All that had happened from the time when Don John had fallen in his room
to the moment when Dolores left her sister on the terrace had occupied
little more than half an hour, during which the King had descended to
the hall, Mendoza had claimed the guilt of Don John's murder, and the
two had gone out under the protection of the guards. As soon as Dolores
was out of hearing, Inez rose and crept along the terrace to Don John's
door. In the confusion that had ensued upon the announcement of his
death no one had thought of going to him; every one took it for granted
that some one else had done what was necessary, and that his apartments
were filled with physicians and servants. It was not the first time in
history that a royal personage had thus been left alone an hour, either
dead or dying, because no one was immediately responsible, and such
things have happened since.
Inez stole along the terrace and found the outer door open, as the dwarf
had left it when he had carried Dolores out in his arms. She remembered
that the voices she had heard earlier had come from rooms on the left of
the door, and she felt her way to the entrance of the bedchamber, and
then went in without hesitation. Bending very low, so that her hands
touched the floor from time to time, she crept along, feeling for the
body she expected to find. Suddenly she started and stood upright in an
instant. She had heard a deep sigh in the room, not far off.
She listened intently, but even her ears could detect no sound after
that. She was a little frightened, not with any supernatural fear, for
the blind, who live in the dark for ever, are generally singularly
exempt from such terrors, but because she had thought herself alone with
the dead man, and did not wish to be discovered.
"Who is here?" she asked quickly, but there was no answer out of the
dead stillness.
She stood quite still a few seconds and then crept forward again,
bending down and feeling before her along the floor. A moment later her
hand touched velvet, and she knew that she had found what she sought.
With a low moan she fell upon her knees and felt for the cold hand that
lay stretched out upon the marble pavement beyond the thick carpet. Her
hand followed the arm, reached the shoulder and then the face. Her
fingers fluttered lightly upon the features, while her own heart almost
stood still She felt no horror of death, though she had never been near
a dead person before; and those who were fond of her had allowed her to
feel their features with her gentle hands, and she knew beauty through
her touch, by its shape. Though her heart was breaking, she had felt
that once, before it was too late, she must know the face she had long
loved in dreams. Her longing satisfied, her grief broke out again, and
she let herself fall her length upon the floor beside Don John, one arm
across his chest, her head resting against the motionless shoulder, her
face almost hidden against the gathered velvet and silk of his doublet.
Once or twice she sobbed convulsively, and then she lay quite still,
trying with all her might to die there, on his arm, before any one came
to disturb her. It seemed very simple, just to stop living and stay with
him for ever.
Again she heard a sound of deep-drawn breath--but it was close to her
now, and her own arm moved with it on his chest--the dead man had moved,
he had sighed. She started up wildly, with a sharp cry, half of
paralyzing fear, and half of mad delight in a hope altogether
impossible. Then, he drew his breath again, and it issued from his lips
with a low groan. He was not quite dead yet, he might speak to her
still, he could hear her voice, perhaps, before he really died. She
could never have found courage to kiss him, even then she could have
blushed scarlet at the thought, but she bent down to his face, very
close to it, till her cheek almost touched his as she spoke in a very
trembling, low voice.
"Not yet--not yet--come back for one moment, only for one little moment!
Oh, let it be God's miracle for me!"
She hardly knew what she said, but the miracle was there, for she heard
his breath come again and again, and as she stared into her everlasting
night, strange flashes, like light, shot through her brain, her bosom
trembled, and her hands stiffened in the spasm of a delirious joy.
"Come back!" she cried again. "Come back!" Her hands shook as they felt
his body move.
His voice came again, not in a word yet, but yet not in a groan of pain.
His eyes, that had been half open and staring, closed with a look of
rest, and colour rose slowly in his cheeks. Then he felt her breath, and
his strength returned for an instant, his arms contracted and clasped
her to him violently.
"Dolores!" he cried, and in a moment his lips rained kisses on her face,
while his eyes were still closed.
Then he sank back again exhausted, and her arm kept his head from
striking the marble floor. The girl's cheek flushed a deep red, as she
tried to speak, and her words came broken and indistinct.
