When he had sent away Mendoza, the King remained standing and began to
pace the floor, while Don John stood by the table watching him and
waiting for him to speak. It was clear that he was still angry, for his
anger, though sometimes suddenly roused, was very slow to reach its
height, and slower still to subside; and when at last it had cooled, it
generally left behind it an enduring hatred, such as could be satisfied
only by the final destruction of the object that had caused it. That
lasting hate was perhaps more dangerous than the sudden outburst had
been, but in moments of furious passion Philip was undoubtedly a man to
be feared.
He was evidently not inclined to speak until he had ascertained that no
one was listening in the next room, but as he looked from time to time
at Don John his still eyes seemed to grow almost yellow, and his lower
lip moved uneasily. He knew, perhaps, that Mendoza could not at once
find the servant in whose keeping the key of the door was supposed to
be, and he grew impatient by quick degrees until his rising temper got
the better of his caution. Don John instinctively drew himself up, as a
man does who expects to be attacked. He was close to the table, and
remained almost motionless during the discussion that followed, while
Philip paced up and down, sometimes pausing before his brother for a
moment, and then turning again to resume his walk. His voice was muffled
always, and was hard to hear; now and then it became thick and
indistinct with rage, and he cleared his throat roughly, as if he were
angry with it, too. At first he maintained the outward forms of courtesy
in words if not in tone, but long before his wrath had reached its final
climax he forgot them altogether.
"I had hoped to speak with you in privacy, on matters of great
importance. It has pleased your Highness to make that impossible by your
extraordinary behaviour."
Don John raised his eyebrows a little incredulously, and answered with
perfect calmness.
"I do not recollect doing anything which should seem extraordinary to
your Majesty."
"You contradict me," retorted Philip. "That is extraordinary enough, I
should think. I am not aware that it is usual for subjects to contradict
the King. What have you to say in explanation?"
"Nothing. The facts explain themselves well enough."
"We are not in camp," said Philip. "Your Highness is not in command
here, and I am not your subordinate. I desire you to remember whom you
are addressing, for your words will be remembered."
"I never said anything which I wished another to forget," answered Don
John proudly.
"Take care, then!" The King spoke sullenly, and turned away, for he was
slow at retort until he was greatly roused.
Don John did not answer, for he had no wish to produce such a result,
and moreover he was much more preoccupied by the serious question of
Dolores' safety than by any other consideration. So far the King had
said nothing which, but for some derogation from his dignity, might not
have been said before any one, and Don John expected that he would
maintain the same tone until Mendoza returned. It was hard to predict
what might happen then. In all probability Dolores would escape by the
window and endeavour to hide herself in the empty sentry-box until the
interview was over. He could then bring her back in safety, but the
discussion promised to be long and stormy, and meanwhile she would be in
constant danger of discovery. But there was a worse possibility, not
even quite beyond the bounds of the probable. In his present mood,
Philip, if he lost his temper altogether, would perhaps be capable of
placing Don John under arrest. He was all powerful, he hated his
brother, and he was very angry. His last words had been a menace, or had
sounded like one, and another word, when Mendoza returned, could put the
threat into execution. Don John reflected, if such thought could be
called reflection, upon the situation that must ensue, and upon the
probable fate of the woman he loved. He wondered whether she were still
in the room, for hearing that the door was to be opened, she might have
thought it best to escape at once, while her father was absent from the
terrace on his errand. If not, she could certainly go out by the window
as soon as she heard him coming back. It was clearly of the greatest
importance to prevent the King's anger from going any further. Antonio
Perez had recognized the same truth from a very different point of view,
and had spent nearly three-quarters of an hour in flattering his master
with the consummate skill which he alone possessed. He believed that he
had succeeded when the King had dismissed him, saying that he would not
see Don John until the morning. Five minutes after Perez was gone,
Philip was threading the corridors, completely disguised in a long black
cloak, with the ever-loyal Mendoza at his heels. It was not the first
time that he had deceived his deceivers.
He paced the room in silence after he had last spoken. As soon as Don
John realized that his liberty might be endangered, he saw that he must
say what he could in honour and justice to save himself from arrest,
since nothing else could save Dolores.
"I greatly regret having done anything to anger your Majesty," he said,
with quiet dignity. "I was placed in a very difficult position by
unforeseen circumstances. If there had been time to reflect, I might
have acted otherwise."
"Might have acted otherwise!" repeated Philip harshly. "I do not like
those words. You might have acted otherwise than to defy your sovereign
before the Queen! I trusted you might, indeed!"
