The courtiers had assembled again in the great throne room after supper,
and the stately dancing, for which the court of Spain was even then
famous throughout Europe, had begun. The orchestra was placed under the
great arch of the central window on a small raised platform draped with
velvets and brocades that hung from a railing, high enough to conceal
the musicians as they sat, though some of the instruments and the moving
bows of the violins could be seen above it.
The masked dancing, if it were dancing at all, which had been general in
the days of the Emperor Maximilian, and which had not yet gone out of
fashion altogether at the imperial court of Vienna, had long been
relegated to the past in Spain, and the beautiful "pavane" dances, of
which awkward travesties survive in our day, had been introduced
instead. As now, the older ladies of the court withdrew to the sides of
the hall, leaving the polished floor free for those who danced, and sets
formed themselves in the order of their rank from the foot of the throne
dais to the lower end. As now, too, the older and graver men congregated
together in outer rooms; and there gaming-tables were set out, and the
nobles lost vast sums at games now long forgotten, by the express
authorization of the pious Philip, who saw that everything which could
injure the fortunes of the grandees must consolidate his own, by
depriving them of some of that immense wealth which was an ever-ready
element of revolution. He did everything in his power to promote the
ruin of the most powerful grandees in the kingdom by encouraging gaming
and all imaginable forms of extravagance, and he looked with suspicion
and displeasure upon those more prudent men who guarded their riches
carefully, as their fathers had done before them. But these were few,
for it was a part of a noble's dignity to lose enormous sums of money
without the slightest outward sign of emotion or annoyance.
It had been announced that the King and Queen would not return after
supper, and the magnificent gravity of the most formal court in the
world was a little relaxed when this was known. Between the strains of
music, the voices of the courtiers rose in unbroken conversation, and
now and then there was a ripple of fresh young laughter that echoed
sweetly under the high Moorish vault, and died away just as it rose
again from below.
Yet the dancing was a matter of state, and solemn enough, though it was
very graceful. Magnificent young nobles in scarlet, in pale green, in
straw colour, in tender shades of blue, all satin and silk and velvet
and embroidery, led lovely women slowly forward with long and gliding
steps that kept perfect time to the music, and turned and went back, and
wound mazy figures with the rest, under the waxen light of the waxen
torches, and returned to their places with deep curtsies on the one
side, and sweeping obeisance on the other. The dresses of the women were
richer by far with gold and silver, and pearls and other jewels, than
those of the men, but were generally darker in tone, for that was the
fashion then. Their skirts were straight and barely touched the floor,
being made for a time when dancing was a part of court life, and when
every one within certain limits of age was expected to dance well. There
was no exaggeration of the ruffle then, nor had the awkward hoop skirt
been introduced in Spain. Those were the earlier days of Queen
Elizabeth's reign, before Queen Mary was imprisoned; it was the time,
indeed, when the rough Bothwell had lately carried her off and married
her, after a fashion, with so little ceremony that Philip paid no
attention to the marriage at all, and deliberately proposed to make her
Don John's wife. The matter was freely talked of on that night by the
noble ladies of elder years who gossiped while they watched the dancing.
That was indeed such a court as had not been seen before, nor was ever
seen again, whether one count beauty first, or riches and magnificence,
or the marvel of splendid ceremony and the faultless grace of studied
manners, or even the cool recklessness of great lords and ladies who
could lose a fortune at play, as if they were throwing a handful of coin
to a beggar in the street.
The Princess of Eboli stood a little apart from the rest, having just
returned to the ball-room, and her eyes searched for Dolores in the
crowd, though she scarcely expected to see her there. It would have been
almost impossible for the girl to put on a court dress in so short a
time, though since her father had allowed her to leave her room, she
could have gone back to dress if she had chosen. The Princess had rarely
been at a loss in her evil life, and had seldom been baffled in anything
she had undertaken, since that memorable occasion on which her husband,
soon after her marriage, had forcibly shut her up in a convent for
several months, in the vain hope of cooling her indomitable temper. But
now she was nervous and uncertain of herself. Not only had Dolores
escaped her, but Don John had disappeared also, and the Princess had not
the least doubt but that the two were somewhere together, and she was
very far from being sure that they had not already left the palace.
Antonio Perez had informed her that the King had promised not to see Don
John that night, and for once she was foolish enough to believe the
King's word. Perez came up to her as she was debating what she should
do. She told him her thoughts, laughing gaily from time to time, as if
she were telling him some very witty story, for she did not wish those
who watched them to guess that the conversation was serious. Perez
laughed, too, and answered in low tones, with many gestures meant to
deceive the court.
"The King did not take my advice," he said. "I had scarcely left him,
when he went to Don John's apartments."
"How do you know that?" asked the Princess, with some anxiety.
"He found the door of an inner room locked, and he sent Mendoza to find
the key. Fortunately for the old man's feelings it could not be found!
He would have had an unpleasant surprise."
"Why?"
"Because his daughter was in the room that was locked," laughed Perez.
"When? How? How long ago was that?"
"Half an hour--not more."
