Mendoza lifted one of his hands from the sword hilt, and took hers, with as much gentleness as was possible to him.  His eyes became clear again, and the profound emotion he had shown subsided to the depths whence it had risen.

“We shall never quite understand each other,” he said quietly.  “You cannot see that it is a man’s duty to do what is right for his children, rather than to sacrifice that in order to make them love him.”

It seemed to Dolores that there might be a way open between the two, but she said nothing, and left her hand in his, glad that he was kind, but feeling, as he felt, that there could never be any real understanding between them.  The breach had existed too long, and it was far too wide.

“You are headstrong, my dear,” he said, nodding at each word.  “You are very headstrong, if you will only reflect.”

“It is not my head, it is my heart,” answered Dolores.  “And besides,” she added with a smile, “I am your daughter, and you are not of a very gentle and yielding disposition, are you?”

“No,” he answered with hesitation, “perhaps not.”  Then his face relaxed a little, and he almost smiled too.

It seemed as if the peace were made and as if thereafter there need not be trouble again.  But it was even then not far off, for it was as impossible for Mendoza to yield as it would have been for Dolores to give up her love for Don John.  She did not see this, and she fancied that a real change had taken place in his disposition, so that he would forget that he had threatened to send her to Las Huelgas, and not think of it again.

“What is done cannot be undone,” he said, with renewed sadness.  “You will never quite believe that you have been everything to me during your life.  How could you not be, my child?  I am very lonely.  Your mother has been dead nearly eighteen years, and Rodrigo—­”

He stopped short suddenly, for he had never spoken his son’s name in the girl’s hearing since Rodrigo had left him to follow his own fortunes.

“I think Rodrigo broke my heart,” said the old man, after a short pause, controlling his voice so that it sounded dry and indifferent.  “And if there is anything left of it, you will break the rest.”

He rose, taking his hand from hers, and turning away, with the roughness of a strong, hard man, who has broken down once under great emotion and is capable of any harshness in his fear of yielding to it again.  Dolores started slightly and drew back.  In her the kindly impression was still strong, but his tone and manner wounded her.

“You are wrong,” she said earnestly.  “Since you have shown me that you love me, I will indeed do my best not to hurt you or displease you.  I will do what I can—­what I can.”

She repeated the last words slowly and with unconscious emphasis.  He turned his face to her again instantly.

“Then promise me that you will never see Don John of Austria again, that you will forget that you ever loved him, that you will put him altogether out of your thoughts, and that you will obediently accept the marriage I shall make for you.”