Del Torre’s face looked old--Dolores knew it not. She never saw him--except, perhaps, a distant figure on a horse. When he was out, she roamed the house; when he came back she shut herself within her apartments. He never returned, from the shortest absences, a walk or a mass, without making formal announcement. He wondered only at the flowers; the perfections of his banquets, the splendor of his household, were for his guest and as it should be. At first del Torre had hoped to see at least a handkerchief fly from her window, a greeting or a wave of the hand, on his return. But it was always black and blank when he saw it. At first, this cost him tears: a greeting seemed so little--only courtesy! But afterward he only sighed; no man should repine that events fulfil his expectations rather than his hopes. Their money grew apace. With part of hers Dolores built a church at Los Teques, a property that had been her mother’s, not far from the city. Half her time she spent there; and it stands there still, and is called after the Vergen de las Mercedes--Our Lady of Pity--to whom alone Dolores dared to pray. But the Church took her treasure and it kept her secret. Sometimes, in God’s providence, even pity is withheld. One’s heart beats quick to think what might have happened had she ventured to confession--the priest who married them still was with her, in the household, an honest priest, who loved del Torre, too. But Rome, which knows how to be gentle as a mother, can also be as cruel as the grave. So Dolores went on in building churches, and Don Sebastian offered his brave heart wherever he saw a bullet fly for liberty. The best work of the world is done by broken hearts. One time that he came home, he found a medallion by his plate. It was set with pearls, in tricolor enamel. He opened it, and it was a miniature of her. Then once a rush of human blood bore all his barriers of honor, duty, resolves of conduct, far away. He hastened through the house to the tower, where she lived. He hastened--crying Dolores, Dolores, as he had cried in his delirium. Her maid opened--not Jacinta, but Jacinta’s daughter, now a woman. My Lady Marquesa had gone to the convent at Los Teques for some weeks’ prayer. XV. AFTER this, del Torre’s body grew broken, with his heart. It was the last campaign of liberation. The final battle was fought not far from Los Teques, where the convent was; and the wall of the church of the Vergen de las Mercedes was scarred with balls. The fight was over, the country was free. And the General at last was killed.