that he
may not die--"

"Hope! Oh no, no, no! I saw him lying dead--"

"He had fainted, dear. He was not dead--"

"Not dead?" Dolores' voice broke. "Tell me--tell me quickly." She
pressed her hand to her side.

"No. He came to himself after you had left him--he is alive. No--listen
to me--yes, dear, he is alive and not much hurt. The wound was a
scratch, and he was only stunned--he is well--to-morrow he will be as
well as ever--ah, dear, I told you so!"

Dolores had borne grief, shame, torment of mind that night, as bravely
as ever a woman bore all three, but the joy of the truth that he lived
almost ended her life then and there. She fell back upon the Princess's
arm and threw out her hands wildly, as if she were fighting for breath,
and the lids of her eyes quivered violently and then were quite still,
and she uttered a short, unnatural sound that was more like a groan of
pain than a cry of happiness.

The Princess was very strong, and held her, steadying herself against
the wall, thinking anything better than to let her slip to the floor and
lie swooning on the stone pavement. But the girl was not unconscious,
and in a moment her own strength returned.

"Let me go!" she cried wildly. "Let me go to him, or I shall die!"

"Go, child--go," said the Princess, with an accent of womanly kindness
that was rare in her voice. But Dolores did not hear it, for she was
already gone.

Dolores saw nothing in the room, as she entered, but the eyes of the man
she loved, though Inez was still beside him. Dolores threw herself
wildly into his arms and hid her face, crying out incoherent words
between little showers of happy tears; and her hands softly beat upon
his shoulders and against his neck, and stole up wondering to his cheeks
and touched his hair, as she drew back her head and held him still to
look at him and see that he was whole. She had no speech left, for it
was altogether beyond the belief of any sense but touch itself that a
man should rise unhurt from the dead, to go on living as if nothing not
common had happened in his life, to have his strength at once, to look
into her eyes and rain kisses on the lids still dark with grief for his
death. Sight could not believe the sight, hearing could not but doubt
the sound, yet her hands held him and touched him, and it was he, unhurt
saving for a scratch and a bruise. In her overwhelming happiness, she
had no questions, and the first syllables that her lips could shap