Dolores had not understood her father's words. All that was clear to her
was that Don John was dead and that his murderers were gone. Had there
been danger still for herself, she could not have felt it; but there was
none now as she laid her hand upon the key to enter the bedchamber. At
first the lock would not open, as it had been injured in some way by
being so roughly shaken when Mendoza had tried it. But Dolores'
desperate fingers wound themselves upon the key like little ropes of
white silk, slender but very strong, and she wrenched at the thing
furiously till it turned. The door flew open, and she stood motionless a
moment on the threshold. Mendoza had said that Don John was dead, but
she had not quite believed it.
He lay on his back as he had fallen, his feet towards her, his graceful
limbs relaxed, one arm beside him, the other thrown back beyond his
head, the colourless fingers just bent a little and showing the nervous
beauty of the hand. The beautiful young face was white as marble, and
the eyes were half open, very dark under the waxen lids. There was one
little spot of scarlet on the white satin coat, near the left breast.
Dolores saw it all in the bright light of the candles, and she neither
moved nor closed her fixed eyes as she gazed. She felt that she was at
the end of life; she stood still to see it all and to understand. But
though she tried to think, it was as if she had no mind left, no
capacity for grasping any new thought, and no power to connect those
that had disturbed her brain with the present that stared her in the
face. An earthquake might have torn the world open under her feet at
that moment, swallowing up the old Alcazar with the living and the dead,
and Dolores would have gone down to destruction as she stood,
unconscious of her fate, her eyes fixed upon Don John's dead features,
her own life already suspended and waiting to follow his. It seemed as
if she might stand there till her horror should stop the beating of her
own heart, unless something came to rouse her from the stupor she was
in.
But gradually a change came over her face, her lids drooped and
quivered, her face turned a little upward, and she grasped the doorpost
with one hand, lest she should reel and fall. Then, knowing that she
could stand no longer, instinct made a last effort upon her; its
invisible power thrust her violently forward in a few swift steps, till
her strength broke all at once, and she fell and lay almost upon the
body of her lover, her face hidden upon his silent breast, one hand
seeking his hand, the other pressing his cold forehead.
It was not probable that any one should find her there for a long time.
The servants and gentlemen had been dismissed, and until it was known
that Don John was dead, no one would come. Even if she could have
thought at all, she would not have cared who saw her lying there; but
thought was altogether gone now, and there was nothing left but the
ancient instinct of the primeval woman mourning her dead mate alone,
with long-drawn, hopeless weeping and blinding tears.
They came, too, when she had lain upon his breast a little while and
when understanding had wholly ceased and given way to nature. Then her
body shook and her breast heaved strongly, almost throwing her upon her
side as she lay, and sounds that were hardly human came from her lips;
for the first dissolving of a woman's despair into tears is most like
the death agony of those who die young in their strength, when the limbs
are wrung at the joints and the light breaks in the upturned eyes, when
the bosom heaves and would take in the whole world at one breath, when
the voice makes sounds of fear that are beyond words and worse to hear
than any words could be.
Her weeping was wild at first, measureless and violent, broken by sharp
cries that hurt her heart like jagged knives, then strangled to a
choking silence again and again, as the merciless consciousness that
could have killed, if it had prevailed, almost had her by the throat,
but was forced back again with cruel pain by the young life that would
not die, though living was agony and death would have been as welcome as
air.
Then her loud grief subsided to a lower key, and her voice grew by
degrees monotonous and despairing as the turning tide on a quicksand,
before bad weather,--not diminished, but deeper drawn within itself; and
the low moan came regularly with each breath, while the tears flowed
steadily. The first wild tempest had swept by, and the more enduring
storm followed in its track.
So she lay a long time weeping; and then strong hands were upon her,
lifting her up and dragging her away, without warning and without word.
She did not understand, and she fancied herself in the arms of some
supernatural being of monstrous strength that was tearing her from what
was left of life and love. She struggled senselessly, but she could find
no foothold as she was swept through the open door. She gasped for
breath, as one does in bad dreams, and bodily fear almost reached her
heart through its sevenfold armour of such grief as makes fear
ridiculous and turns mortal danger to an empty show. The time had seemed
an age since she had fallen upon dead Don John--it had measured but a
short few minutes; it seemed as if she were being dragged the whole
length of the dim palace as the strong hands bore her along, yet she was
only carried from the room to the terrace; and when her eyes could see,
she knew that she was in the open air on a stone seat in the moonlight,
the cool night breeze fanning her face, while a gentle hand supported
her head,--the same hand that had been so masterfully strong a moment
earlier. A face she knew and did not dread, though it was unlike other
faces, was just at the same height with her own, though the man was
standing beside her and she was seated; and the moonlight made very soft
shadows in the ill-drawn features of the dwarf, so that his thin and
twisted lips were kind and his deep-set eyes were overflowing with human
sympathy. When he understood that she saw him and was not fainting, he
gently drew away his hand and let her head rest against the stone
parapet.
She was dazed still, and the tears veiled her sight. He stood before
her, as if guarding her, ready in case she should move and try to leave
him. His long arms hung by his sides, but not quite motionless, so that
he could have caught her instantly had she attempted to spring past him;
and he was wise and guessed rightly what she would do. Her eyes
brightened suddenly, and she half rose before he held her again.
"No, no!" she said desperately. "I must go to him--let me go--let me go
back!"
But his hands were on her shoulders in an instant, and she was in a
vise, forced back to her seat.
