The halberdiers closed round their old chief, but did not press upon
him. Three went before him, three behind, and one walked on each side,
and the lieutenant led the little detachment. The men were too much
accustomed to seeing courtiers in the extremes of favour and disfavour
to be much surprised at the arrest of Mendoza, and they felt no great
sympathy for him. He had always been too rigidly exacting for their
taste, and they longed for a younger commander who should devote more
time to his own pleasure and less to inspecting uniforms and finding
fault with details. Yet Mendoza had been a very just man, and he
possessed the eminently military bearing and temper which always impose
themselves on soldiers. At the present moment, too, they were more
inclined to pity him than to treat him roughly, for if they did not
guess what had really taken place, they were quite sure that Don John of
Austria had been murdered by the King's orders, like Don Carlos and
Queen Isabel and a fair number of other unfortunate persons; and if the
King had chosen Mendoza to do the deed, the soldiers thought that he was
probably not meant to suffer for it in the end, and that before long he
would be restored to his command. It would, therefore, be the better for
them, later, if they showed him a certain deference in his misfortune.
Besides, they had heard Antonio Perez tell their officer that Mendoza
was to be treated with every consideration.
They marched in time, with heavy tread and the swinging gait to right
and left that is natural to a soldier who carries for a weapon a long
halberd with a very heavy head. Mendoza was as tall as any of them, and
kept their step, holding his head high. He was bareheaded, but was
otherwise still in the complete uniform he wore when on duty on state
occasions.
The corridor, which seemed short on account of its breadth and in
comparison with the great size of the halls in the palace, was some
thirty paces long and lighted by a number of chandeliers that hung from
the painted vault. The party reached the door of the waiting room and
halted a moment, while one of the King's footmen opened the doors wide.
Don Ruy Gomez and Dolores were waiting within. The servant passed
rapidly through to open the doors beyond. Ruy Gomez stood up and drew
his chair aside, somewhat surprised at the entrance of the soldiers, who
rarely passed that way. Dolores opened her eyes at the sound of
marching, but in the uncertain light of the candles she did not at first
see Mendoza, half hidden as he was by the men who guarded him. She paid
little attention, for she was accustomed to seeing such detachments of
halberdiers marching through the corridors when the sentries were
relieved, and as she had never been in the King's apartments she was not
surprised by the sudden appearance of the soldiers, as her companion
was. But as the latter made way for them he lifted his hat, which as a
Grandee he wore even in the King's presence, and he bent his head
courteously as Mendoza went by. He hoped that Dolores would not see her
father, but his own recognition of the prisoner had attracted her
attention. She sprang to her feet with a cry. Mendoza turned his head
and saw her before she could reach him, for she was moving forward. He
stood still, and the soldiers halted instinctively and parted before
her, for they all knew their commander's daughter.
"Father!" she cried, and she tried to take his hand.
But he pushed her away and turned his face resolutely towards the door
before him.
"Close up! Forward--march!" he said, in his harsh tone of command.
The men obeyed, gently forcing Dolores aside. They made two steps
forward, but Ruy Gomez stopped them by a gesture, standing in their way
and raising one hand, while he laid the other on the young lieutenant's
shoulder. Ruy Gomez was one of the greatest personages in Spain; he was
the majorduomo of the palace, and had almost unlimited authority. But
the officer had his orders directly from the King and felt bound to
carry them out to the letter.
"His Majesty has directed me to convey Don Diego de Mendoza to the west
tower without delay," he said. "I beg your Excellency to let us
proceed."
Ruy Gomez still held him by the shoulder with a gentle pressure.
"That I will not," he said firmly; "and if you are blamed for being slow
in the execution of your duty, say that Ruy Gomez de Silva hindered you,
and fear nothing. It is not right that father and daughter should part
as these two are parting."
"I have nothing to say to my daughter," said Mendoza harshly; but the
words seemed to hurt him.
"Don Diego," answered Ruy Gomez, "the deed of which you have accused
yourself is as much worse than anything your child has done as hatred is
worse than love. By the right of mere humanity I take upon myself to say
that you shall be left here a while with your daughter, that you may
take leave of one another." He turned to the officer. "Withdraw your
men, sir," he said. "Wait at the door. You have my word for the security
of your prisoner, and my authority for what you do. I will call you when
it is time."
