Near the window and against the wall was a long wooden bench with arms, and on this, her head bowed on her hands which rested on one of the hard wooden arms, was Sarita, crouching in an attitude of deep despondency. She did not lift her head at my entrance, thinking no doubt it was the woman of the house. *CHAPTER XXVI* *THE PLEA OF LOVE* The sight of Sarita crushed down in this way by the load of her hopeless trouble was the most sorrowful my eyes had ever beheld. Knowing as I did her great strength, her buoyant confidence, her intense pride, her indomitable courage, I could gauge the force of the blow that had cast her down, and the depth of the bitterness of this hour of suffering. For a while I gazed at her, almost ashamed that I had thus broken in upon her. Then a world of intense sympathy welled up from my heart, an infinite remorse even that in a measure I had helped to strike her down by my rescue of the young King, and an overpowering desire to take some of the burden upon myself; and my love for her came to my rescue and prompted me how to act. I went forward swiftly and knelt down by the settle. "Sarita, it is I. Let me help you, my dearest;" and I put my arm about her. "I have come to help you, Sarita, with my life if need be." At the sound of my voice and the touch of my hand she started violently, lifted her face, dry-eyed but all worn and white with pain, gazed at me a second, and then jumped to her feet, and seemed as if about to repudiate my proffered sympathy. "Ferdinand!" Eyes and voice and face were full of intense surprise; and as I rose quickly to my feet, she stepped back, and cried, "Why are you here?" "I love you, my dearest; where else should I be but with you—now?" and I took her hands and held them firmly. She tried to draw back, and would have struggled against her love, it seemed; but love and the woman in her would not be denied, and in this crisis of her sorrow she yielded to my will, and let me draw her to me. Her head fell on my shoulder. For the moment at any rate the victory was mine, and I felt with a rare sense of delight that she was glad I had come to her, and that I was giving her strength in her weakness. I did not attempt to speak. It was enough to have her once more in my arms, to feel that I was a comfort to her, that her love had triumphed overall else in that dread dreary time; and I waited while by slow degrees she battled with her emotion and fought her way back to self-strength. Once in the long, sweet suspense of that battle she raised her head, looked at me and smiled—a sorrow-laden, anxious, wan smile—as if in deprecation of her own weakness and of her woman’s need for aid and sympathy. Then her head sank again on my breast with a sigh of infinite content, such as might have slipped from the lips of a tired and overwrought child.