, but I changed my mind.  That was long ago, before I knew you ­when I was eighteen.”

“Ever since you were a boy!”

The look of wonder was not quite gone from her face yet, but she was beginning to understand more clearly, though still very far from distinctly.  It did not occur to her once that such things could be temptations to the brilliant young leader whom every woman admired and every man flattered, and that only his devoted love for her had kept him out of ignoble adventures since he had grown to be a man.  Had she seen that, she would have loved him even better, if it were possible.  It was all, as she had said, shameless and abominable.  She had thought that she knew much of evil, and she had even told him so that evening, but this was far beyond anything she had dreamt of in her innocent thoughts, and she instinctively felt that there were lower depths of degradation to which a woman could fall, and of which she would not try to guess the vileness and horror.

“Shall I burn the flowers, too?” asked Don John, taking them in his hand.

“The flowers?  No.  They are innocent and fresh.  What have they to do with her?  Give them to me.”

He raised them to his lips, looking at her, and then held them out.  She took them, and kissed them, as he had done, and they both smiled happily.  Then she fastened them in her hair.

“No one will see me to-night but you,” she said.  “I may wear flowers in my hair like a peasant woman!”

“How they make the gold gleam!” he exclaimed, as he looked.  “It is almost time that my men came back,” he said sadly.  “When I go down to the court, I shall dismiss them.  After the royal supper I shall try and come here again and see you.  By that time everything will be arranged.  I have thought of almost everything already.  My mother will provide you with everything you need.  To-morrow evening I can leave this place myself to go and see her, as I always do.”

He always spoke of Dona Magdalena Quixada as his mother ­he had never known his own.

Dolores rose from her seat, for he was ready to go.

“I trust you in everything,” she said simply.  “I do not need to know how you will accomplish it all ­it is enough to know that you will.  Tell Inez, if you can ­protect her if my father is angry with her.”

He held out his hand to take hers, and she was going to give it, as she had done before.  But it was too little.  Before he knew it she had thrown her arms round his neck, and was kissing him, with little cries and broken words of love.  Then she drew back suddenly.

“I could not help it,” she said.  “Now lock me in.  No ­do not say good-by ­even for two hours!”

“I will come back as soon as I can,” he answered, and with a long look he left her, closed the door and locked it after him, leaving her alone.

She stood a few moments looking at the panels as if her sight could pierce them and reach him on the other side, and she tried to hold the last look she had seen in his eyes.  Hardly two minutes had elapsed before she heard voices and footsteps in the bedchamber.  Don John spoke in short sentences now and then to his servants, and his voice was commanding though it was kindly.  It seemed strange to be so near him in his life; she wondered whether she should some day always be near him, as she was now, and nearer; she blushed, all alone.  So many things had happened, and he and she had found so much to say that nothing had been said at all of what was to follow her flight to Villagarcia.  She was to leave for the Quixadas’ house before morning, but Quixada and his wife could not protect her against her father, if he found out where she was, unless she were married.  After that, neither Mendoza nor any one else, save the King himself, would presume to interfere with the liberty of Don John of Austria’s wife.  All Spain would rise to protect her ­she was sure of that.  But they had said nothing about a marriage and had wasted time over that unknown woman’s abominable letter.  Since she reasoned it out to herself, she saw that in all probability the ceremony would take place as soon as Don John reached Villagarcia.  He was powerful enough to demand the necessary permission of the Archbishop, and he would bring it with him; but no priest, even in the absence of a written order, would refuse to marry him if he desired it.  Between the real power he possessed and the vast popularity he enjoyed, he could command almost anything.

She heard his voice distinctly just then, though she was not listening for it.  He was telling a servant to bring white shoes.  The fact struck her because she had never seen him wear any that were not black or yellow.  She smiled and wished that she might bring him his white shoes and hang his order of the Golden Fleece round his neck, and breathe on the polished hilt of his sword and rub it with soft leather.  She had seen Eudaldo furbish her father’s weapons in that way since she had been a child.

It had all come so suddenly in the end.  Shading her eyes from the candles with her hand, she rested one elbow on the table, and tried to think of what should naturally have happened, of what must have happened if the unknown voice among the courtiers had not laughed and roused her father’s anger and brought all the rest.  Don John would have come to the door, and Eudaldo would have let him in ­because no one could refuse him anything and he was the King’s brother.  He would have spent half an hour with her in the little drawing-room, and it would have been a constrained meeting, with Inez near, though she would presently have left them alone.  Then, by this time, she would have gone down with the Duchess Alvarez and the other maids of honour, and by and by she would have followed the Queen when she entered the throne room with the King and Don John; and she might not have exchanged another word with the latter for a whole day, or two days.  But now it seemed almost certain that she was to be his wife within the coming week.  He was in the next room.

“Do not put the sword away,” she heard him say.  “Leave it here on the table.”

Of course; what should he do with a sword in his court dress?  But if he had met her father in the corridor, coming to her after the supper, he would have been unarmed.  Her father, on the contrary, being on actual duty, wore the sword of his rank, like any other officer of the guards, and the King wore a rapier as a part of his state dress.

She was astonished at the distinctness with which she heard what was said in the next room.  That was doubtless due to the construction of the vault, as she vaguely guessed.  It was true that Don John spoke very clearly, but she could hear the servants’ subdued answers almost as well, when she listened.  It seemed to her that he took but a very short time to dress.

“I have the key of that room,” he said presently.  “I have my papers there.  You are at liberty till midnight.  My hat, my gloves.  Call my gentlemen, one of you, and tell them to meet me in the corridor.”

