"Nigh upon eighteen months--long slow months of grief and pain. All ended now. To-morrow night she will see the glory of God."
There was another long pause. At last Juan said,--
"Perhaps, if you could, you would gladly share her fate?"
Gonsalvo half raised himself, and a flush overspread the wan face that already wore the ashy hue of approaching death. "Share that fate!" he cried, with an eagerness contrasting strangely with his former slow and measured utterance. "Change with them? Ask the beggar, who sits all day at the King's gate, waiting for his dole of crumbs, would he gladly change with the King's children, when he sees the golden gate flung open before them, and watches them pass in robed and crowned, to the presence-chamber of the King himself."
"Your faith is greater than mine," said Juan in surprise.
"In one way, yes," replied Gonsalvo, sinking back, and resuming his low, quiet tone. "For the beggar dares to hope that the King has looked with pity even on him."
"You do well to hope in the mercy of God."
"Cousin, do you know what my life has been?"
"I think I do."
"I am past disguise now. Standing on the brink of the grave, I dare speak the truth, though it be to my own shame. There was no evil, no sin--stay, I will sum up all in one word. One pure, blameless life--a man's life, too--I have watched from day to day, from childhood to manhood. All that your brother Don Carlos was, I was not; all he was not, I was."