He was silent again, his protruding lip working angrily, as if he had
tasted something he disliked. Don John's half apology had not been
received with much grace, but he saw no way open save to insist that it
was genuine.
"It is certainly true that I have lived much in camps of late," he
answered, "and that a camp is not a school of manners, any more than the
habit of commanding others accustoms a man to courtly submission."
"Precisely. You have learned to forget that you have a superior in
Spain, or in the world. You already begin to affect the manners and
speech of a sovereign--you will soon claim the dignity of one, too, I
have no doubt. The sooner we procure you a kingdom of your own, the
better, for your Highness will before long become an element of discord
in ours."
"Rather than that," answered Don John, "I will live in retirement for
the rest of my life."
"We may require it of your Highness," replied Philip, standing still and
facing his brother. "It may be necessary for our own safety that you
should spend some time at least in very close retirement--very!" He
almost laughed.
"I should prefer that to the possibility of causing any disturbance in
your Majesty's kingdom."
Nothing could have been more gravely submissive than Don John's tone,
but the King was apparently determined to rouse his anger.
"Your deeds belie your words," he retorted, beginning to walk again.
"There is too much loyalty in what you say, and too much of a rebellious
spirit in what you do. The two do not agree together. You mock me."
"God forbid that!" cried Don John. "I desire no praise for what I may
have done, but such as my deeds have been they have produced peace and
submission in your Majesty's kingdom, and not rebellion--"
"And is it because you have beaten a handful of ill-armed Moriscoes, in
the short space of two years, that the people follow you in throngs
wherever you go, shouting for you, singing your praises, bringing
petitions to you by hundreds, as if you were King--as if you were more
than that, a sort of god before whom every one must bow down? Am I so
simple as to believe that what you have done with such leisure is enough
to rouse all Spain, and to make the whole court break out into cries of
wonder and applause as soon as you appear? If you publicly defy me and
disobey me, do I not know that you believe yourself able to do so, and
think your power equal to mine? And how could that all be brought about,
save by a party that is for you, by your secret agents everywhere, high
and low, forever praising you and telling men, and women, too, of your
graces, and your generosities, and your victories, and saying that it is
a pity so good and brave a prince should be but a leader of the King's
armies, and then contrasting the King himself with you, the cruel King,
the grasping King, the scheming King, the King who has every fault that
is not found in Don John of Austria, the people's god! Is that peace and
submission? Or is it the beginning of rebellion, and revolution, and
civil war, which is to set Don John of Austria on the throne of Spain,
and send King Philip to another world as soon as all is ready?"
Don John listened in amazement. It had never occurred to him any one
could believe him capable of the least of the deeds Philip was
attributing to him, and in spite of his resolution his anger began to
rise. Then, suddenly, as if cold water had been dashed in his face, he
remembered that an hour had not passed since he had held Dolores in his
arms, swearing to do that of which he was now accused, and that her
words only had held him back. It all seemed monstrous now. As she had
said, it had been only a bad dream and he had wakened to himself again.
Yet the thought of rebellion had more than crossed his mind, for in a
moment it had taken possession of him and had seemed to change all his
nature from good to bad. In his own eyes he was rebuked, and he did not
answer at once.
"You have nothing to say!" exclaimed Philip scornfully. "Is there any
reason why I should not try you for high treason?"
Don John started at the words, but his anger was gone, and he thought
only of Dolores' safety in the near future.
"Your Majesty is far too just to accuse an innocent man who has served
you faithfully," he answered.
Philip stopped and looked at him curiously and long, trying to detect
some sign of anxiety if not of fear. He was accustomed to torture men
with words well enough, before he used other means, and he himself had
not believed what he had said. It had been only an experiment tried on a
mere chance, and it had failed. At the root of his anger there was only
jealousy and personal hatred of the brother who had every grace and
charm which he himself had not.
"More kind than just, perhaps," he said, with a slight change of tone
towards condescension. "I am willing to admit that I have no proofs
against you, but the evidence of circumstances is not in your favour.
Take care, for you are observed. You are too much before the world, too
imposing a figure to escape observation."
"My actions will bear it. I only beg that your Majesty will take account
of them rather than listen to such interpretation as may be put upon
them by other men."
"Other men do nothing but praise you," said Philip bluntly. "Their
opinion of you is not worth having! I thought I had explained that
matter sufficiently. You are the idol of the people, and as if that were
not enough, you are the darling of the court, besides being the women's
favourite. That is too much for one man to be--take care, I say, take
care! Be at more pains for my favour, and at less trouble for your
popularity."
