“There you are right, my lord!” exclaimed the King. “And for that matter, we have beauty also, such as is found nowhere else.”
The Princess of Eboli was close by, waiting for him to speak to her, and his eyes fixed themselves upon her face with a sort of cold and snakelike admiration, to which she was well accustomed, but which even now made her nervous. The Ambassador was not slow to take up the cue of flattery, for Englishmen still knew how to flatter in Elizabeth’s day.
“The inheritance of universal conquest,” he said, bowing and smiling to the Princess. “Even the victories of Don John of Austria must yield to that.”
The Princess laughed carelessly. Had Perez spoken the words, she would have frowned, but the King’s eyes were watching her.
“His Highness has fled from the field without striking a blow,” she said. “We have not seen him this evening.” As she spoke she met the King’s gaze with a look of enquiry.
“Don John will be here presently, no doubt,” he said, as if answering a question. “Has he not been here at all since supper?”
“No, Sire; though every one expected him to come at once.”
“That is strange,” said Philip, with perfect self-possession. “He is fond of dancing, too — no one can dance better than he. Have you ever known a man so roundly gifted as my brother, my lord?”
“A most admirable prince,” answered the Ambassador, gravely and without enthusiasm, for he feared that the King was about to speak of his brother’s possible marriage with Queen Mary of Scots.
“And a most affectionate and gentle nature,” said Philip, musing. “I remember from the time when he was a boy that every one loved him and praised him, and yet he is not spoiled. He is always the same. He is my brother — how often have I wished for such a son! Well, he may yet be King. Who should, if not he, when I am gone?”
“Your Majesty need not anticipate such a frightful calamity!” cried the Princess fervently, though she was at that moment weighing the comparative advantage of several mortal diseases by which, in appearance at least, his exit from the world might be accelerated.
“Life is very uncertain, Princess,” observed the King. “My lord,” he turned to the English Ambassador again, “do you consider melons indigestible in England? I have lately heard much against them.”
“A melon is a poor thing, of a watery constitution, your Majesty,” replied the Ambassador glibly. “There can be but little sustenance in a hollow piece of water that is sucked from a marsh and enclosed in a green rind. To tell the truth, I hear it ill spoken of by our physicians, but I cannot well speak of the matter, for I never ate one in my life, and please God I never will!”
“Why not!” enquired the King, who took an extraordinary interest in the subject. “You fear them, then! Yet you seem to be exceedingly strong and healthy.”
“Sire, I have sometimes drunk a little water for my stomach’s sake, but I will not eat it.”
The King smiled pleasantly.
“How wise the English are!” he said. “We may yet learn much of them.”
Philip turned away from the Ambassador and watched the dance in silence. The courtiers now stood in a wide half circle to the right and left of him as he faced the hall, and the dancers passed backwards and forwards across the open space. His slow eyes followed one figure without seeing the rest. In the set nearest to him a beautiful girl was dancing with one of Don John’s officers. She was of the rarest type of Andalusian beauty, tall, pliant, and slenderly strong, with raven’s-wing hair and splendidly languorous eyes, her creamy cheek as smooth as velvet, and a mouth like a small ripe fruit. As she moved she bent from the waist as easily and naturally as a child, and every movement followed a new curve of beauty from her white throat to the small arched foot that darted into sight as she stepped forward now and then, to disappear instantly under the shadow of the gold-embroidered skirt. As she glanced towards the King, her shadowy lids half hid her eyes and the long black lashes almost brushed her cheek. Philip could not look away from her.
