The door was shut behind her, the key grated in the lock. She stood still until she heard the stairs creak under Don Diego's retreating footsteps. Then she went in a little dash to the window, and flung it open, and looked out. It was unbarred, and for a sufficient reason. There was no need of bars, for the wall of the house fell sheer to the ground some twenty feet below. No friendly creeper afforded a foothold, nor even a drain pipe. To jump from the window would mean broken limbs, and maybe worse. She stayed panting by it, her fingers gripping the ledge till the nails showed white. It was of no use though to rage, and grind her teeth. Escape did not lie that way. She turned away from the window, and came back into the room, and took stock of her surroundings. A great bed stood out from one wall, hung with curtains of red damask; arras of tapestry covered the walls; there was a chest, a chair, an escabeau, a table with carved legs, a mirror hung above a second chest, whereon stood a basin and an ewer of silver. The mirror showed a tempestuous lady, wrath in her face; her hair dishevelled under the French hood, her habit dusty and disordered. Dominica poured water into the basin, and bathed her face and her hands, slowly, abstractedly. A cake of soap was to hand, delicately scented, a towel. She stood rubbing her fingers dry, and looking at her reflection in the mirror, thinking, thinking. An hour later, Don Diego scratched on the panel of the door. A cool voice bade him enter; he found his cousin seated by the window, her hands folded in her lap, the picture of maidenly resignation. But he knew her too well to suppose her resigned; it did not need the steely flash in her eyes as she raised them to tell him that his cousin was prepared to give battle. He bowed to her. "Dearest cousin, supper awaits you. May I lead you down?" She rose at once, and came to the door; she even allowed him to take her hand. They went in silence down the stairs and across the hall to a smaller parlour, panelled with mulberry wood. Covers were laid upon a draw-table; Luis stood deferentially waiting behind one of the chairs. She was handed to it, and sat down with what composure she could muster. The curtains had been drawn to shut out the fading daylight, and a cluster of candles on the table lit the room. Outside the silence of the country seemed to enfold the house. Dominica felt very alone, and had to fight down a rising wave of panic. "Rude fare, dear cousin, I fear me, but you will forgive it. Luis is an unaccustomed cook." She inclined her head. The food was well enough; she supposed this was Don Diego's way of telling her that there was no one but herself and him and Luis in the house. Superfluous information, she thought. He poured wine into her glass. "Will you take some of this wine of Alicante, cousin?"