that in a moment more she would throw herself at her father’s feet and implore mercy, making whatever promise he exacted, yet making it falsely, out of sheer terror, in an utter degradation and abasement of all moral strength, of which she had never even dreamed.  She grew giddy as she felt it coming upon her, and the lights of the two candles moved strangely.  Already she saw herself on her knees, sobbing with fear, trying to take her father’s hand, begging forgiveness, denying her love, vowing submission and dutiful obedience in an agony of terror.  For on the other side she saw the dark corridors and gloomy cells of Las Huelgas, the veiled and silent nuns, the abomination of despair that was before her till she should die and escape at last,—­the faint hope which would always prevent her from taking the veil herself, yet a hope fainter and fainter, crossed by the frightful uncertainty in which she should be kept by those who guarded her.  They would not even tell her whether the man she loved were alive or dead, she could never know whether he had given up her love, himself in despair, or whether, then, as years went by, he would not lose the thread that took him back to the memory of her, and forget—­and love again.

But then her strong nature rose again, and the vision of fear began to fade as her faith in his love denied the last thought with scorn.  Many a time, when words could tell no more, and seemed exhausted just when trust was strongest, he had simply said, “I love you, as you love me,” and somehow the little phrase meant all, and far more than the tender speeches that sometimes formed themselves so gracefully, and yet naturally and simply, because they, too, came straight from the heart.  So now, in her extreme need, the plain words came back to her in his voice, “I love you, as you love me,” with a sudden strength of faith in him that made her live again, and made fear seem impossible.  While her father slowly paced the floor in silence, she thought what she should do, and whether there could be anything which she would not do, if Don John of Austria were kept a prisoner from her; and she felt sure that she could overcome every obstacle and laugh at every danger, for the hope of getting to him.  If she would, so would he, since he loved her as she loved him.  But for all the world, he would not have her throw herself upon her father’s mercy and make false promises and sob out denials of her love, out of fear.  Death would be better than that.

“Do as you will with me, since you have the power,” she said at last, quite calmly and steadily.

Instantly the old man stopped in his walk, and turned towards her, almost as if he himself were afraid now.  To her amazement she saw that his dark eyes were moist with tears that clung but half shed to the rugged lids and rough lashes.  He did not speak for some moments, while she gazed at him in wonder, for she could not understand.  Then all at once he lifted his brown hands and covered his face with a gesture of utter despair.