But suddenly there was a stir among the courtiers, and a shadow came between the King and the vision he was watching. He started a little, annoyed by the interruption and at being rudely reminded of what had happened half an hour earlier, for the shadow was cast by Mendoza, tall and grim in his armour, his face as grey as his grey beard, and his eyes hard and fixed. Without bending, like a soldier on parade, he stood there, waiting by force of habit until Philip should speak to him. The King’s brows bent together, and he almost unconsciously raised one hand to signify that the music should cease. It stopped in the midst of a bar, leaving the dancers at a standstill in their measure, and all the moving sea of light and colour and gleaming jewels was arrested instantly in its motion, while every look was turned towards the King. The change from sound to silence, from motion to immobility, was so sudden that every one was startled, as if some frightful accident had happened, or as if an earthquake had shaken the Alcazar to its deep foundation.
Mendoza’s harsh voice spoke out alone in accents that were heard to the end of the hall.
“Don John of Austria is dead! I, Mendoza, have killed him unarmed.”
It was long before a sound was heard, before any man or woman in the hall had breath to utter a word. Philip’s voice was heard first.
“The man is mad,” he said, with undisturbed coolness. “See to him, Perez.”
“No, no!” cried Mendoza. “I am not mad. I have killed Don John. You shall find him in his room as he fell, with the wound in his breast.”
One moment more the silence lasted, while Philip’s stony face never moved. A single woman’s shriek rang out first, long, ear-piercing, agonized, and then, without warning, a cry went up such as the old hall had never heard before. It was a bad cry to hear, for it clamoured for blood to be shed for blood, and though it was not for him, Philip turned livid and shrank back a step. But Mendoza stood like a rock, waiting to be taken.
In another moment furious confusion filled the hall. From every side at once rose women’s cries, and the deep shouts of angry men, and high, clear yells of rage and hate. The men pushed past the ladies of the court to the front, and some came singly, but a serried rank moved up from behind, pushing the others before them.
“Kill him! Kill him at the King’s feet! Kill him where he stands!”
And suddenly something made blue flashes of light high over the heads of all; a rapier was out and wheeled in quick circles from a pliant wrist. An officer of Mendoza’s guard had drawn it, and a dozen more were in the air in an instant, and then daggers by scores, keen, short, and strong, held high at arm’s length, each shaking with the fury of the hand that held it.
“Sangre! Sangre!”
Some one had screamed out the wild cry of the Spanish soldiers— ‘Blood! Blood!’ — and the young men took it up in a mad yell, as they pushed forwards furiously, while the few who stood in front tried to keep a space open round the King and Mendoza.
The old man never winced, and disdained to turn his head, though he heard the cry of death behind him, and the quick, soft sound of daggers drawn from leathern sheaths, and the pressing of men who would be upon him in another moment to tear him limb from limb with their knives.
Tall old Ruy Gomez had stepped forwards to stem the tide of death, and beside him the English Ambassador, quietly determined to see fair play or to be hurt himself in preventing murder.
“Back!” thundered Ruy Gomez, in a voice that was heard. “Back, I say! Are you gentlemen of Spain, or are you executioners yourselves that you would take this man’s blood? Stand back!”
“Sangre! Sangre!” echoed the hall.
“Then take mine first!” shouted the brave old Prince, spreading his short cloak out behind him with his hands to cover Mendoza more completely.
But still the crowd of splendid young nobles surged up to him, and back a little, out of sheer respect for his station and his old age, and forwards again, dagger in hand, with blazing eyes.
&n
bsp; “Sangre! Sangre! Sangre!” they cried, blind with fury.
But meanwhile, the guards filed in, for the prudent Perez had hastened to throw wide the doors and summon them. Weapons in hand and ready, they formed a square round the King and Mendoza and Ruy Gomez, and at the sight of their steel caps and breastplates and long-tasselled halberds, the yells of the courtiers subsided a little and turned to deep curses and execrations and oaths of vengeance. A high voice pierced the low roar, keen and cutting as a knife, but no one knew whose it was, and Philip almost reeled as he heard the words.
“Remember Don Carlos! Don John of Austria is gone to join Don Carlos and Queen Isabel!”
Again a deadly silence fell upon the multitude, and the King leaned on Perez’ arm. Some woman’s hate had bared the truth in a flash, and there were hundreds of hands in the hall that were ready to take his life instead of Mendoza’s; and he knew it, and was afraid.
