from his coiling arms, with quickened breath and blanching face.
A moment she hung there, tense, then sped to the door of the
room, set it ajar and listened.

Up the stairs came the sound of footsteps and of muttering
voices. It was her father, and others with him.

With ever-mounting fear she turned to Don Rodrigo, and breathed
the question: "If they should come here?"

The Castilian stood where he had risen by the divan, his face
paler now than its pale, aristocratic wont, his eyes reflecting
the fear that glittered in her own. He had no delusion as to what
action Diego de Susan would take upon discovering him. These
Jewish dogs were quickly stirred to passion, and as jealous as
their betters of the honour of their womenfolk. Already Don
Rodrigo in imagination saw his clean red Christian blood
bespattering that Hebrew floor, for he had no weapon save the
heavy Toledo dagger at his girdle, and Diego de Susan was not
alone.

It was, he felt, a ridiculous position for a Hidalgo of Spain.
But his dignity was to suffer still greater damage. In another
moment she had bundled him into an alcove behind the arras at the
chamber's end, a tiny closet that was no better than a cupboard
contrived for the storing of household linen. She had-moved with
a swift precision which at another time might have provoked his
admiration, snatching up his cloak and hat, and other evidences
of his presence, quenching the lamp, and dragging him to that
place of cramped concealment, which she remained to share with