"So far as that goes," answered Don John, with some pride, "I think that
if men praise me it is because I have served the King as well as I
could, and with success. If your Majesty is not satisfied with what I
have done, let me have more to do. I shall try to do even the
impossible."
"That will please the ladies," retorted Philip, with a sneer. "You will
be overwhelmed with correspondence--your gloves will not hold it all"
Don John did not answer, for it seemed wiser to let the King take this
ground than return to his former position.
"You will have plenty of agreeable occupation in time of peace. But it
is better that you should be married soon, before you become so
entangled with the ladies of Madrid as to make your marriage
impossible."
"Saving the last clause," said Don John boldly, "I am altogether of your
Majesty's opinion. But I fear no entanglements here."
"No--you do not fear them. On the contrary, you live in them as if they
were your element."
"No man can say that," answered Don John.
"You contradict me again. Pray, if you have no entanglements, how comes
it that you have a lady's letter in your glove?"
"I cannot tell whether it was a lady's letter or a man's."
"Have you not read it?"
"Yes."
"And you refused to show it to me on the ground that it was a woman's
secret?"
"I had not read it then. It was not signed, and it might well have been
written by a man."
Don John watched the King's face. It was for from improbable, he
thought, that the King had caused it to be written, or had written it
himself, that he supposed his brother to have read it, and desired to
regain possession of it as soon as possible. Philip seemed to hesitate
whether to continue his cross-examination or not, and he looked at the
door leading into the antechamber, suddenly wondering why Mendoza had
not returned. Then he began to speak again, but he did not wish, angry
though he was, to face alone a second refusal to deliver the document to
him. His dignity would have suffered too much.
"The facts of the case are these," he said, as if he were recapitulating
what had gone before in his mind. "It is my desire to marry you to the
widowed Queen of Scots, as you know. You are doing all you can to oppose
me, and you have determined to marry the dowerless daughter of a poor
soldier. I am equally determined that you shall not disgrace yourself by
such an alliance."
"Disgrace!" cried Don John loudly, almost before the word had passed the
King's lips, and he made half a step forward. "You are braver than I
thought you, if you dare use that word to me!"
Philip stepped back, growing livid, and his hand was on his rapier. Don
John was unarmed, but his sword lay on the table within his reach.
Seeing the King afraid, he stepped back.
"No," he said scornfully, "I was mistaken. You are a coward." He laughed
as he glanced at Philip's hand, still on the hilt of his weapon and
ready to draw it.
In the next room Dolores drew frightened breath, for the tones of the
two men's voices had changed suddenly. Yet her heart had leapt for joy
when she had heard Don John's cry of anger at the King's insulting word.
But Don John was right, for Philip was a coward at heart, and though he
inwardly resolved that his brother should be placed under arrest as soon
as Mendoza returned, his present instinct was not to rouse him further.
He was indeed in danger, between his anger and his fear, for at any
moment he might speak some bitter word, accustomed as he was to the
perpetual protection of his guards, but at the next his brother's hands
might be on his throat, for he had the coward's true instinct to
recognize the man who was quite fearless.
"You strangely forget yourself," he said, with an appearance of dignity.
"You spring forward as if you were going to grapple with me, and then
you are surprised that I should be ready to defend myself."
"I barely moved a step from where I stand," answered Don John, with
profound contempt. "I am unarmed, too. There lies my sword, on the
table. But since you are the King as well as my brother, I make all
excuses to your Majesty for having been the cause of your fright."
Dolores understood what had happened, as Don John meant that she should.
She knew also that her position was growing more and more desperate and
untenable at every moment; yet she could not blame her lover for what he
had said. Even to save her, she would not have had him cringe to the
King and ask pardon for his hasty word and movement, still less could
she have borne that he should not cry out in protest at a word that
insulted her, though ever so lightly.
"I do not desire to insist upon our kinship," said Philip coldly. "If I
chose to acknowledge it when you were a boy, it was out of respect for
the memory of the Emperor. It was not in the expectation of being called
brother by the son of a German burgher's daughter."
Don John did not wince, for the words, being literally true and without
exaggeration, could hardly be treated as an insult, though they were
meant for one, and hurt him, as all reference to his real mother always
did.
