ey!" and against the
crimson velvet draperies the figure of the tall young King in white
uniform stood out like a slender statue of marble.

He was accompanied by his sister, the Infanta, and her husband, three or
four ladies, and a retinue of decorated officers; but for an instant I saw
only the King, because--rebel as I was supposed to be--my hat waved as high
and my cheers rang as loudly as any in the crowd.

I had not seen his face--that day at Biarritz long ago--when his automobile
stopped for want of petrol. He had worn his motor-mask, and had not
removed it, for he was incognito; but now, as he bowed in answer to the
people's greeting, the young face was noble under the silver helmet. His
smile brought a deep dimple to either cheek, and a pleasant light to the
brown eyes. I was proud of my King, and found myself wishing that I could
serve him, though it seemed that that could never be; and with a sigh for
the perversities of fate I looked away, only to receive a shock of
surprise.

Among the ladies with the Infanta were the Duchess of Carmona, Lady
Vale-Avon, and Monica. With the officers and friends of the King stood the
Duke, his dark face radiating satisfaction, as if this were the crowning
moment of his life.

Not only was Monica with the man as his fiancee, but she was dressed, in
compliment to him, like a girl of Spain. She wore a mantilla such as the
Infanta wore, and so bright was her hair, so fair her skin framed in the
black flounce of lace, that she was almost as much stared at as the King.
On her breast, pinning the folds of the mantilla, there was a glint of
crimson; and looking closely, I made it out to be a large brooch of
rubies, forming the famous "No. 8 Do," the motto of Seville. Only the Duke
could have given her this, I thought; and she had accepted it!

There was no more hope, then. It did not matter that her unexpected
presence in the royal box would prevent Pilar from speaking, or giving her
my letter. Still, I clung desperately to the one chance left; the
cathedral and the Miserere.

Hardly were the royalties and their friends settled in the red-draped box
when the next brotherhood marched out from Las Sierpes, and halted their
first _paso_ before the King, that he might see it well. He was on his
feet, his head bared and bowed; and while he stood veiled in rising
incense, some emotional soul in the audience broke into a Moorish wail,
the prayer song or _saeta_ of the people, improvi