d kind, for the harsh nature that was so wounded at
last. She came to his side, and laid one hand upon his shoulder,
speaking softly.

"I am very, very sorry that I have hurt you," she said, and waited for
him to speak, pressing his shoulder with a gentle touch.

He did not look up, and still he rocked himself gently, leaning on his
sword. The girl suffered, too, to see him suffering so. A little while
ago he had been hard, fierce, angry, cruel, threatening her with a
living death that had filled her with horror. It had seemed quite
impossible that there could be the least tenderness in him for any
one--least of all for her.

"God be merciful to me," he said at length in very low tones. "God
forgive me if it is my fault--you do not love me--I am nothing to you
but an unkind old man, and you are all the world to me, child!"

He raised his head slowly and looked into her face. She was startled at
the change in his own, as well as deeply touched by what he said. His
dark cheeks had grown grey, and the tears that would not quite fall were
like a glistening mist under the lids, and almost made him look
sightless. Indeed, he scarcely saw her distinctly. His clasped hands
trembled a little on the hilt of the sword he still held.

"How could I know?" cried Dolores, suddenly kneeling down beside him.
"How could I guess? You never let me see that you were fond of me--or I
have been blind all these years--"

"Hush, child!" he said. "Do not hurt me any more--it must have been my
fault."

He grew more calm, and though his face was very grave and sad, the
natural dark colour was slowly coming back to it now, and his hands were
steady again. The girl was too young, and far too different from him, to
understand his nature, but she was fast realizing that he was not the
man he had always seemed to her.

"Oh, if I had only known!" she cried, in deep distress. "If I had only
guessed, I would have been so different! I was always frightened, always
afraid of you, since I can remember--I thought you did not care for us
and that we always displeased you--how could we know?"

Mendoza lifted one of his hands from the sword hilt, and took hers, with
as much gentleness as was possible to him. His eyes became clear again,
and the profound emotion he had shown subsided to the depths whence it
had risen.

"We shall never quite understand each other," he said quietly. "You
cannot see that it is a man's duty to do what is right for his chi