It was close to her, and she shut her eyes involuntarily.

She heard one step more on the stones, and then there was silence.

She knew that her father had seen her, had stopped before her, and was looking at her.

She knew how his rough brows were knitting themselves together, and that even in the pale moonlight his eyes were fierce and angry, and that his left hand was resting on the hilt of his sword, the bony brown fingers tapping the basket nervously.
An hour earlier, or little more, she had faced him as bravely as any man, but she could not face him now, and she dared not open her eyes.
"Madam, are you ill, or in trouble ?" asked a young voice that was soft and deep.
She opened her eyes with a sharp cry that was not of fear, and she threw back her hood with one hand as the looked.
Don John of Austria was there, a step from her, the light full on his face, bareheaded, his cap in his hand, bending a little towards her, as one does towards a person one does not know, but who seems to be in distress and to need help.

Against the whiteness without he could not see her face, nor could he recognize her muffled figure.
"Can I not help you, Madam ?" asked the kind voice again, very gravely.
Then she put out her hands towards him and made a step, and as the hood fell quite back with the silk kerchief, he saw her golden hair in the silver light.