“I will lock it on the inside.  You can say that it is locked, and that you have not the key.  If he calls men to open it, I will escape by the window, and hide in the old sentry-box.  He will not stay talking with you till morning!”

She laughed, and he saw that she was right, simply because there was no other place where she could be even as safe as where she was.  He slowly nodded as she spoke.

“You see,” she cried, with another little laugh of happy satisfaction, “you must keep me here whether you will or not!  You are really afraid—­frightened like a boy!  You!  How men would stare if they could see you afraid!”

“It is true,” he answered, with a faint smile.

“But I will give you courage!” she said.  “The King cannot come yet.  Perez can only have just gone to him, you say.  They will talk at least half an hour, and it is very likely that Perez will persuade him not to come at all, because he is angry with you.  Perhaps Perez will come instead, and he will be very smooth and flattering, and bring messages of reconciliation, and beg to make peace.  He is very clever, but I do not like his face.  He makes me think of a beautiful black fox!  Even if the King comes himself, we have more than half an hour.  You can stay a little while with me—­then go into your room and sit down and read, as if you were waiting for him.  You can read my letter over, and I will sit here and say all the things I wrote, over and over again, and you will know that I am saying them—­it will be almost as if I were with you, and could say them quite close to you—­like this—­I love you!”

She had drawn his hand gently down to her while she was speaking, and she whispered the last words into his ear with a delicate little kiss that sent a thrill straight to his heart.

“You are not afraid any more now, are you?” she asked, as she let him go, and he straightened himself suddenly as a man drawing back from something he both fears and loves.

He opened and shut his hands quickly two or three times, as some nervous men do, as if trying to shake them clear from a spell, or an influence.  Then he began to walk up and down, talking to her.

“I am at my wit’s end,” he said, speaking fast and not looking at her face, as he turned and turned again.  “I cannot send you to Villagarcia—­there are things that neither you nor I could do, even for each other, things you would not have me do for you, Dolores.  It would be ruin and disgrace to my adopted mother and Quixada—­it might be worse, for the King can call anything he pleases high treason.  It is impossible to take you there without some one knowing it—­can I carry you in my arms?  There are grooms, coachmen, servants, who will tell anything under examination—­under torture!  How can I send you there?”

“I would not go,” answered Dolores quietly.

“I cannot send you to a convent, either,” he went on, for he had taken her answer for granted, as lovers do who trust each other.  “You would be found in a day, for the King knows everything.  There is only one place, where I am master—­”