He spoke in a tone that admitted of no refusal, and he was obeyed. The
officers and the men filed out, and Ruy Gomez closed the door after
them. He himself recrossed the room and went out by the other way into
the broad corridor. He meant to wait there. His orders had been carried
out so quickly that Mendoza found himself alone with Dolores, almost as
by a surprise. In his desperate mood he resented what Ruy Gomez had
done, as an interference in his family affairs, and he bent his bushy
brows together as he stood facing Dolores, with folded arms. Four hours
had not passed since they had last spoken together alone in his own
dwelling; there was a lifetime of tragedy between that moment and this.
Dolores had not spoken since he had pushed her away. She stood beside a
chair, resting one hand upon it, dead white, with the dark shadow of
pain under her eyes, her lips almost colourless, but firm, and evenly
closed. There were lines of suffering in her young face that looked as
if they never could be effaced. It seemed to her that the worst conflict
of all was raging in her heart as she watched her father's face, waiting
for the sound of his voice; and as for him, he would rather have gone
back to the King's presence to be tormented under the eyes of Antonio
Perez than stand there, forced to see her and speak to her. In his eyes,
in the light of what he had been told, she was a ruined and shameless
woman, who had deceived him day in, day out, for more than two years.
And to her, so far as she could understand, he was the condemned
murderer of the man she had so innocently and truly loved. But yet, she
had a doubt, and for that possibility, she had cast her good name to the
winds in the hope of saving his life. At one moment, in a vision of
dread, she saw his armed hand striking at her lover--at the next she
felt that he could never have struck the blow, and that there was an
unsolved mystery behind it all. Never were two innocent human beings so
utterly deceived, each about the other.
"Father," she said, at last, in a trembling tone, "can you not speak to
me, if I can find heart to hear you?"
"What can we two say to each other?" he asked sternly. "Why did you stop
me? I am ready to die for killing the man who ruined you. I am glad. Why
should I say anything to you, and what words can you have for me? I hope
your end may come quickly, with such peace as you can find from your
shame at the last. That is what I wish for you, and it is a good wish,
for you have made death on the scaffold look easy to me, so that I long
for it. Do you understand?"
"Condemned to death!" she cried out, almost incoherently, before he had
finished speaking. "But they cannot condemn you--I have told them that I
was there--that it was not you--they must believe me--O God of mercy!"
"They believe you--yes. They believe that I found you together and
killed him. I shall be tried by judges, but I am condemned beforehand,
and I must die." He spoke calmly enough. "Your mad confession before the
court only made my conviction more certain," he said. "It gave the
reason for the deed--and it burned away the last doubt I had. If they
are slow in trying me, you will have been before the executioner, for he
will find me dead--by your hand. You might have spared me that--and
spared yourself. You still had the remnant of a good name, and your
lover being dead, you might have worn the rag of your honour still. You
have chosen to throw it away, and let me know my full disgrace before I
die a disgraceful death. And yet you wish to speak to me. Do you expect
my blessing?"
Dolores had lost the power of speech. Passing her hand now and then
across her forehead, as though trying to brush away a material veil, she
stood half paralyzed, staring wildly at him while he spoke. But when she
saw him turn away from her towards the door, as if he would go out and
leave her there, her strength was loosed from the spell, and she sprang
before him and caught his wrists with her hands.
"I am as innocent as when my mother bore me," she said, and her low
voice rang with the truth. "I told the lie to save your life. Do you
believe me now?"
He gazed at her with haggard eyes for many moments before he spoke.
"How can it be true?" he asked, but his voice shook in his throat. "You
were there--I saw you leave his room--"
"No, that you never saw!" she cried, well knowing how impossible it was,
since she had been locked in till after he had gone away.
"I saw your dress--not this one--what you wore this afternoon."
"Not this one? I put on this court dress before I got out of the room in
which you had locked me up. Inez helped me--I pretended that I was she,
and wore her cloak, and slipped away, and I have not been back again.
You did not see me."
Mendoza passed his hand over his eyes and drew back from her. If what
she said were true, the strongest link was gone from the chain of facts
by which he had argued so much sorrow and shame. Forgetting himself and
his own near fate, he looked at the court dress she wore, and a mere
glance convinced him that it was not the one he had seen.
"But--" he was suddenly confused--"but why did you need to disguise
yourself? I left the Princess of Eboli with you, and I gave her
permission to take you away to stay with her. You needed no disguise."