"I am not Dolores," she managed to say. "I am Inez--"
But he did not hear, for he was swooning again, and the painful blush
sank down again, as she realized that he was once more unconscious. She
wondered whether the room were dark or whether there were lights, or
whether he had not opened his eyes when he had kissed her. His head was
very heavy on her arm. With her other hand she drew off the hood she
wore and rolled it together, and lifting him a little she made a pillow
of it so that he rested easily. He had not recognized her, and she
believed he was dying, he had kissed her, and all eternity could not
take from her the memory of that moment. In the wild confusion of her
thoughts she was almost content that he should die now, for she had felt
what she had never dared to feel in sweetest dreams, and it had been
true, and no one could steal it away now, nor should any one ever know
it, not even Dolores herself. The jealous thought was there, in the
whirlwind of her brain, with all the rest, sudden, fierce, and strong,
as if Don John had been hers in life, and as if the sister she loved so
dearly had tried to win him from her. He was hers in death, and should
be hers for ever, and no one should ever know. It did not matter that he
had taken her for another, his kisses were her own. Once only had a
man's lips, not her father's, touched her cheek, and they had been the
lips of the fairest, and best, and bravest man in the world, her idol
and her earthly god. He might die now, and she would follow him, and in
the world beyond God would make it right somehow, and he, and she, and
her sister would all be but one loving soul for ever and ever. There was
no reasoning in all that--it was but the flash of wild thoughts that all
seemed certainties.
But Don John of Austria was neither dead nor dying. His brother's sword
had pierced his doublet and run through the outer flesh beneath his left
arm, as he stood sideways with his right thrust forward. The wound was a
mere scratch, as soldiers count wounds, and though the young blood had
followed quickly, it had now ceased to flow. It was the fall that had
hurt him, not the stab. The carpet had slipped from under his feet, and
he had fallen backwards to his full length, as a man falls on ice, and
his head had struck the marble floor so violently that he had lain half
an hour almost in a swoon, like a dead man at first, with neither breath
nor beating of the heart to give a sign of life, till after Dolores had
left him; and then he had sighed back to consciousness by very slow
degrees, because no one was there to help him, to raise his head a few
inches from the floor, to dash a little cold water into his face.
He stirred uneasily now, and moved his hands again, and his eyes opened
wide. Inez felt the slight motion and heard his regular breathing, and
an instinct told her that he was conscious, and not in a dream as he had
been when he had kissed her.
"I am Inez," she said, almost mechanically, and not knowing why she had
feared that he should take her for her sister. "I found your Highness
here--they all think that you are dead."
"Dead?" There was surprise in his voice, and his eyes looked at her and
about the room as he spoke, though he did not yet lift his head from the
hood on which it lay. "Dead?" he repeated, dazed still. "No--I must have
fallen. My head hurts me."
He uttered a sharp sound as he moved again, more of annoyance than of
suffering, as strong men do who unexpectedly find themselves hurt or
helpless, or both. Then, as his eyes fell upon the open door of the
inner room, he forgot his pain instantly and raised himself upon his
hand with startled eyes.
"Where is Dolores?" he cried, in utmost anxiety. "Where have they taken
her? Did she get out by the window?"
"She is safe," answered Inez, hardly knowing what she said, for he
turned pale instantly and had barely heard her answer, when he reeled as
he half sat and almost fell against her.
She held him as well as she could, but the position was strained and she
was not very strong. Half mad now, between fear lest he should die in
her arms and the instinctive belief that he was to live, she wished with
all her heart that some one would come and help her, or send for a
physician. He might die for lack of some simple aid she did not know how
to give him. But he had only been dizzy with the unconscious effort he
had made, and presently he rested on his own hand again.
"Thank God Dolores is safe!" he said, in a weak voice. "Can you help me
to get to a chair, my dear child? I must have been badly stunned. I
wonder how long I have been here. I remember--"
He paused and passed one hand over his eyes. The first instinct of
strong persons who have been unconscious is to think aloud, and to try
and recall every detail of the accident that left them unconscious.
"I remember--the King was here--we talked and we quarrelled--oh!"
The short exclamation ended his speech, as complete recollection
returned, and he knew that the secret must be kept, for his brother's
sake. He laid one head on the slight girl's shoulder to steady himself,
and with his other he helped himself to kneel on one knee.
"I am very dizzy," he said. "Try and help me to a chair, Inez."
She rose swiftly, holding his hand, and then putting one arm round him
under his own. He struggled to his feet and leaned his weight upon her,
and breathed hard. The effort hurt him where the flesh was torn.
"I am wounded, too," he said quietly, as he glanced at the blood on his
vest. "But it is nothing serious, I think."
