As she speaks she turns her back to go, when Blanche rushes after her. Roused from her torpor by these horrible words, she seizes the old hag by the shoulders and looks wildly into her eyes. “Richly, richly would my father requite you, did you save me.” “Your father?” retorts the woman. “Where is he? Meanwhile they would wring my old neck, and you be no better. No! no!” “Stay! stay!” cries Blanche, keeping hold on her. “It consoles me to hear another voice and not always to listen to the owls hooting outside, or the ticking of the death-watch in the walls.” “Let go,” answers the old woman, extricating herself rudely from her weak grasp, “or you shall serve yourselves, mistresses. I cannot help you. When I was young I could not protect myself. Here, not the Holy Virgin herself can save you.” As she speaks she bars the door and disappears, a sneering smile upon her face, furrowed with wrinkles. Except this woman, no one but the governor enters. He is a stern, morose Castilian, eliminating all expression from his face as he looks at Blanche, yet with a certain kindliness of expression and gesture he cannot altogether disguise, which pains her, for she would gladly think that the world is as dead and buried as she is herself. Not even Claire can comfort her now--Claire, her whole soul in her eyes, watching her every movement, while her own thoughts turn to the fate of the lover who, at her command, risked his life to liberate the queen. One evening, sitting together at sunset on the tower, the sound of horses’ feet galloping rapidly on the grass rouses them. A white terror is in Blanche’s eyes as she fixes them on Claire, who, leaning over, can perceive a little company of men-at-arms rapidly approaching, bearing a flag with the king’s badge. _No word is said_, but when the governor enters, as is his custom, to serve their evening meal, Claire, standing behind her chair, observes his eyes, at moments when he thinks Blanche’s attention is distracted, fixed on Blanche with a glance full of pity. _No word is said_, but below, in the courtyard, comes the sound of a loud harsh voice; the step of sentinels louder and quicker, and around an unwonted stir. Blanche, sitting listless, pays no heed, but Claire goes and comes in the narrow tower, peering through the small arched slits which serve for light, listening to every sound. Then all dies away as night closes. “For to-night we are safe,” is her thought; but suddenly in the darkness, to her sharp ears comes that same harsh voice with which she seems familiar. She has heard it at Valladolid. Can it be the king? One purpose only could bring him here, the death of Blanche. Ah! how can she save her? If to give her life, how gladly she would be the sacrifice! A thousand wild schemes whirl in her brain; but she says nothing, and Blanche, [Illustration: THE AQUEDUCT NEAR GRANADA.] save that she has turned deadly pale, has not spoken.