“What is it?” he asked.  “For Heaven’s sake do not come in, for I think I hear him coming.”

“No,” she answered through the panel.  “I was afraid I should turn the key, so I have taken it out.”  She paused.  “I love you!” she said, so that he could hear, and she kissed the wood, where she thought his face must be, just above her own.

“I love you with all my heart!” he answered gently.  “Hush, dear love, he is coming!”

They were like two children, playing at a game; but they were playing on the very verge of tragedy, playing at life with death at the door and the safety of a great nation hanging in the balance.

A moment later, Dolores heard Don John opening and shutting the other doors again, and then there were voices.  She heard her father’s name spoken in the King’s unmistakable tones, at once harsh and muffled.  Every word came to her from the other room, as if she were present.

“Mendoza,” said Philip, “I have private matters to discuss with his Highness.  I desire you to wait before the entrance, on the terrace, and to let no one pass in, as we do not wish to be disturbed.”

Her father did not speak, but she knew how he was bending a little stiffly, before he went backwards through the open door.  It closed behind him, and the two brothers were alone.  Dolores’ heart beat a little faster, and her face grew paler as she concentrated her attention upon making no noise.  If they could hear her as she heard them, a mere rustling of her silk gown would be enough to betray her, and if then the King bade her father take her with him, all would be over, for Don John would certainly not use any violence to protect her.

“This is your bedchamber,” said Philip’s voice.

He was evidently examining the room, as Don John had anticipated that he would, for he was moving about.  There was no mistaking his heavy steps for his brother’s elastic tread.

“There is no one behind the curtain,” said the King, by which it was clear that he was making search for a possible concealed listener.  He was by no means above such precautions.

“And that door?” he said, with a question.  “What is there?”

Dolores’ heart almost stood still, as she held her breath, and heard the clumsy footfall coming nearer.

“It is locked,” said Don John, with undisturbed calm.  “I have not the key.  I do not know where it is,—­it is not here.”

As Dolores had taken it from the lock, even the last statement was true to the letter, and in spite of her anxiety she smiled as she heard it, but the next moment she trembled, for the King was trying the door, and it shook under his hand, as if it must fly open.

“It is certainly locked,” he said, in a discontented tone.  “But I do not like locked doors, unless I know what is beyond them.”

He crossed the room again and called out to Mendoza, who answered at once.

“Mendoza, come here with me.  There is a door here, of which his Highness has not the key.  Can you open it?”