There was something fateful and paralyzing in the regular footfall that was followed instantly by the short echo from the vault above.  It was close at hand now she was sure that at the very next instant she should see her father’s face, yet nothing came, except the sound, for that deceived her in the silence and seemed far nearer than it was.  She had heard horrible ghost stories of the old Alcazar, and as a child she had been frightened by tales of evil things that haunted the corridors at night, of wraiths and goblins and Moorish wizards who dwelt in secret vaults, where no one knew, and came out in the dark, when all was still, to wander in the moonlight, a terror to the living.  The girl felt the thrill of unearthly fear at the roots of her hair, and trembled, and the sound seemed to be magnified till it reechoed like thunder, though it was only the noise of an advancing footfall, with a little jingling of spurs.

But at last there was no doubt.  It was close to her, and she shut her eyes involuntarily.  She heard one step more on the stones, and then there was silence.  She knew that her father had seen her, had stopped before her, and was looking at her.  She knew how his rough brows were knitting themselves together, and that even in the pale moonlight his eyes were fierce and angry, and that his left hand was resting on the hilt of his sword, the bony brown fingers tapping the basket nervously.  An hour earlier, or little more, she had faced him as bravely as any man, but she could not face him now, and she dared not open her eyes.

“Madam, are you ill, or in trouble?” asked a young voice that was soft and deep.

She opened her eyes with a sharp cry that was not of fear, and she threw back her hood with one hand as the looked.

Don John of Austria was there, a step from her, the light full on his face, bareheaded, his cap in his hand, bending a little towards her, as one does towards a person one does not know, but who seems to be in distress and to need help.  Against the whiteness without he could not see her face, nor could he recognize her muffled figure.

“Can I not help you, Madam?” asked the kind voice again, very gravely.

Then she put out her hands towards him and made a step, and as the hood fell quite back with the silk kerchief, he saw her golden hair in the silver light.  Slowly and in wonder, and still not quite believing, he moved to meet her movement, took her hands in his, drew her to him, turned her face gently, till he saw it well.  Then he, too, uttered a little sound that was neither a word nor a syllable nor a cry—­a sound that was half fierce with strong delight as his lips met hers, and his hands were suddenly at her waist lifting her slowly to his own height, though he did not know it, pressing her closer and closer to him, as if that one kiss were the first and last that ever man gave woman.