"Yes," he said, still scornfully. "I am the son of a German burgher's
daughter, neither better nor worse. But I am your brother, for all that,
and though I shall not forget that you are King and I am subject, when
we are before the world, yet here, we are man and man, you and I,
brother and brother, and there is neither King nor prince. But I shall
not hurt you, so you need fear nothing. I respect the brother far too
little for that, and the sovereign too much."
There was a bad yellow light in Philip's face, and instead of walking
towards Don John and away from him, as he had done hitherto, he began to
pace up and down, crossing and recrossing before him, from the foot of
the great canopied bed to one of the curtained windows, keeping his eyes
upon his brother almost all the time.
"I warned you when I came here that your words should be remembered," he
said. "And your actions shall not be forgotten, either. There are safe
places, even in Madrid, where you can live in the retirement you desire
so much, even in total solitude."
"If it pleases your Majesty to imprison Don John of Austria, you have
the power. For my part, I shall make no resistance."
"Who shall, then?" asked the King angrily. "Do you expect that there
will be a general rising of the people to liberate you, or that there
will be a revolution within the palace, brought on by your party, which
shall force me to set you free for reasons of state? We are not in Paris
that you should expect the one, nor in Constantinople where the other
might be possible. We are in Spain, and I am master, and my will shall
be done, and no one shall cry out against it. I am too gentle with you,
too kind! For the half of what you have said and done, Elizabeth of
England would have had your life to-morrow--yes, I consent to give you a
chance, the benefit of a doubt there is still in my thoughts about you,
because justice shall not be offended and turned into an instrument of
revenge. Yes--I am kind, I am clement. We shall see whether you can save
yourself. You shall have the chance."
"What chance is that?" asked Don John, growing very quiet, for he saw
the real danger near at hand again.
"You shall have an opportunity of proving that a subject is at liberty
to insult his sovereign, and that the King is not free to speak his mind
to a subject. Can you prove that?"
"I cannot."
"Then you can be convicted of high treason," answered Philip, his evil
mouth curling. "There are several methods of interrogating the accused,"
he continued. "I daresay you have heard of them."
"Do you expect to frighten me by talking of torture?" asked Don John,
with a smile at the implied suggestion.
"Witnesses are also examined," replied the King, his voice thickening
again in anticipation of the effect he was going to produce upon the man
who would not fear him. "With them, even more painful methods are often
employed. Witnesses may be men or women, you know, my dear brother--" he
pronounced the word with a sneer--"and among the many ladies of your
acquaintance--"
"There are very few."
"It will be the easier to find the two or three, or perhaps the only
one, whom it will be necessary to interrogate--in your presence, most
probably, and by torture."
"I was right to call you a coward," said Don John, slowly turning pale
till his face was almost as white as the white silks and satins of his
doublet.
"Will you give me the letter you were reading when I came here?"
"No."
"Not to save yourself from the executioner's hands?"
"No."
"Not to save--" Philip paused, and a frightful stare of hatred fixed his
eyes on his brother. "Will you give me that letter to save Dolores de
Mendoza from being torn piecemeal?"
"Coward!"
By instinct Don John's hand went to the hilt of his sheathed sword this
time, as he cried out in rage, and sprang forward. Even then he would
have remembered the promise he had given and would not have raised his
hand to strike. But the first movement was enough, and Philip drew his
rapier in a flash of light, fearing for his life. Without waiting for an
attack he made a furious pass at his brother's body. Don John's hand
went out with the sheathed sword in a desperate attempt to parry the
thrust, but the weapon was entangled in the belt that hung to it, and
Philip's lunge had been strong and quick as lightning.
With a cry of anger Don John fell straight backwards, his feet seeming
to slip from under him on the smooth marble pavement, and with his fall,
as he threw out his hands to save himself, the sword flew high into the
air, sheathed as it was, and landed far away. He lay at full length with
one arm stretched out, and for a moment the hand twitched in quick
spasms. Then it was quite still.
At his feet stood Philip, his rapier in his hand, and blood on its fine
point. His eyes shone yellow in the candlelight, his jaw had dropped a
little, and he bent forwards, looking intently at the still, white face.
He had longed for that moment ever since he had entered his brother's
room, though even he himself had not guessed that he wanted his
brother's life. There was not a sound in the room as he looked at what
he had done, and two or three drops of blood fell one by one, very
slowly, upon the marble. On the dazzling white of Don John's doublet
there was a small red stain. As Philip watched it, he thought it grew
wider and brighter.