With the instinct of the soldier hurt in the chest, he brushed his lips
with the small lace ruffle of his sleeve, and looked at it, expecting to
see the bright red stains that might mean death. There was nothing.
"It is only a scratch," he said, with an accent of indifference. "Help
me to the chair, my dear."
"Where?" she asked. "I do not know the room."
"One forgets that you are blind," he answered, with a smile, and leaning
heavily upon her, he led her by his weight, till he could touch the
chair in which he had sat reading Dolores' letter when the King had
entered an hour earlier.
He sat down with a sigh of relief, and stretched first one leg and then
the other, and leaned back with half-closed eyes.
"Where is Dolores?" he asked at last. "Why did she go away?"
"The jester took her away, I think," answered Inez. "I found them
together on the terrace. She was trying to come back to you, but he
prevented her. They thought you were dead."
"That was wise of him." He spoke faintly still, and when he opened his
eyes, the room swam with him. "And then?"
"Then I told her what had happened at court; I had heard everything from
the gallery. And Dolores went down alone. I could not understand what
she was going to do, but she is trying to save our father."
"Your father!" Don John looked at her in surprise, forgetting his hurt,
but it was as if some one had struck his head again, and he closed his
eyes. "What has happened?" he asked faintly. "Try and tell me. I do not
understand."
"My father thought he had killed you," answered Inez, in surprise. "He
came into the great hall when the King was there, and he cried out in a
loud voice that he had killed you, unarmed."
"Your father?" He forgot his suffering altogether now. "Your father was
not even in the room when--when I fell! And did the King say nothing?
Tell me quickly!"
"There was a great uproar, and I ran away to find Dolores. I do not know
what happened afterwards."
Don John turned painfully in his chair and lifted his hand to the back
of his head. But he said nothing at first, for he was beginning to
understand, and he would not betray the secret of his accident even to
Inez.
"I knew he could not have done it! I thought he was mad--he most have
been! But I also thought your Highness was dead."
"Dear child!" Don John's voice was very kind. "You brought me to life.
Your father was not here. It was some one else who hurt me. Do you think
you could find Dolores or send some one to tell her--to tell every one
that I am alive? Say that I had a bad fall and was stunned for a while.
Never mind the scratch--it is nothing--do not speak of it. If you could
find Adonis, he could go."
He groaned now, for the pain of speaking was almost intolerable. Inez
put out her hand towards him.
"Does it hurt very much?" she asked, with a sort of pathetic, childlike
sympathy.
"Yes, my head hurts, but I shall not faint. There is something to drink
by the bed, I think--on this side. If you could only find it. I cannot
walk there yet, I am so giddy."
"Some one is coming!" exclaimed Inez, instead of answering him. "I hear
some one on the terrace. Hark!" she listened with bent head. "It is
Adonis. I know his step. There he is!"
Almost as she spoke the last words the dwarf was in the doorway. He
stood still, transfixed with astonishment.
"Mercy of heaven!" he exclaimed devoutly. "His Highness is alive after
all!"
"Yes," said Inez, in a glad tone. "The Prince was only stunned by the
fall. Go and tell Dolores--go out and tell every one--bring every one
here to me!"
"No!" cried Don John. "Try and bring Doña Dolores alone, and let no one
else know. The rest can wait."
"But your Highness needs a physician," protested the dwarf, not yet
recovered from his astonishment. "Your Highness is wounded, and must
therefore be bled at once. I will call the Doctor Galdos--"
"I tell you it is nothing," interrupted Don John. "Do as I order you,
and bring Doña Dolores. Give me that drink there, first--from the little
table. In a quarter of an hour I shall be quite well again. I have been
as badly stunned before when my horse has fallen with me at a barrier."
The jester swung quickly to the table, in his awkward, bow-legged gait,
and brought the beaker that stood there. Don John drank eagerly, for his
lips were parched with pain.
"Go!" he said imperatively. "And come back quickly."
"I will go," said Adonis. "But I may not come back quickly, for I
believe that Doña Dolores is with his Majesty at this moment, or with
her father, unless the three are together. Since it has pleased your
Highness not to remain dead, it would have been much simpler not to die
at all, for your Highness's premature death has caused trouble which
your Highness's premature resurrection may not quickly set right."
"The sooner you bring Doña Dolores, the sooner the tremble will be
over," said Don John. "Go at once, and do your best."
Adonis rolled away, shaking his head and almost touching the floor with
his hands as he walked.
