natural Indeed, by this time he would be expecting her.  It would be almost better to go in after all, and tell him some story of her having mistaken her sister’s skirt for her own, and beg him to say nothing.  She could easily confuse him a little so that he would not really understand—­and then in a few minutes she could be in her own room, safe and in bed, and far away from the dismal place where she was sitting and shivering as she listened to the owls.

She rose and began to walk towards her father’s quarters.  But suddenly she felt that it was cowardly to go back without accomplishing the least part of her purpose, and without even finding out whether Dolores was in safety after all.  There was but one chance of finding her, and that lay in searching the neighbourhood of Don John’s lodging.  Without hesitating any longer, she began to find her way thither at once.  She determined that if she were stopped, either by her father or the Princess, she would throw back her head and show her face at once.  That would be the safest way in the end.

She reached Don John’s windows unhindered at last.  She had felt every corner, and had been into the empty sentry-box; and once or twice, after listening a long time, she had called Dolores in a very low tone.  She listened by the first window, and by the second and third, and at the door, and then beyond, till she came to the last.  There were voices there, and her heart beat quickly for a moment.  It was impossible to distinguish the words that were spoken, through the closed window and the heavy curtains, but the mere tones told her that Don John and Dolores were there together.  That was enough for her, and she could go back to her room; for it seemed quite natural to her that her sister should be in the keeping of the man she loved,—­she was out of harm’s way and beyond their father’s power, and that was all that was necessary.  She would go back to her room at once, and explain the matter of her dress to Eudaldo as best she might.  After all, why should he care what she wore or where she had been, or whether in the Princess’s apartments she had for some reason exchanged gowns with Dolores.  Perhaps he would not even notice the dress at all.

She meant to go at once, but she stood quite still, her hands resting on the low sill of the window, while her forehead pressed against the cold round panes of glass.  Something hurt her which she could not understand, as she tried to fancy the two beautiful young beings who were within,—­for she knew what beauty they had, and Dolores had described Don John to her as a young god.  His voice came to her like strains of very distant sweet music, that connect themselves to an unknown melody in the fancy of him who faintly hears.  But Dolores was hearing every word he said, and it was all for her; and Dolores not only heard, but saw; and seeing and hearing, she was loved by the man who spoke to her, as dearly as she loved him.