"That is impossible. Half an hour ago Dolores de Mendoza was with me."
"Then there was another lady in the room." Perez laughed again. "Better
two than one," he added.
"You are wrong," said the Princess, and her face darkened. "Don John has
not so much as deigned to look at any other woman these two years."
"You should know that best," returned the Secretary, with a little
malice in his smile.
It was well known in the court that two or three years earlier, during
the horrible intrigue that ended in the death of Don Carlos, the
Princess of Eboli had done her best to bring Don John of Austria to her
feet, and had failed notoriously, because he was already in love with
Dolores. She was angry now, and the rich colour came into her handsome
dark face.
"Don Antonio Perez," she said, "take care! I have made you. I can also
unmake you."
Perez assumed an air of simple and innocent surprise, as if he were
quite sure that he had said nothing to annoy her, still less to wound
her deeply. He believed that she really loved him and that he could play
with her as if his own intelligence far surpassed hers. In the first
matter he was right, but he was very much mistaken in the second.
"I do not understand," he said. "If I have done anything to offend you,
pray forgive my ignorance, and believe in the unchanging devotion of
your most faithful slave."
His dark eyes became very expressive as he bowed a little, with a
graceful gesture of deprecation. The Princess laughed lightly, but there
was still a spark of annoyance in her look.
"Why does Don John not come?" she asked impatiently. "We should have
danced together. Something must have happened--can you not find out?"
Others were asking the same question in surprise, for it had been
expected that Don John would enter immediately after the supper. His
name was heard from end to end of the hall, in every conversation,
wherever two or three persons were talking together. It was in the air,
like his popularity, everywhere and in everything, and the expectation
of his coming produced a sort of tension that was felt by every one. The
men grew more witty, the younger women's eyes brightened, though they
constantly glanced towards the door of the state apartments by which Don
John should enter, and as the men's conversation became more brilliant
the women paid less attention to it, for there was hardly one of them
who did not hope that Don John might notice her before the evening was
over,--there was not one who did not fancy herself a little in love with
him, as there was hardly a man there who would not have drawn his sword
for him and fought for him with all his heart. Many, though they dared
not say so, secretly wished that some evil might befall Philip, and that
he might soon die childless, since he had destroyed his only son and
only heir, and that Don John might be King in his stead. The Princess of
Eboli and Perez knew well enough that their plan would be popular, if
they could ever bring it to maturity.
The music swelled and softened, and rose again in those swaying strains
that inspire an irresistible bodily longing for rhythmical motion, and
which have infinite power to call up all manner of thoughts, passionate,
gentle, hopeful, regretful, by turns. In the middle of the hall, more
than a hundred dancers moved, swayed, and glided in time with the sound,
changed places, and touched hands in the measure, tripped forward and
back and sideways, and met and parted again without pause, the colours
of their dresses mingling to rich unknown hues in the soft candlelight,
as the figure brought many together, and separating into a hundred
elements again, when the next steps scattered them again; the jewels in
the women's hair, the clasps of diamonds and precious stones at throat,
and shoulder, and waist, all moved with an intricate motion, in orbits
that crossed and recrossed in the tinted sea of silk, and flashed all at
once, as the returning burden of the music brought the dancers to stand
and turn at the same beat of the measure. Yet it was all unlike the
square dancing of these days, which is either no dancing at all, but a
disorderly walk, or else is so stiffly regular and awkward that it makes
one think of a squad of recruits exercising on the drill ground. There
was not a motion, then, that lacked grace, or ease, or a certain purpose
of beauty, nor any, perhaps, that was not a phrase in the allegory of
love, from which all dancing is, and was, and always must be, drawn.
Swift, slow, by turns, now languorous, now passionate, now full of
delicious regret, singing love's triumph, breathing love's fire, sighing
in love's despair, the dance and its music were one, so was sight
intermingled with sound, and motion a part of both. And at each pause,
lips parted and glance sought glance in the light, while hearts found
words in the music that answered the language of love. Men laugh at
dancing and love it, and women, too, and no one can tell where its charm
is, but few have not felt it, or longed to feel it, and its beginnings
are very far away in primeval humanity, beyond the reach of theory,
unless instinct may explain all simply, as it well may. For light and
grace and sweet sound are things of beauty which last for ever, and love
is the source of the future and the explanation of the past; and that
which can bring into itself both love and melody, and grace and light,
must needs be a spell to charm men and women.
There was more than that in the air on that night, for Don John's return
had set free that most intoxicating essence of victory, which turns to a
mad fire in the veins of a rejoicing people, making the least man of
them feel himself a soldier, and a conqueror, and a sharer in undying
fame. They had loved him from a child, they had seen him outgrow them in
beauty, and skill, and courage, and they had loved him still the more
for being the better man; and now he had done a great deed, and had
fulfilled and overfilled their greatest expectations, and in an instant
he leapt from the favourite's place in their hearts to the hero's height
on the altar of their wonder, to be the young god of a nation that loved
him. Not a man, on that night, but would have sworn that Don John was
braver than Alexander, wiser than Charlemagne, greater than Cæsar
himself; not a man but would have drawn his sword to prove it on the
body of any who should dare to contradict him,--not a mother was there,
who did not pray that her sons might be but ever so little like him, no
girl of Spain but dreamt she heard his soft voice speaking low in her
ear. Not often in the world's story has a man so young done such great
things as he had done and was to do before his short life was ended;
never, perhaps, was any man so honoured by his own people, so trusted,
and so loved.
