In the Palace of the King | Page 4

life; though not weak, it was uncertain in strength
and full of a longing that could never be satisfied, but that often seemed
to come within possible reach of satisfaction. There was in the tones,
too, the perpetual doubt of one from whom anything might be hidden
by silence, or by the least tarn of words. Every passing hope and fear,
and every pleasure and pain, were translated into sound by its quick
changes. It trusted but could not always quite promise to believe; it
swelled and sank as the sensitive heart beat faster or slower. It came
from a world without light, in which only sound had meaning, and only
touch was certainty.
"Yes," answered Dolores. "I have almost finished--there is only half a
page more to read over."
"And why do you read it over?" asked Inez. "Do you change what you
have written? Do you not think now exactly as you did when you
wrote?"
"No; I feel a great deal more--I want better words! And then it all
seems so little, and so badly written, and I want to say things that no
one ever said before, many, many things. He will laugh--no, not that!
How could he? But my letter will seem childish to him. I know it will. I

wish I had never written it I Do you think I had better give it to him,
after all?"
"How can I tell?" asked Inez hopelessly. "You have never read it to me.
I do not know what you have said to him."
"I have said that I love him as no man was ever loved before,"
answered Dolores, and the true words seemed to thrill with a life of
their own as she spoke them.
Then she was silent for a moment, and looked down at the written
pages without seeing them. Inez did not move, and seemed hardly to
breathe. Then Dolores spoke again, pressing both her hands upon the
paper before her unconsciously.
"I have told him that I love him, and shall love him for ever and ever,"
she said; "that I will live for him, die for him, suffer for him, serve him!
I have told him all that and much more."
"More? That is much already. But he loves you, too. There is nothing
you can promise which he will not promise, and keep, too, I think. But
more! What more can you have said than that?"
"There is nothing I would not say if I could find words!"
There was a fullness of life in her voice which, to the other's uncertain
tones, was as sunshine to moonlight.
"You will find words when you see him this evening," said Inez slowly.
"And they will be better than anything you can write. Am I to give him
your letter?"
Dolores looked at her sister quickly, for there was a little constraint in
the accent of the last phrase.
"I do not know," she answered. "How can I tell what may happen, or
how I shall see him first?"
"You will see him from the window presently. I can hear the guards

forming already to meet him--and you--you will be able to see him
from the window."
Inez had stopped and had finished her speech, as if something had
choked her. She turned sideways in her chair when she had spoken, as
if to listen better, for she was seated with her back to the light.
"I will tell you everything," said Maria Dolores softly. "It will be
almost as if you could see him, too."
"Almost--"
Inez spoke the one word and broke off abruptly, and rose from her
chair. In the familiar room she moved almost as securely as if she could
see. She went to the window and listened. Dolores came and stood
beside her.
"What is it, dear?" she asked. "What is the matter? What has hurt you?
Tell me!"
"Nothing," answered the blind girl, "nothing, dear. I was thinking--how
lonely I shall be when you and he are married, and they send me to a
convent, or to our dismal old house in Valladolid."
A faint colour came into her pale face, and feeling it she turned away
from Dolores; for she was not speaking the truth, or at least not half of
it all.
"I will not let you go!" answered Dolores, putting one arm round her
sister's waist. "They shall never take you from me. And if in many
years from now we are married, you shall always be with us, and I will
always take care of you as I do now."
Inez sighed and pressed her forehead and blind eyes to the cold window,
almost withdrawing herself from the pressure of Dolores' arm. Down
below there was tramping of heavy feet, as the