CHAPTER XV
THE AGONIZED CRY that had been first heard in the hall had come from Inez’s lips. When she had fled from her father, she had regained her hiding-place in the gallery above the throne room. She would not go to her own room, for she felt that rest was out of the question while Dolores was in such danger; and yet there would have been no object in going to Don John’s door again, to risk being caught by her father or met by the King himself. She had therefore determined to let an hour pass before attempting another move. So she slipped into the gallery again, and sat upon the little wooden bench that had been made for the Moorish women in old times; and she listened to the music and the sound of the dancers’ feet far below, and to the hum of voices, in which she often distinguished the name of Don John. She had heard all, — the cries when it was thought that he was coming, the chamberlain’s voice announcing the King, and then the change of key in the sounds that had followed. Lastly, she had heard plainly every syllable of her father’s speech, so that when she realized what it meant, she had shrieked aloud, and had fled from the gallery to find her sister if she could, to find Don John’s body most certainly where it lay on the marble floor, with the death wound at the breast. Her instinct — she could not have reasoned then — told her that her father must have found the lovers together, and that in sudden rage he had stabbed Don John, defenceless.
Dolores’ tears answered her sister’s question well enough when the two girls were clasped in one another’s arms at last. There was not a doubt left in the mind of either. Inez spoke first. She said that she had hidden in the gallery.
“Our father must have come in some time after the King,” she said, in broken sentences, and almost choking. “Suddenly the music stopped. I could hear every word. He said that he had done it, — that he had murdered Don John, — and then I ran here, for I was afraid he had killed you, too.”
“Would God he had!” cried Dolores. “Would to Heaven that I were dead beside the man I love!”
“And I!” moaned Inez pitifully, and she began to sob wildly, as Dolores had sobbed at first.
But Dolores was silent now, as if she had shed all her tears at once, and had none left. She held her sister in her arms, and soothed her almost unconsciously, as if she had been a little child. But her own thoughts were taking shape quickly, for she was strong; and after the first paroxysm of her grief, she saw the immediate future as clearly as the present. When she spoke again she had the mastery of her voice, and it was clear and low.
“You say that our father confessed before the whole court that he had murdered Don John?” she said, with a question. “What happened then? Did the King speak? Was our father arrested? Can you remember?”
“I only heard loud cries,” sobbed Inez. “I came to you — as quickly as I could — I was afraid.”
“We shall never see our father again — unless we see him on the morning when he is to die.”
“Dolores! They will not kill him, too?” In sudden and greater fear than before, Inez ceased sobbing.
“He will die on the scaffold,” answered Dolores, in the same clear tone, as if she were speaking in a dream, or of things that did not come near her. “There is no pardon possible. He will die to-morrow or the next day.”
The present truth stood out in all its frightful distinctness. Whoever had done the murder — since Mendoza had confessed it, he would be made to die for it, — of that she was sure. She could not have guessed what had really happened; and though the evidence of the sounds she had heard through the door would have gone to show that Philip had done the deed himself, yet there had been no doubt about Mendoza’s words, spoken to the King alone over Don John’s dead body, and repeated before the great assembly in the ball-room. If she guessed at an explanation, it was that her father, entering the bedchamber during the quarrel, and supposing from what he saw that Don John was about to attack the King, had drawn and killed the Prince without hesitation. The only thing quite clear was that Mendoza was to suffer, and seemed strangely determined to suffer, for what he had or had not done. The dark shadow of the scaffold rose before Dolores’ eyes.
It had seemed impossible that she could be made to bear more than she had borne that night, when she had fallen upon Don John’s body to weep her heart out for her dead love. But she saw that there was more to bear, and dimly she guessed that there might be something for her to do. There was Inez first, and she must be cared for and placed in safety, for she was beside herself with grief. It was only on that afternoon by the window that Dolores had guessed the blind girl’s secret, which Inez herself hardly suspected even now, though she was half mad with grief and utterly broken-hearted.