"So the Last Trumpet is not merely another of those priests' tales!" he
muttered. "I shall meet Don Carlos on the terrace, and the Emperor in
the corridor, no doubt! They might give a man time to confess his sins.
It was unnecessary that the end of the world should come so suddenly!"
The last words of his jest were spoken to himself, for he was already
outside when he uttered them, and he had no intention of wasting time in
bearing the good news to Dolores. The difficulty was to find her. He had
been a witness of the scene in the hall from the balcony, and he guessed
that when she left the hall with Ruy Gomez she would go either to her
father or the King. It would not be an easy matter to see her, and it
was by no means beyond the bounds of possibility that he might be
altogether hindered from doing so, unless he at once announced to every
one he met the astounding fact that Don John was alive after all. He was
strongly tempted to do that, without waiting, for it seemed by far the
most sensible thing to do in the disturbed state of the court; but it
was his business to serve and amuse many masters, and his office, if not
his life, depended upon obeying each in turn and finding the right jest
for each. He placed the King highest, of course, among those he had to
please, and before he had gone far in the corridor he slackened his pace
to give himself time to think over the situation. Either the King had
meant to kill Don John himself, or he had ordered Mendoza to do so. That
much was clear to any one who had known the secret of Don Carlos' death,
and the dwarf had been one of the last who had talked with the
unfortunate Prince before that dark tragedy. And on this present night
he had seen everything, and knew more of the thoughts of each of the
actors in the drama than any one else, so that he had no doubt as to his
conclusions. If, then, the King had wished to get rid of Don John, he
would be very much displeased to learn that the latter was alive after
all. It would not be good to be the bearer of that news, and it was more
than likely that Philip would let Mendoza go to the scaffold for the
attempt, as he long afterwards condemned Antonio Perez to death for the
murder of Escobedo, Don John's secretary, though he himself had ordered
Perez to do that deed; as he had already allowed the ecclesiastic Doctor
Cazalla to be burned alive, though innocent, rather than displease the
judges who had condemned him. The dwarf well knew that there was no
crime, however monstrous, of which Philip was not capable, and of the
righteous necessity of which he could not persuade himself if he chose.
Nothing could possibly be more dangerous than to stand between him and
the perpetration of any evil he considered politically necessary, except
perhaps to hinder him in the pursuit of his gloomy and secret pleasures.
Adonis decided at once that he would not be the means of enlightening
the King on the present occasion. He most go to some one else. The
second person in command of his life, and whom he dreaded most after
Philip himself, was the Princess of Eboli.
He knew her secret, too, as he had formerly known how she had forged the
letters that brought about the deaths of Don Carlos and of Queen Isabel;
for the Princess ruled him by fear, and knew that she could trust him as
long as he stood in terror of her. He knew, therefore, that she had not
only forgiven Don John for not yielding to her charm in former days, but
that she now hoped that he might ascend the throne in Philip's stead, by
fair means or foul, and that the news of his death must have been a
destructive blow to her hopes. He made up his mind to tell her first
that he was alive, unless he could get speech with Dolores alone, which
seemed improbable. Having decided this, he hastened his walk again.
Before he reached the lower story of the palace he composed his face to
an expression of solemnity, not to say mourning, for he remembered that
as no one knew the truth but himself, he must not go about with too gay
a look. In the great vestibule of the hall he found a throng of
courtiers, talking excitedly in low tones, but neither Dolores nor Ruy
Gomez was there. He sidled up to a tall officer of the guards who was
standing alone, looking on.
"Could you inform me, sir," he asked, "what became of Doña Dolores de
Mendoza when she left the hall with the Prince of Eboli?"
The officer looked down at the dwarf, with whom he had never spoken
before, but who, in his way, was considered to be a personage of
importance by the less exalted members of the royal household. Indeed,
Adonis was by no means given to making acquaintance at haphazard with
all those who wished to know him in the hope that he might say a good
word for them when the King was in a pleasant humour.
"I do not know, Master Adonis," answered the magnificent lieutenant,
very politely. "But if you wish it, I will enquire."
"You are most kind and courteous, sir," answered the dwarf
ceremoniously. "I have a message for the lady."
The officer turned away and went towards the King's apartments, leaving
the jester in the corner. Adonis knew that he might wait some time
before his informant returned, and he shrank into the shadow to avoid
attracting attention. That was easy enough, so long as the crowd was
moving and did not diminish, but before long he heard some one speaking
within the hall, as if addressing a number of persons at once, and the
others began to leave the vestibule in order to hear what was passing.
