"I tell you, Dolores," continued Ashby, "since I have seen you I have discovered that all the world and everything in it isn't worth a straw to me unless I have you. I swear to you that when you left me at Burgos all the light of life went out, and all the joy and sweetness of life left me. I'd rather stand here in this prison with you than be a king outside without you. And I'm glad that these devils of Carlists have captured us." As Ashby spoke these words in a low, fervid, excited whisper, he held Dolores tight in his arms, pressed to his quick-throbbing heart; nor could she draw away from him, in spite of her shrinking back. In fact, the poor little thing did not seem to have the will to get away from him, for the end of it was that her head fell down helplessly on his breast, and she began to cry: "I--think--it's--cruel," she sobbed, "cruel in you!" Ashby pressed her more closely to his heart in the same "cruel" manner, and kissed away her tears. "You're not kind to me at all," sighed Dolores. To this observation Ashby made no reply, thinking, perhaps, that at that moment words were of no particular use. "It's very cruel," repeated Dolores, "and I did not think you would be so unkind--" To this Ashby's answer was, as before, by acts that were more eloquent than words. "Dolores," said he, as soon as he was able to express himself coherently, "if you had not come, I really think I should have killed myself." "Did you really feel so badly?" asked Dolores, in a tender voice. "My heart ached," said Ashby; "it ached for the sight of you. Do you know what heartache is, darling? Do you know what it is to hunger and thirst and long and yearn after some one?" Dolores sighed. She said nothing, but her head rested more closely on Ashby's breast, and one little hand stole timidly up and was laid lightly on his shoulder. "Do you know anything about such feelings, Dolores?" persisted Ashby. "All," said Dolores, in a scarce audible whisper, "all--all--all! But tell me," said she, looking up as though trying to see his face in the gloom, "who was it?" "Who was it? What a question! You! you, darling! you, Dolores!" "Not the English maiden?" she asked. "She!" said Ashby, contemptuously; "she is a doll--a butterfly--a kitten! She is nothing--a poor creature with no brains and no heart! Even her beauty is mere prettiness. There is no soul in her face, no lightning in her glance." "And who has soul in her face and lightning in her glance?" asked Dolores, shyly. "Who? You! you, my darling, dark-eyed Dolores! you, with your deep, unfathomable, glowing, soul-lit eyes that pierce to my inmost heart, and make me thrill at the recollection." "And won't you say that all again?" said Dolores; "and won't you say that about the English maid? I love to hear you call her names." Dolores said this with the innocence and frank simplicity of a child.