Beyond the door, Dolores had fallen upon her knees, pressing her hands
to her temples in an agony beyond thought or expression. Her fear had
risen to terror while she listened to the last words that had been
exchanged, and the King's threat had chilled her blood like ice, though
she was brave. She had longed to cry out to Don John to give up her
letter or the other, whichever the King wanted--she had almost tried to
raise her voice, in spite of every other fear, when she had heard Don
John's single word of scorn, and the quick footsteps, the drawing of the
rapier from its sheath, the desperate scuffle that had not lasted five
seconds, and then the dull fall which meant that one was hurt.
It could only be the King,--but that was terrible enough,--and yet, if
the King had fallen, Don John would have come to the door the next
instant. All was still in the room, but her terror made wild noises in
her ears. The two men might have spoken now and she could not have heard
them,--nor the opening of a door, nor any ordinary sound. It was no
longer the fear of being heard, either, that made her silent. Her throat
was parched and her tongue paralyzed. She remembered suddenly that Don
John had been unarmed, and how he had pointed out to Philip that his
sword lay on the table. It was the King who had drawn his own, then, and
had killed his unarmed brother. She felt as if something heavy were
striking her head as the thoughts made broken words, and flashes of
light danced before her eyes. With her hands she tried to press feeling
and reason and silence back into her brain that would not be quieted,
but the certainty grew upon her that Don John was killed, and the tide
of despair rose higher with every breath.
The sensation came upon her that she was dying, then and there, of a
pain human nature could not endure, far beyond the torments Philip had
threatened, and the thought was merciful, for she could not have lived
an hour in such agony,--something would have broken before then. She was
dying, there, on her knees before the door beyond which her lover lay
suddenly dead. It would be easy to die. In a moment more she would be
with him, for ever, and in peace. They would find her there, dead, and
perhaps they would be merciful and bury her near him. But that would
matter little, since she should be with him always now. In the first
grief that struck her, and bruised her, and numbed her as with material
blows, she had no tears, but there was a sort of choking fire in her
throat, and her eyes burned her like hot iron.
She did not know how long she knelt, waiting for death. She was dying,
and there was no time any more, nor any outward world, nor anything but
her lover's dead body on the floor in the next room, and his soul
waiting for hers, waiting beside her for her to die also, that they
might go together. She was so sure now, that she was wondering dreamily
why it took so long to die, seeing that death had taken him so quickly.
Could one shaft be aimed so straight and could the next miss the mark?
She shook all over, as a new dread seized her. She was not dying,--her
life clung too closely to her suffering body, her heart was too young
and strong to stand still in her breast for grief. She was to live, and
bear that same pain a lifetime. She rocked herself gently on her knees,
bowing her head almost to the floor.
She was roused by the sound of her father's voice, and the words he was
speaking sent a fresh shock of horror through her unutterable grief, for
they told her that Don John was dead, and then something else so strange
that she could not understand it.
Philip had stood only a few moments, sword in hand, over his brother's
body, staring down at his face, when the door opened. On the threshold
stood old Mendoza, half-stunned by the sight he saw. Philip heard, stood
up, and drew back as his eyes fell upon the old soldier. He knew that
Mendoza, if no one else, knew the truth now, beyond any power of his to
conceal it. His anger had subsided, and a sort of horror that could
never be remorse, had come over him for what he had done. It must have
been in his face, for Mendoza understood, and he came forward quickly
and knelt down upon the floor to listen for the beating of the heart,
and to try whether there was any breath to dim the brightness of his
polished scabbard. Philip looked on in silence. Like many an old soldier
Mendoza had some little skill, but he saw the bright spot on the white
doublet, and the still face and the hands relaxed, and there was neither
breath nor beating of the heart to give hope. He rose silently, and
shook his head. Still looking down he saw the red drops that had fallen
upon the pavement from Philip's rapier, and looking at that, saw that
the point was dark. With a gesture of excuse he took the sword from the
King's hand and wiped it quite dry and bright upon his own handkerchief,
and gave it back to Philip, who sheathed it by his side, but never
spoke.
Together the two looked at the body for a full minute and more, each
silently debating what should be done with it. At last Mendoza raised
his head, and there was a strange look in his old eyes and a sort of wan
greatness came over his war-worn face. It was then that he spoke the
words Dolores heard.
"I throw myself upon your Majesty's mercy! I have killed Don John of
Austria in a private quarrel, and he was unarmed."
Philip understood well enough, and a faint smile of satisfaction flitted
through the shadows of his face. It was out of the question that the
world should ever know who had killed his brother, and he knew the man
who offered to sacrifice himself by bearing the blame of the deed.
