slightly parted, for the blind know that they hear by the mouth as well as with their ears—­the expression of the face is one of expectation and extreme attention, still, not placid, calm, but the very contrary of indifferent.  It was thus that Inez sat, as she often sat for hours, listening, always and forever listening to the speech of things and of nature, as well as for human words.  And in listening, she thought and reasoned patiently and continually, so that the slightest sounds had often long and accurate meanings for her.  The deaf reason little or ill, and are very suspicious; the blind, on the contrary, are keen, thoughtful, and ingenious, and are distrustful of themselves rather than of others.  Inez sat quite still, listening, thinking, and planning a means of helping her sister.

But Dolores stood motionless as if she were paralyzed, watching the picture that “he could not chase away.  For she saw the familiar figure of the man she loved coming down the gloomy corridor, alone and unarmed, past the deep embrasures through which the moonlight streamed, straight towards the oak door at the end; and then, from one of the windows another figure stood out, sword in hand, a gaunt man with a grey beard, and there were few words, and an uncertain quick confounding of shadows with a ray of cold light darting hither and thither, then a fall, and then stillness.  As soon as it was over, it began again, with little change, save that it grew more distinct, till she could see Don John’s white face in the moonlight as he lay dead on the pavement of the corridor.

It became intolerable at last, and she slowly raised one hand and covered her eyes to shut out the sight.

“Listen,” said Inez, as Dolores stirred.  “I have been thinking.  You must see him to-night, even if you are not alone with him.  There is only one way to do that; you must dress yourself for the court and go down to the great hall with the others and speak to him—­then you can decide how to meet to-morrow.”

“Inez—­I have not told you the rest!  To-morrow I am to be sent to Las Huelgas, and kept there like a prisoner.”  Inez uttered a low cry of pain.

“To a convent!” It seemed like death.

Dolores began to tell her all Mendoza had said, but Inez soon interrupted her.  There was a dark flush in the blind girl’s face.

“And he would have you believe that he loves you?” she cried indignantly.  “He has always been hard, and cruel, and unkind, he has never forgiven me for being blind—–­he will never forgive you for being young!  The King!  The King before everything and every one—­before himself, yes, that is well, but before his children, his soul, his heart—­he has no heart!  What am I saying—­” She stopped short.

“And yet, in his strange way, he loves us both,” said Dolores.  “I cannot understand it, but I saw his face when there were tears in his eyes, and I heard his voice.  He would give his life for us.”