"And when a thrice-blessed change has brought us together once more, now that I can at last cover your dear hands with kisses, and feast my hungry eyes upon your beauty, you would forbid me in the name of Antoinette to tell you what has been in my heart so many years? No, Dolores, no. You are strong, I know. You possess sufficient energy and determination to conquer yourself and to remain apparently cold and unmoved while your heart is writhing in anguish; but I have no such fortitude. I cannot hide my suffering; I love you, I must tell you so." As he spoke, Philip became more and more agitated. Tears gathered in his eyes and his features worked convulsively. "Do you not see," he resumed, after a short silence, "that the scruples which led us to conceal the truth were the causes of all our misery? If, hand in hand, we had knelt before him and said: 'Father, we love each other, give us your blessing,' he would have been content." "You are mistaken, Philip. Just before I left for the convent, I told the Marquis with my own lips of your love for me, and he did not bid me stay." Philip stood as if stupefied. "My father knew--" "Yes." "And yet, on his deathbed, he compelled me to promise that I would marry Antoinette!" "He thought you would forget me." "Can those who truly love ever forget?" cried Philip. "But what is to be done?" he asked. Dolores made no response. She stood before him with eyes downcast that he might not see the conflict which was raging in her soul. Philip took advantage of her hesitation to plead his cause anew. "Listen, Dolores; it is not right that we should all sacrifice ourselves to my father's ambition; and if I wed Antoinette, still loving you, I cannot make her happy. Besides, what would become of you?" "But if I listen to you, what will become of Antoinette?" "She will forget. She loves me because she met me before she met any other young man, before she had seen the world; but she will soon forget me. After a few tears that cannot compare in bitterness with those that I have shed, and with those I shall shed, if I am compelled to give you up, she will bestow her love elsewhere." "Do not wrong her, Philip. For four long years she has considered herself your wife in the sight of God, and now you would leave her to mourn your infidelity!" "My infidelity!" "Yes, Philip, for you have plighted your troth to her. You have made no promise to me." "And you?" "I have promised nothing." "But your silence the other evening when I entreated you to grant my suit--was not your silence then an avowal?" "You misunderstood me!" replied Dolores, courageously. The girl could endure no more; her strength was exhausted; but her decision was made, and her sole aim now was to assure Antoinette's happiness by compelling Philip to marry her. She said, gently: "Coursegol must bring the order of release by the aid of which you and I were to leave the prison. It will be of service when we plan Antoinette's escape."