Dolores felt almost helpless, but she understood that she and her sister were henceforth to be more really alone in what remained of life than if they had been orphans from their earliest childhood. The vision of the convent, that had been unbearable but an hour since, held all her hope of peace and safety now, unless her father could be saved from his fate by some miracle of heaven. But that was impossible. He had given himself up as if he were determined to die. He had been out of his mind, beside himself, stark mad, in his fear that Don John might bring harm upon his daughter. That was why he had killed him — there could be no other reason, unless he had guessed that she was in the locked room, and had judged her then and at once, and forever. The thought had not crossed her mind till then, and it was a new torture now, so that she shrank under it as under a bodily blow; and her grasp tightened violently upon her sister’s arm, rousing the half-fainting girl again to the full consciousness of pain.
It was no wonder that Mendoza should have done such a deed, since he had believed her ruined and lost to honour beyond salvation. That explained all. He had guessed that she had been long with Don John, who had locked her hastily into the inner room to hide her from the King. Had the King been Don John, had she loved Philip as she loved his brother, her father would have killed his sovereign as unhesitatingly, and would have suffered any death without flinching. She believed that, and there was enough of his nature in herself to understand it.
She was as innocent as the blind girl who lay in her arms, but suddenly it flashed upon her that no one would believe it, since her own father would not, and that her maiden honour and good name were gone for ever, gone with her dead lover, who alone could have cleared her before the world. She cared little for the court now, but she cared tenfold more earnestly for her father’s thought of her, and she knew him and the terrible tenacity of his conviction when he believed himself to be right. He had proved that by what he had done. Since she understood all, she no longer doubted that he had killed Don John with the fullest intention, to avenge her, and almost knowing that she was within hearing, as indeed she had been. He had taken a royal life in atonement for her honour, but he was to give his own, and was to die a shameful death on the scaffold, within a few hours, or, at the latest, within a few days, for her sake.
Then she remembered how on that afternoon she had seen tears in his eyes, and had heard the tremor in his voice when he had said that she was everyt
hing to him, that she had been all his life since her mother had died — he had proved that, too; and though he had killed the man she loved, she shrank from herself again as she thought what he must have suffered in her dishonour. For it was nothing else. There was neither man nor woman nor girl in Spain who would believe her innocent against such evidence. The world might have believed Don John, if he had lived, because the world had loved him and trusted him, and could never have heard falsehood in his voice; but it would not believe her though she were dying, and though she should swear upon the most sacred and true things. The world would turn from her with an unbelieving laugh, and she was to be left alone in her dishonour, and people would judge that she was not even a fit companion for her blind sister in their solitude. The King would send her to Las Huelgas, or to some other distant convent of a severe order, that she might wear out her useless life in grief and silence and penance as quickly as possible. She bowed her head. It was too hard to bear.
Inez was more quiet now, and the two sat side by side in mournful silence, leaning against the parapet. They had forgotten the dwarf, and he had disappeared, waiting, perhaps, in the shadow at a distance, in case he might be of use to them. But if he was within hearing, they did not see him. At last Inez spoke, almost in a whisper, as if she were in the presence of the dead.
“Were you there, dear?” she asked. “Did you see?”
“I was in the next room,” Dolores answered. “I could not see, but I heard. I heard him fall,” she added almost inaudibly, and choking.
Inez shuddered and pressed nearer to her sister, leaning against her, but she did not begin to sob again. She was thinking.
“Can we not help our father, at least?” she asked presently. “Is there nothing we can say, or do? We ought to help him if we can, Dolores — though he did it.”
“I would save him with my life, if I could. God knows, I would! He was mad when he struck the blow. He did it for my sake, because he thought Don John had ruined my good name. And we should have been married the day after to-morrow! God of heaven, have mercy!”
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 970