Then all at once he lifted his brown hands and covered his face with a gesture of utter despair.
"Dolores! My child, my little girl!" he cried, in a broken voice.
Then he sat down, as it overcome, clasped his hands on the hilt of his sword, and rested his forehead against them, rocking himself with a barely perceptible motion.

In twenty years, Dolores had never understood, not even guessed, that the hard man, ever preaching of wholesome duty and strict obedience, always rebuking, never satisfied, ill pleased almost always, loved her with all his heart, and looked upon her as the very jewel of his soul.

She guessed it now, in a sudden burst of understanding; but it was so new, so strange, that she could not have told what she felt.

There was at best no triumph at the thought that, of the two, he had broken down first in the contest.

Pity came first, womanly, simple and kind, for the harsh nature that was so wounded at last.