She stood beside a chair, resting one hand upon it, dead white, with the dark shadow of pain under her eyes, her lips almost colourless, but firm, and evenly closed.

There were lines of suffering in her young face that looked as if they never could be effaced.

It seemed to her that the worst conflict of all was raging in her heart as she watched her father's face, waiting for the sound of his voice; and as for him, he would rather have gone back to the King's presence to be tormented under the eyes of Antonio Perez than stand there, forced to see her and speak to her.

In his eyes, in the light of what he had been told, she was a ruined and shameless woman, who had deceived him day in, day out, for more than two years.
And to her, so far as she could understand, he was the condemned murderer of the man she had so innocently and truly loved.

But yet, she had a doubt, and for that possibility, she had cast her good name to the winds in the hope of saving his life.