She could almost hear him drawing on his gloves.  One of the servants went out.

“Fadrique,” said Don John, “leave out my riding-cloak.  I may like to walk on the terrace in the moonlight, and it is cold.  Have my drink ready at midnight and wait for me.  Send Gil to sleep, for he was up last night.”

There was a strange pleasure in hearing his familiar orders and small directions and in seeing how thoughtful he was for his servants.  She knew that he had always refused to be surrounded by valets and gentlemen-in-waiting, and lived very simply when he could, but it was different to be brought into such close contact with his life.  There was a wonderful gentleness in his ways that contrasted widely with her father’s despotic manner and harsh tone when he gave orders.  Mendoza believed himself the type and model of a soldier and a gentleman, and he maintained that without rigid discipline there could be no order and no safety at home or in the army.  But between him and Don John there was all the difference that separates the born leader of men from the mere martinet.

Dolores listened.  It was clear that Don John was not going to send Fadrique away in order to see her again before he went down to the throne room, though she had almost hoped he might.

On the contrary, some one else came.  She heard Fadrique announce him.

“The Captain Don Juan de Escobedo is in waiting, your Highness,” said the servant.  “There is also Adonis.”

“Adonis!” Don John laughed, not at the name, for it was familiar to him, but at the mere mention of the person who bore it and who was the King’s dwarf jester, Miguel de Antona, commonly known by his classic nickname.  “Bring Adonis here ­he is an old friend.”

The door opened again, and Dolores heard the well-known voice of the hunchback, clear as a woman’s, scornful and full of evil laughter, ­the sort of voice that is heard instantly in a crowd, though it is not always recognizable.  The fellow came in, talking loud.

“Ave Cæsar!” he cried from the door.  “Hail, conqueror!  All hail, thou favoured of heaven, of man, ­and of the ladies!”

“The ladies too?” laughed Don John, probably amused by the dwarfs antics.  “Who told you that?”

“The cook, sir.  For as you rode up to the gate this afternoon a scullery maid saw you from the cellar grating and has been raving mad ever since, singing of the sun, moon, and undying love, until the kitchen is more like a mad-house than this house would be if the Day of Judgment came before or after Lent.”

“Do you fast in Lent, Adonis?”

“I fast rigidly three times a day, my lord conqueror, ­no, six, for I eat nothing either just before or just after my breakfast, my dinner, and my supper.  No monk can do better than that, for at those times I eat nothing at all.”

“If you said your prayers as often as you fast, you would be in a good way,” observed Don John.

“I do, sir.  I say a short grace before and after eating.  Why have you come to Madrid, my lord?  Do you not know that Madrid is the worst, the wickedest, the dirtiest, vilest, and most damnable habitation devised by man for the corruption of humanity?  Especially in the month of November?  Has your lordship any reasonable reason for this unreason of coming here, when the streets are full of mud, and men’s hearts are packed like saddle-bags with all the sins they have accumulated since Easter and mean to unload at Christmas?  Even your old friends are shocked to see so young and honest a prince in such a place!”

“My old friends?  Who?”

“I saw Saint John the Conqueror graciously wave his hand to a most highly respectable old nobleman this afternoon, and the nobleman was so much shocked that he could not stir an arm to return the salutation!  His legs must have done something, though, for he seemed to kick his own horse up from the ground under him.  The shock must have been terrible.  As for me, I laughed aloud, which made both the old nobleman and Don Julius Cæsar of Austria exceedingly angry.  Get before me, Don Fadrique!  I am afraid of the terror of the Moors, ­and no shame to me either!  A poor dwarf, against a man who tears armies to shreds, ­and sends scullery maids into hysterics!  What is a poor crippled jester compared with a powerful scullery maid or an army of heathen Moriscoes?  Give me that sword, Fadrique, or I am a dead man!”

But Don John was laughing good-naturedly.

“So it was you, Adonis?  I might have-known your voice, I should think.”

“No one ever knows my voice, sir.  It is not a voice, it is a freak of grammar.  It is masculine, feminine, and neuter in gender, singular by nature, and generally accusative, and it is optative in mood and full of acute accents.  If you can find such another voice in creation, sir, I will forfeit mine in the King’s councils.”

Adonis laughed now, and Dolores remembered the laughter she had heard from the window.

“Does his Majesty consult you on matters of state?” inquired Don John.  “Answer quickly, for I must be going.”

“It takes twice as long to tell a story to two men, as to tell it to one, ­when you have to tell them different stories,”

“Go, Fadrique,” said Don John, “and shut the door.”

The dwarf, seeing the servant gone, beckoned Don John to the other side of the room.

“It is no great secret, being only the King’s,” he said.  “His Majesty bids me tell your Serene Highness that he wishes to speak with you privately about some matters, and that he will come here soon after supper, and begs you to be alone.”

“I will be here ­alone.”

“Excellent, sir.  Now there is another matter of secrecy which is just the contrary of what I have told you, for it is a secret from the King.  A lady laid a letter and two white carnations on your writing-table.  If there is any answer to be taken, I will take it.”

“There is none,” answered Don John sternly, “Tell the lady that I burned the letter without reading it.  Go, Adonis, and the next time you come here, do not bring messages from women.  Fadrique!”

“Your Highness burned the letter without reading it?”

“Yes.  Fadrique!”

“I am sorry,” said the dwarf, in a low voice.

No more words were spoken, and in a few moments there was deep silence, for they were all gone, and Dolores was alone, locked into the little room.