"But you said just now that you were hungry;" exclaimed Dolores. "Ah! how unfortunate it is that the servants are in bed."
She hastily left the room, and Philip, worn out with excitement, hunger and fatigue, remained in the arm chair in which Dolores had placed him. She soon returned, laden with bread, wine, and a piece of cold meat, which she had been fortunate enough to find in the kitchen. She placed these upon a small table, which she brought to Philip's side. Without a word, the latter began to eat and drink with the eagerness of a half-famished man. Dolores stood there watching him, her heart throbbing wildly with joy while tears of happiness gushed from her burning eyes.
Soon Philip was himself again. The warmth and the nourishing food restored his strength. A slight color mounted to his cheeks, and a hopeful smile played upon his lips. Not until then, did Dolores venture to utter the name that had been uppermost in her thoughts for some moments.
"You have told me nothing of Antoinette."
This name reminded Philip of the sacred bond of which Dolores was ignorant, and which had never seemed to him so galling as now.
"Antoinette!" he replied. "She is living near London in the care of some friends to whom I have confided her."
"Is she your wife?" inquired Dolores, not daring to meet Philip's eyes.
"No."
"But your father's wishes—"
"In pity, say no more!" interrupted Philip, "If I had not found you again, if I had had certain proofs that you were no longer alive, I might, perhaps, have married Antoinette, but now—"