"I never saw her. She must have found Inez in the room. I was gone long
before that."
"Gone--where?" Mendoza was fast losing the thread of it all--in his
confusion of ideas he grasped the clue of his chief sorrow, which was
far beyond any thought for himself. "But if you are innocent--pray God
you may be, as you say--how is it possible--oh, no! I cannot believe
it--I cannot! No woman could do that--no innocent girl could stand out
before a multitude of men and women, and say what you said--"
"I hoped to save your life. I had the strength. I did it."
Her clear grey eyes looked into his, and his doubt began to break away
before the truth.
"Make me believe it!" he cried, his voice breaking. "Oh, God! Make me
believe it before I die!"
"It is true," she cried, in a low, strong voice that carried belief to
his breast in spite of such reasoning as still had some power over him.
"It is true, and you shall believe it; and if you will not, the man you
have killed, the man I loved and trusted, the dead man who knows the
whole truth as I know it, will come back from the dead to prove it
true--for I swear it upon his soul in heaven, and upon yours and mine
that will not be long on earth--as I will swear it in the hour of your
death and mine, since we must die!"
He could not take his eyes from hers that held him, and suddenly in the
pure depths he seemed to see her soul facing him without fear, and he
knew that what she said was true, and his tortured heart leapt up at the
good certainty.
"I believe you, my child," he said at last, and then his grey lids half
closed over his eyes and he bent down to her, and put his arm round her.
But she shuddered at the touch of his right hand, and though she knew
that he was a condemned man, and that she might never see him again, she
could not bear to receive his parting kiss upon her forehead.
"Oh, father, why did you kill him?" she asked, turning her head away and
moving to escape from his hold.
But Mendoza did not answer. His arm dropped by his side, and his face
grew white and stony. She was asking him to give up the King's secret,
to keep which he was giving his life. He felt that it would be treason
to tell even her. And besides, she would not keep the secret--what woman
could, what daughter would? It must go out of the world with him, if it
was to be safe. He glanced at her and saw her face ravaged by an hour's
grief. Yet she would not mourn Don John the less if she knew whose hand
had done the deed. It could make but a little difference to her, though
to himself that difference would be great, if she knew that he died
innocent.
And then began a struggle fierce and grim, that tore his soul and
wounded his heart as no death agony could have hurt him. Since he had
judged her unjustly, since it had all been a hideous dream, since she
was still the child that had been all in all to him throughout her life,
since all was changed, he did not wish to die, he bore the dead man no
hatred, it was no soothing satisfaction to his outraged heart to know
him dead of a sword wound in the breast, far away in the room where they
had left him, there was no fierce regret that he had not driven the
thrust himself. The man was as innocent as the innocent girl, and he
himself, as innocent as both, was to be led out to die to shield the
King--no more. His life was to be taken for that only, and he no longer
set its value at naught nor wished it over. He was the mere scapegoat,
to suffer for his master's crime, since crime it was and nothing better.
And since he was willing to bear the punishment, or since there was now
no escape from it, had he not at least the human right to proclaim his
innocence to the only being he really loved? It would be monstrous to
deny it. What could she do, after all, even if she knew the truth?
Nothing. No one would dare to believe her if she accused the King. She
would be shut up in a convent as a mad woman, but in any case, she would
certainly disappear to end her life in some religious house as soon as
he was dead. Poor girl--she had loved Don John with all her heart--what
could the world hold for her, even if the disgrace of her father's death
were not to shut her out of the world altogether, as it inevitably must.
She would not live long, but she would live in the profoundest sorrow.
It would be an alleviation, almost the greatest possible, to know that
her father's hand was not stained by such a deed.
The temptation to speak out was overwhelming, and he knew that the time
was short. At any moment Ruy Gomez might open the door, and bid him part
from her, and there would be small chance for him of seeing her again.
He stood uncertain, with bent head and folded arms, and she watched him,
trying to bring herself to touch his hand again and bear his kiss.
