Suddenly he fancied that she might be in danger even now.  The woman who had brought the first letter had of course left the window unfastened.  She, or the King, or any one, might get in by that way, and Dolores was alone.  They might have taken her away already.  He cursed himself for not having looked to see that the window was bolted.  The man who had won great battles felt a chill at his heart, and he walked at the best of his speed, careless whether he met any one or not.  But no place is more deserted than the more distant parts of a royal palace when there is a great assembly in the state apartments.  He met no one on his way, and entered his own door alone.  Ten minutes had not elapsed since the King had left the supper-room, and it was almost at that moment that Dona Ana met Mendoza.

Dolores started to her feet as she heard his step in the next room and then the key in the lock, and as he entered her hands clasped themselves round his neck, and her eyes looked into his.  He was very pale when he saw her at last, for the belief that she had been stolen away had grown with his speed, till it was an intolerable certainty.

“What is it?  What has happened?” she cried anxiously.  “Why are you so white?  Are you ill?”

“I was frightened,” he said simply.  “I was afraid you were gone.  Look here!”

He led her to the window, and drew the curtain to one side.  The cool air rushed in, for the bolts were unfastened, and the window was ajar.  He closed it and fastened it securely, and they both came back.

“The woman got out that way,” he said, in explanation.  “I understand it all now—­and some one might have come back.”

He told her quietly what had happened, and showed her the letter, which she read slowly to the end before she gave it back to him.

“Then the other was not a love letter, after all,” she said, with a little laugh that had more of relief in it than amusement, though she did not know it herself.

“No,” he answered gravely.  “I wish I had read it.  I should at least have shut the window before leaving you!”

Careless of any danger to herself, she sat looking up into his anxious face, her clasped hands lying in his and quite covered by them, as he stood beside her.  There was not a trace of fear in her own face, nor indeed of any feeling but perfect love and confidence.  Under the gaze of her deep grey eyes his expression relaxed for a moment, and grew like hers, so that it would have been hard to say which trusted the other the more.

“What does anything matter, since we are together now?” she asked.  “I am with you, can anything happen to me?”

“Not while I am alive,” he answered, but the look of anxiety for her returned at once.  “You cannot stay here.”

“No—­you will take me away.  I am ready—­”

“I do not mean that.  You cannot stay in this room, nor in my apartments.  The King is coming here in a few minutes.  I cannot tell what he may do—­he may insist on seeing whether any one is here, listening, for he is very suspicious, and he only comes here because he does not even trust his own apartments.  He may wish to open the door—­”