"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 companies of foot guards took
their places, marching across the broad space, in their wrought steel