His loyalty to the King, that was like a sort of madness, stood between
him and the words he longed to say. It was the habit of his long
soldier's life, unbending as the corslet he wore and enclosing his soul
as the steel encased his body, proof against every cruelty, every
unkindness, every insult. It was better to die a traitor's death for the
King's secret than to live for his own honour. So it had always seemed
to him, since he had been a boy and had learned to fight under the great
Emperor. But now he knew that he wavered as he had never done in the
most desperate charge, when life was but a missile to be flung in the
enemy's face, and found or not, when the fray was over. There was no
intoxication of fury now, there was no far ring of glory in the air,
there was no victory to be won. The hard and hideous fact stared him in
the face, that he was to die like a malefactor by the hangman's hand,
and that the sovereign who had graciously deigned to accept the
sacrifice had tortured him for nearly half an hour without mercy in the
presence of an inferior, in order to get a few facts on paper which
might help his own royal credit. And as if that were not enough, his own
daughter was to live after him, believing that he had cruelly murdered
the man she most dearly loved. It was more than humanity could bear.
His brow unbent, his arms unfolded themselves, and he held them out to
Dolores with a smile almost gentle.
"There is no blood on these hands, my little girl," he said tenderly. "I
did not do it, child. Let me hold you in my arms once, and kiss you
before I go. We are both innocent--we can bless one another before we
part for ever."
The pure, grey eyes opened wide in amazement. Dolores could hardly
believe her ears, as she made a step towards him, and then stopped,
shrinking, and then made one step more. Her lips moved and wondering
words came to him, so low that he could hardly understand, save that she
questioned him.
"You did not do it!" she breathed. "You did not kill him after all? But
then--who--why?"
Still she hesitated, though she came slowly nearer, and a faint light
warmed her sorrowful face.
"You must try to guess who and why," he said, in a tone as low as her
own. "I must not tell you that."
"I cannot guess," she answered; but she was close to him now, and she
had taken one of his hands softly in both her own, while she gazed into
his eyes. "How can I understand unless you tell me? Is it so great a
secret that you must die for it, and never tell it? Oh, father, father!
Are you sure--quite sure?"
"He was dead already when I came into the room," Mendoza answered. "I
did not even see him hurt."
"But then--yes--then"--her voice sank to a whisper--"then it was the
King!"
He saw the words on her lips rather than heard them, and she saw in his
face that she was right. She dropped his hand and threw her arms round
his neck, pressing her bosom to his breastplate; and suddenly her love
for him awoke, and she began to know how she might have loved him if she
had known him through all the years that were gone.
"It cannot be that he will let you die!" she cried softly. "You shall
not die!" she cried again, with sudden strength, and her light frame
shook his as if she would wrench him back from inevitable fate.
"My little girl," he answered, most tenderly clasping her to him, and
most thoughtfully, lest his armour should hurt her, "I can die happy
now, for I have found all of you again."
"You shall not die! You shall not die!" she cried. "I will not let you
go--they must take me, too--"
"No power can save me now, my darling," he answered. "But it does not
matter, since you know. It will be easy now."
She could only hold him with her small hands, and say over and over
again that she would not let him go.
"Ah! why have you never loved me before in all these years?" he cried.
"It was my fault--all my fault."
"I love you now with all my heart," she answered, "and I will save you,
even from the King; and you and I and Inez will go far away, and you two
shall comfort me and love me till I go to him."
Mendoza shook his head sadly, looking over her shoulder as he held her,
for he knew that there was no hope now. Had he known, or half guessed,
but an hour or two ago, he would have turned on his heel from the door
of Don John's chamber, and he would have left the King to bear the blame
or shift it as he could.
"It is too late, Dolores. God bless you, my dear, dear child! It will
soon be over--two days at most, for the people will cry out for the
blood of Don John's murderer; and when they see mine they will be
satisfied. It is too late now. Good-by, my little girl, good-by! The
blessing of all heaven be on your dear head!"
Dolores nestled against him, as she had never done before, with the
feeling that she had found something that had been wanting in her life,
at the very moment when the world, with all it held for her, was
slipping over the edge of eternity.
"I will not leave you," she cried again. "They shall take me to your
prison, and I will stay with you and take care of you, and never leave
you; and at last I shall save your life, and then--"
The door of the corridor opened, and she saw Ruy Gomez standing in the
entrance, as if he were waiting. His face was calm and grave as usual,
but she saw a profound pity in his eyes.
"No, no!" she cried to him, "not yet--one moment more!"
But Mendoza turned his head at her words, looking over his shoulder, and
he saw the Prince also.
"I am ready," he said briefly, and he tried to take Dolores' hands from
his neck. "It is time," he said to her. "Be brave, my darling! We have
found each other at last. It will not be long before we are together for
ever."
He kissed her tenderly once more, and loosed her hold, putting her two
hands together and kissing them also.
