“It is the front,” she said.  “You can trust me in the dark.  Put your arms down, and let me slip it over your head so as not to touch your hair.  No—–­hold your arms down!”

Dolores had instinctively lifted her hands to protect her headdress.  Then all went quickly, the silence only broken by an occasional whispered word and by the rustle of silk, the long soft sound of the lacing as Inez drew it through the eyelets of the bodice, the light tapping of her hands upon the folds and gatherings of the skirt and on the puffed velvet on the shoulders and elbows.

“You must be beautiful, perfectly beautiful to-night,” Inez repeated more than once.

She herself did not understand why she said it, unless it were that Dolores’ beauty was for Don John of Austria, and that nothing in the whole world could be too perfect for him, for the hero of her thoughts, the sun of her blindness, the immeasurably far-removed deity of her heart.  She did not know that it was not for her sister’s sake, but for his, that she had planned the escape and was taking such infinite pains that Dolores might look her best.  Yet she felt a deep and delicious delight in what she did, like nothing she had ever felt before, for it was the first time in her life that she had been able to do something that could give him pleasure; and, behind that, there was the belief that he was in danger, that she could no longer go to him nor warn him now, and that only Dolores herself could hinder him from coming unexpectedly against old Mendoza, sword in hand, in the corridor.

“And now my cloak over everything,” she said.  “Wait here, for I must get it, and do not move!”

Dolores hardly knew whether Inez left the room or not, so noiselessly did the girl move.  Then she felt the cloak laid upon her shoulders and drawn close round her to hide her dress, for skirts were short in those days and easily hidden.  Inez laid a soft silk handkerchief upon her sister’s hair, lest it should be disarranged by the hood which she lightly drew over all, assuring herself that it would sufficiently hide the face.

“Now come with me,” she whispered.  I will lead you to the door that is bolted and place you just where it will open.  Then I will call Eudaldo and speak to him, and beg him to let me out.  If he does, bend your head and try to walk as I do.  I shall be on one side of the door, and, as the room is dark, he cannot possibly see me.  While he is opening the outer door for you, I will slip back into my own room.  Do you understand?  And remember to hide in an embrasure if you hear a man’s footsteps.  Are you quite sure you understand?”

“Yes; it will be easy if Eudaldo opens.  And I thank you, dear; I wish I knew how to thank you as I ought!  It may have saved his life—­”

“And yours, too, perhaps,” answered Inez, beginning to lead her away.  “You would die in the convent, and you must not come back—­you must never come back to us here—­never till you are married.  Good-by, Dolores—­dear sister.  I have done nothing, and you have done everything for me all your life.  Good-by—­one kiss—­then we must go, for it is late.”