Mendoza would die, on the scaffold if need be, and it would be enough
for him to know that his death saved his King. No word would ever pass
his lips. The man's loyalty would bear any proof; he could feel horror
at the thought that Philip could have done such a deed, but the King's
name must be saved at all costs, and the King's divine right must be
sustained before the world. He felt no hesitation from the moment when
he saw clearly how this must be done. To accuse some unknown murderer
and let it be supposed that he had escaped would have been worse than
useless; the court and half Spain knew of the King's jealousy of his
brother, every one had seen that Philip had been very angry when the
courtiers had shouted for Don John; already the story of the quarrel
about the glove was being repeated from mouth to mouth in the throne
room, where the nobles had reassembled after supper. As soon as it was
known that Don John was dead, it would be believed by every one in the
palace that the King had killed him or had caused him to be murdered.
But if Mendoza took the blame upon himself, the court would believe him,
for many knew of Dolores' love for Don John, and knew also how bitterly
the old soldier was opposed to their marriage, on the ground that it
would be no marriage at all, but his daughter's present ruin. There was
no one else in the palace who could accuse himself of the murder and who
would be believed to have done it without the King's orders, and Mendoza
knew this, when he offered his life to shield Philip's honour. Philip
knew it, too, and while he wondered at the old man's simple devotion, he
accepted it without protest, as his vast selfishness would have
permitted the destruction of all mankind, that it might be satisfied and
filled.
He looked once more at the motionless body at his feet, and once more at
the faithful old man. Then he bent his head with condescending gravity,
as if he were signifying his pleasure to receive kindly, for the giver's
sake, a gift of little value.
"So be it," he said slowly.
Mendoza bowed his head, too, as if in thanks, and then taking up the
long dark cloak which the King had thrown off on entering, he put it
upon Philip's shoulders, and went before him to the door. And Philip
followed him without looking back, and both went out upon the terrace,
leaving both doors ajar after them. They exchanged a few words more as
they walked slowly in the direction of the corridor.
"It is necessary that your Majesty should return at once to the throne
room, as if nothing had happened," said Mendoza. "Your Majesty should be
talking unconcernedly with some ambassador or minister when the news is
brought that his Highness is dead."
"And who shall bring the news?" asked Philip calmly, as if he were
speaking to an indifferent person.
"I will, Sire," answered Mendoza firmly.
"They will tear you in pieces before I can save you," returned Philip,
in a thoughtful tone.
"So much the better. I shall die for my King, and your Majesty will be
spared the difficulty of pardoning a deed which will be unpardonable in
the eyes of the whole world."
"That is true," said the King meditatively. "But I do not wish you to
die, Mendoza," he added, as an afterthought. "You must escape to France
or to England."
"I could not make my escape without your Majesty's help, and that would
soon be known. It would then be believed that I had done the deed by
your Majesty's orders, and no good end would have been gained."
"You may be right. You are a very brave man, Mendoza--the bravest I have
ever known. I thank you. If it is possible to save you, you shall be
saved."
"It will not be possible," replied the soldier, in a low and steady
voice. "If your Majesty will return at once to the throne room, it may
be soon over. Besides, it is growing late, and it must be done before
the whole court."
They entered the corridor, and the King walked a few steps before
Mendoza, covering his head with the hood of his cloak lest any one
should recognize him, and gradually increasing his distance as the old
man fell behind. Descending by a private staircase, Philip reëntered his
own apartments by a small door that gave access to his study without
obliging him to pass through the antechamber, and by which he often came
and went unobserved. Alone in his innermost room, and divested of his
hood and cloak, the King went to a Venetian mirror that stood upon a
pier table between the windows, and examined his face attentively. Not a
trace of excitement or emotion was visible in the features he saw, but
his hair was a little disarranged, and he smoothed it carefully and
adjusted it about his ears. From a silver box on the table he took a
little scented lozenge and put it into his mouth. No reasonable being
would have suspected from his appearance that he had been moved to
furious anger and had done a murderous deed less than twenty minutes
earlier. His still eyes were quite calm now, and the yellow gleam in
them had given place to their naturally uncertain colour. With a smile
of admiration for his own extraordinary powers, he turned and left the
room. He was enjoying one of his rare moments of satisfaction, for the
rival he had long hated and was beginning to dread was never to stand in
his way again nor to rob him of the least of his attributes of
sovereignty.
* * * * *