"I will not say good-by," she said. "It is not good-by--it shall not be.
I shall be with you soon."
His eyes lingered upon hers for a moment, and then he broke away,
setting his teeth lest he should choke and break down. He opened the
door and presented himself to the halberdiers. Dolores heard his
familiar voice give the words of command.
"Close up! Forward, march!"
The heavy tramp she knew so well began at once, and echoed along the
outer entries, growing slowly less distinct till it was only a distant
and rumbling echo, and then died away altogether. Her hand was still on
the open door, and Ruy Gomez was standing beside her. He gently drew her
away, and closed the door again. She let him lead her to a chair, and
sat down where she had sat before. But this time she did not lean back
exhausted, with half-closed eyes,--she rested her elbow on her knee and
her chin in her hand, and she tried to think connectedly to a
conclusion. She remembered all the details of the past hours one by one,
and she felt that the determination to save her father had given her
strength to live.
"Don Ruy Gomez," she said at last, looking up to the tall old nobleman,
who stood by the brazier warming his hands again, "can I see the King
alone?"
"That is more than I can promise," answered the Prince. "I have asked an
audience for you, and the chamberlain will bring word presently whether
his Majesty is willing to see you. But if you are admitted, I cannot
tell whether Perez will be there or not. He generally is. His presence
need make no difference to you. He is an excellent young man, full of
heart. I have great confidence in him,--so much so that I recommended
him to his Majesty as Secretary. I am sure that he will do all he can to
be of use to you."
Dolores looked up incredulously, and with a certain wonder at the
Prince's extreme simplicity. Yet he had been married ten years to the
clever woman who ruled him and Perez and King Philip, and made each one
believe that she was devoted to him only, body and soul. Of the three,
Perez alone may have guessed the truth, but though it was degrading
enough, he would not let it stand in the way of his advancement; and in
the end it was he who escaped, leaving her to perish, the victim of the
King's implacable anger, Dolores could not help shaking her head in
answer to the Prince of Eboli's speech.
"People are very unjust to Perez," he said. "But the King trusts him. If
he is there, try to conciliate him, for he has much influence with his
Majesty."
Dolores said nothing, and resuming her attitude, returned to her sad
meditations, and to the study of some immediate plan. But she could
think of no way. Her only fixed intention was to see the King himself.
Ruy Gomez could do no more to help her than he had done already, and
that indeed was not little, since it was to his kindly impulse that she
owed her meeting with her father.
"And if Perez is not inclined to help Don Diego," said the Prince, after
a long pause which had not interrupted the slow progression of, his
kindly thought, "I will request my wife to speak to him. I have often
noticed that the Princess can make Perez do almost anything she wishes.
Women are far cleverer than men, my dear--they have ways we do not
understand. Yes, I will interest my wife in the affair. It would be a
sad thing if your father--"
The old man stopped short, and Dolores wondered vaguely what he had been
going to say. Ruy Gomez was a very strange compound of almost childlike
and most honourable simplicity, and of the experienced wisdom with
regard to the truth of matters in which he was not concerned, which
sometimes belongs to very honourable and simple men.
"You do not believe that my father is guilty," said Dolores, boldly
asserting what she suspected.
"My dear child," answered Ruy Gomez, twisting his rings on his fingers
as he spread his hands above the coals in the brazier, "I have lived in
this court for fifty years, and I have learned in that time that where
great matters are at stake those who do not know the whole truth are
often greatly deceived by appearances. I know nothing of the real matter
now, but it would not surprise me if a great change took place before
to-morrow night. A man who has committed a crime so horrible as the one
your father confessed before us all rarely finds it expedient to make
such a confession, and a young girl, my dear, who has really been a
little too imprudently in love with a royal Prince, would be a great
deal too wise to make a dramatic statement of her fault to the assembled
Grandees of Spain."
He looked across at Dolores and smiled gently. But she only shook her
head gravely in answer, though she wondered at what he said, and
wondered, too, whether there might not be a great many persons in the
court who thought as he did. She was silent, too, because it hurt her to
talk when she could not draw breath without remembering that what she
had lived for was lying dead in that dim room on the upper story.
The door opened, and a chamberlain entered the room.
"His Majesty is pleased to receive Doña Dolores de Mendoza, in private
audience," he said.
Ruy Gomez rose and led Dolores out into the corridor.
* * * * *