"How dare you touch me!" she cried, in the furious anger of a woman
beside herself with grief. "How dare you lay hands on me!" she repeated
in a rising key, but struggling in vain against his greater strength.
"You would have died, if I had left you there," answered the jester.
"And besides, the people will come soon, and they would have found you
there, lying on his body, and your good name would have gone forever."
"My name! What does a name matter? Or anything? Oh, let me go! No one
must touch him--no hands that do not love him must come near him--let me
get up--let me go in again!"
She tried to force the dwarf from her--she would have struck him,
crushed him, thrown him from the terrace, if she could. She was strong,
too, in her grief; but his vast arms were like iron bars, growing from
his misshapen body. His face was very grave and kind, and his eyes more
tender than they had ever been in his life.
"No," he said gently. "You must not go. By and by you shall see him
again, but not now. Do not try, for I am much stronger than you, and I
will not let you go back into the room."
Then her strength relaxed, and she turned to the stone parapet, burying
her face in her crossed arms, and her tears came again. For this the
jester was glad, knowing that tears quench the first white heat of such
sorrows as can burn out the soul and drive the brain raving mad, when
life can bear the torture. He stood still before her, watching her and
guarding her, but he felt that the worst was past, and that before very
long he could lead her away to a place of greater safety. He had indeed
taken her as far as he could from Don John's door, and out of sight of
it, where the long terrace turned to the westward, and where it was not
likely that any one should pass at that hour. It had been the impulse of
the moment, and he himself had not recovered from the shock of finding
Don John's body lifeless on the floor. He had known nothing of what had
happened, but lurking in a corner to see the King pass on his way back
from his brother's quarters, he had made sure that Don John was alone,
and had gone to his apartment to find out, if he could, how matters had
fared, and whether he himself were in further danger or not. He meant to
escape from the palace, or to take his own life, rather than be put to
the torture, if the King suspected him of being involved in a
conspiracy. He was not a common coward, but he feared bodily pain as
only such sensitive organizations can, and the vision of the rack and
the boot had been before him since he had seen Philip's face at supper.
Don John was kind, and would have warned him if he were in danger, and
so all might have been well, and by flight or death he might have
escaped being torn limb from limb. So he had gone boldly in, and had
found the door ajar and had entered the bedchamber, and when he had seen
what was there, he would have fled at once, for his own safety, not only
because Don John's murder was sure to produce terrible trouble, and many
enquiries and trials, in the course of which he was almost sure to be
lost, but also for the more immediate reason that if he were seen near
the body when it was discovered, he should certainly be put to the
question ordinary and extraordinary for his evidence.
But he was not a common coward, and in spite of his own pardonable
terror, he thought first of the innocent girl whose name and fame would
be gone if she were found lying upon her murdered lover's body, and so
far as he could, he saved her before he thought of saving himself,
though with infinite difficulty and against her will.
Half paralyzed by her immeasurable grief, she lay against the parapet,
and the great sobs came evenly, as if they were counted, shaking her
from her head to her waist, and just leaving her a breathing space
between each one and the next. The jester felt that he could do nothing.
So long as she had seemed unconscious, he had tried to help her a little
by supporting her head with his hand and arm, as tenderly as if she had
been his own child. So long as she did not know what he was doing, she
was only a human being in distress, and a woman, and deep down in the
jester's nature there was a marvellous depth of pity for all things that
suffered--the deeper and truer because his own sufferings in the world
were great. But it was quite different now that she knew where she was
and recognized him. She was no longer a woman now, but a high-born lady,
one of the Queen's maids of honour, a being infinitely far removed above
his sphere, and whose hand he was not worthy to touch. He would have
dared to be much more familiar with the King himself than with this
young girl whom fate had placed in his keeping for a moment. In the
moonlight he watched her, and as he gazed upon her graceful figure and
small head and slender, bending arms, it seemed to him that she had come
down from an altar to suffer in life, and that it had been almost
sacrilege to lay his hands upon her shoulders and keep her from doing
her own will. He almost wondered how he had found courage to be so rough
and commanding. He was gentle of heart, though it was his trade to make
sharp speeches, and there were wonderful delicacies of thought and
feeling far down in his suffering cripple's nature.
"Come," he said softly, when he had waited a long time, and when he
thought she was growing more quiet. "You must let me take you away, Doña
Maria Dolores, for we cannot stay here."
"Take me back to him," she answered. "Let me go back to him!"
"No--to your father--I cannot take you to him. You will be safe there."
Dolores sprang to her feet before the dwarf could prevent her.
"To my father? oh, no, no, no! Never, as long as I live! I will go
anywhere, but not to him! Take your hands from me--do not touch me! I am
not strong, but I shall kill you if you try to take me to my father!"
Her small hands grasped the dwarfs wrists and wrung them with desperate
energy, and she tried to push him away, so that she might pass him. But
he resisted her quietly, planting himself in a position of resistance on
his short bowed legs, and opposing the whole strength of his great arms
to her girlish violence. Her hands relaxed suddenly in despair.
"Not to my father!" she pleaded, in a broken voice. "Oh, please,
please--not to my father!"
The jester did not fully understand, but he yielded, for he could not
carry her to Mendoza's apartments by force.
"But what can I do to put you in a place of safety?" he asked, in
growing distress. "You cannot stay here."
While he was speaking a light figure glided out from the shadows, with
outstretched hands, and a low voice called Dolores' name, trembling with
terror and emotion. Dolores broke from the dwarf and clasped her sister
in her arms.
"Is it true?" moaned Inez. "Is it true? Is he dead?" And her voice
broke.
* * * * *