He had crossed the room, getting as far as he could from her, and stood there, turned to the wall, his arms bent against it and his face buried in his sleeve.
He breathed hard, and spoke as if to himself in broken words.
"Worth it?
My God! What are you not worth ?" There was such a ring of agony and struggling in his voice that Dolores forgot herself and stood up listening, suddenly filled with anxiety for him again.

He was surely going mad.

She would have gone to him again, forgetting her terror that was barely past, the woman's instinct to help the suffering man overruling everything else.

It was for his sake that she stayed where she was, lest if she touched him he should lose his senses altogether.
"Oh, there is one place, where I am master and lord!" he was saying.
"There is one thing to do--one thing--" "What is the thing ?" she asked very gently.

"Why are you suffering so?
Where is the place ?" He turned suddenly, as he would have turned in his saddle in battle at a trumpet call, straight and strong, with fixed eyes and set lips, that spoke deliberately.
"There is Granada," he said.