und her hiding in the embrasure, and yet in those short
seconds a hundred possibilities flashed through her disturbed thoughts.
She might slip past him and run for her life down the corridor, or she
might draw her hood over her face and try to pretend that she was some
one else,--but he would recognize the hood itself as belonging to
Inez,--or she might turn and lean upon the window-sill, indifferently,
as if she had a right to be there, and he might take her for some lady
of the court, and pass on. And yet she could not decide which to
attempt, and stood still, pressing herself against the wall of the
embrasure, and quite forgetful of the fact that the bright moonlight
fell unhindered through all the other windows upon the pavement, whereas
she cast a shadow from the one in which she was standing, and that any
one coming along the corridor would notice it and stop to see who was
there.

There was something fateful and paralyzing in the regular footfall that
was followed instantly by the short echo from the vault above. It was
close at hand now she was sure that at the very next instant she should
see her father's face, yet nothing came, except the sound, for that
deceived her in the silence and seemed far nearer than it was. She had
heard horrible ghost stories of the old Alcazar, and as a child she had
been frightened by tales of evil things that haunted the corridors at
night, of wraiths and goblins and Moorish wizards who dwelt in secret
vaults, where no one knew, and came out in the dark, when all was still,
to wander in the moonlight, a terror to the living. The girl felt the
thrill of unearthly fear at the roots of her hair, and trembled, and the
sound seemed to be magnified till it reechoed like thunder, though it
was only the noise of an advancing footfall, with a little jingling of
spurs.

But at last there was no doubt. It was close to her, and she shut her
eyes involuntarily. She heard one step more on the stones, and then
there was silence. She knew that her father had seen her, had stopped
before her, and was looking at her. She knew how his rough brows were
knitting themselves together, and that even in the pale moonlight his
eyes were fierce and angry, and that his left hand was resting on the
hilt of his sword, the bony brown fingers tapping the basket nervously.
An hour earlier, or little more, she had faced him as bravely as any
man, but she could not face him now, and she dared not open her eyes.