They could talk only of him, wondering more and more that he stayed away
from them on such a night, yet sure that he would come, and join the
dancing, for as he fought with a skill beyond that of other swordsmen,
so he danced with the most surpassing grace. They longed to see him, to
look into his face, to hear his voice, perhaps to touch his hand; for he
was free of manner and gentle to all, and if he came he would go from
one to another, and remember each with royal memory, and find kind words
for every one. They wanted him among them, they felt a sort of tense
desire to see him again, and even to shout for him again, as the vulgar
herd did in the streets,--as they themselves had done but an hour ago
when he had stood out beside the throne. And still the dancers danced
through the endless measures, laughing and talking at each pause, and
repeating his name till it was impossible not to hear it, wherever one
might be in the hall, and there was no one, old or young, who did not
speak it at least once in every five minutes. There was a sort of
intoxication in its very sound, and the more they heard it, the more
they wished to hear it, coupled with every word of praise that the
language possessed. From admiration they rose to enthusiasm, from
enthusiasm to a generous patriotic passion in which Spain was the world
and Don John was Spain, and all the rest of everything was but a dull
and lifeless blank which could have no possible interest for natural
people.
Young men, darkly flushed from dancing, swore that whenever Don John
should be next sent with an army, they would go, too, and win his
battles and share in his immortal glory; and grand, grey men who wore
the Golden Fleece, men who had seen great battles in the Emperor's day,
stood together and talked of him, and praised God that Spain had another
hero of the Austrian house, to strike terror to the heart of France, to
humble England at last, and to grasp what little of the world was not
already gathered in the hollow of Spain's vast hand.
Antonio Perez and the Princess of Eboli parted and went among the
courtiers, listening to all that was to be heard and feeding the fire of
enthusiasm, and met again to exchange glances of satisfaction, for they
were well pleased with the direction matters were taking, and the talk
grew more free from minute to minute, till many, carried away by a force
they could not understand and did not seek to question, were openly
talking of the succession to the throne, of Philip's apparent ill
health, and of the chance that they might before long be doing service
to his Majesty King John.
The music ceased again, and the couples dispersed about the hall, to
collect again in groups. There was a momentary lull in the talk, too, as
often happens when a dance is just over, and at that moment the great
door beside the throne was opened, with a noise that attracted the
attention of all; and all believed that Don John was returning, while
all eyes were fixed upon the entrance to catch the first glimpse of him,
and every one pronounced his name at once in short, glad tones of
satisfaction.
"Don John is coming! It is Don John of Austria! Don John is there!"
It was almost a universal cry of welcome. An instant later a dead
silence followed as a chamberlain's clear voice announced the royal
presence, and King Philip advanced upon the platform of the throne. For
several seconds not a sound broke the stillness, and he came slowly
forward followed by half a dozen nobles in immediate attendance upon
him. But though he must have heard his brother's name in the general
chorus of voices as soon as the door had been thrown open, he seemed by
no means disconcerted; on the contrary, he smiled almost affably, and
his eyes were less fixed than usual, as he looked about him with
something like an air of satisfaction. As soon as it was clear that he
meant to descend the steps to the floor of the hall, the chief courtiers
came forward, Ruy Gomez de Silva, Prince of Eboli, Alvarez de Toledo,
the terrible Duke of Alva, the Dukes of Medina Sidonia and of Infantado,
Don Antonio Perez the chief Secretary, the Ambassadors of Queen
Elizabeth of England and of France, and a dozen others, bowing so low
that the plumes of their hats literally touched the floor beside them.
"Why is there no dancing?" asked Philip, addressing Ruy Gomez, with a
smile.
The Minister explained that one of the dances was but just over.
"Let there be more at once," answered the King. "Let there be dancing
and music without end to-night. We have good reason to keep the day with
rejoicing, since the war is over, and Don John of Austria has come back
in triumph."
The command was obeyed instantly, as Ruy Gomez made a sign to the leader
of the musicians, who was watching him intently in expectation of the
order. The King smiled again as the long strain broke the silence and
the conversation began again all through the hall, though in a far more
subdued tone than before, and with much more caution. Philip turned to
the English Ambassador.
"It is a pity," he said, "that my sister of England cannot be here with
us on such a night as this. We saw no such sights in London in my day,
my lord."
"There have been changes since then, Sire," answered the Ambassador.
"The Queen is very much inclined to magnificence and to great
entertainments, and does not hesitate to dance herself, being of a very
vital and pleasant temper. Nevertheless, your Majesty's court is by far
the most splendid in the world."
"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.
"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.
* * * * *