Meanwhile this new-comer had been stealthily moving along, and Dolores watched and listened. Now was the time which she might seize, if she chose, as the time for vengeance. If this were really one of the Carlists, above all, if this were "His Majesty," she might have sweet revenge by denouncing the false traitor Ashby on the spot, before he could escape. It would be sweet to see the dismay of the traitor when thus discovered under her own eyes. Still, even in that hour of her madness and her fury, she felt that before taking the irrevocable step and denouncing Ashby it would be necessary to be perfectly sure. So Dolores waited.
Meanwhile Ashby in his progress had passed beyond the place where Dolores was, and had traversed more than half the apartment. At this moment he was at fault, and felt anxious to know where to direct his way. He thought the best way would be to try first if Dolores was awake. And so, in a thin, low, but very distinct whisper, he said:
"Do-lo-res!"
Dolores heard it. Well she knew that in the castle there was no one who called her by that name—save one. Instantly a wild revulsion of feeling took place. She had mistaken—the first visitor was not Ashby. Ashby was not false. He was true. He had come, but he had come for her—herself. It was her name that he called. In that sudden revulsion of feeling she almost shouted for joy. She started up, and, regardless of everything but her own heart, was about to steal toward Ashby, when suddenly she was arrested in her attempt.
There arose another sound from some one near the door.
"Here, here," said a whisper—"here I am. How long you've been!"
Ashby heard this voice, and thinking it was Dolores, hurried there. Dolores heard it, understood Ashby's action, and sank down in consternation and despair. Katie and Harry heard it, and thought it was "His Majesty" on his way to Mrs. Russell. And they thought that others of "His Majesty's" followers were in the chimney.
Ashby saw a figure dimly defined in the gloom. It was indistinguishable. He took it for Dolores. So he folded that figure fondly in his arms, and the "figure" reciprocated to the fullest extent.
"Oh, my own love and darling!" sighed Ashby, in Spanish.
Mrs. Russell understood not a word of Spanish. She thought, however, that if "His Majesty" could express himself more freely in that language it was certainly quite natural for him to use it; yet it did seem rather unfair to her to come here and talk love and use endearing expressions in an unknown tongue. "His Majesty" seemed very eloquent and strongly agitated, yet Mrs. Russell could not make out what he said, nor had she a chance to explain.