Though the light did not fall upon him directly, the dwarf, in his
scarlet dress, became a conspicuous object. Yet he did not dare to go
away, for fear of missing the officer when the latter should return. His
anxiety to escape observation was not without cause, since he really
wished to give Don John's message to Dolores before any one else knew
the truth. In a few moments he saw the Princess of Eboli coming towards
him, leaning on the arm of the Duke of Medina Sidonia. She came from the
hall as if she had been listening to the person who was still speaking
near the door, and her handsome face wore a look of profound dejection
and disappointment. She had evidently seen the dwarf, for she walked
directly towards him, and at half a dozen paces she stopped and
dismissed her companion, who bowed low, kissed the tips of her fingers,
and withdrew.
Adonis drew down the corners of his mouth, bent his head still lower,
and tried to look as unhappy as possible, in imitation of the Princess's
expression. She stood still before him, and spoke briefly in imperious
tones.
"What is the meaning of all this?" she asked. "Tell me the truth at
once. It will be the better for you."
"Madam," answered Adonis, with all the assurance he could muster, "I
think your Excellency knows the truth much better than I."
The Princess bent her black brows and her eyes began to gleam angrily.
Titian would not have recognized in her stern face the smiling features
of his portrait of her--of the insolently beautiful Venus painted by
order of King Philip when the Princess was in the height of his favour.
"My friend," she said, in a mocking tone, "I know nothing, and you know
everything. At the present moment your disappearance from the court will
not attract even the smallest attention compared with the things that
are happening. If you do not tell me what you know, you will not be here
to-morrow, and I will see that you are burned alive for a sorcerer next
week. Do you understand? Now tell me who killed Don John of Austria, and
why. Be quick, I have no time to lose."
Adonis made up his mind very suddenly that it would be better to disobey
Don John than the angry woman who was speaking to him.
"Nobody killed him," he answered bluntly.
The Princess was naturally violent, especially with her inferiors, and
when she was angry she easily lost all dignity. She seized the dwarf by
the arm and shook him.
"No jesting!" she cried. "He did not kill himself--who did it?"
"Nobody," repeated Adonis doggedly, and quite without fear, for he knew
how glad she would be to know the truth. "His Highness is not dead at
all--"
"You little hound!" The Princess shook him furiously again and
threatened to strike him with her other hand.
He only laughed.
"Before heaven, Madam," he said, "the Prince is alive and recovered, and
is sitting in his chair. I have just been talking with him. Will you go
with me to his Highness's apartment? If he is not there, and safe, burn
me for a heretic to-morrow."
The Princess's hands dropped by her sides in sheer amazement, for she
saw that the jester was in earnest.
"He had a scratch in the scuffle," he continued, "but it was the fall
that killed him, his resurrection followed soon afterwards--and I trust
that his ascension may be no further distant than your Excellency
desires."
He laughed at his blasphemous jest, and the Princess laughed too, a
little wildly, for she could hardly control her joy.
"And who wounded him?" she asked suddenly. "You know everything, you
must know that also."
"Madam," said the dwarf, fixing his eyes on hers, "we both know the name
of the person who wounded Don John, very well indeed, I regret that I
should not be able to recall it at this moment. His Highness has
forgotten it too, I am sure."
The Princess's expression did not change, but she returned his gaze
steadily during several seconds, and then nodded slowly to show that she
understood. Then she looked away and was silent for a moment.
"I am sorry I was rough with you, Adonis," she said at last,
thoughtfully. "It was hard to believe you at first, and if the Prince
had been dead, as we all believed, your jesting would have been
abominable. There,"--she unclasped a diamond brooch from her
bodice--"take that, Adonis--you can turn it into money."
The Princess's financial troubles were notorious, and she hardly ever
possessed any ready gold.
"I shall keep it as the most precious of my possessions," answered the
dwarf readily.
"No," she said quickly. "Sell it. The King--I mean--some one may see it
if you keep it."
"It shall be sold to-morrow, then," replied the jester, bending his head
to hide his smile, for he understood what she meant.
"One thing more," she said; "Don John did not send you down to tell this
news to the court without warning. He meant that I should know it before
any one else. You have told me--now go away and do not tell others."
Adonis hesitated a moment. He wished to do Don John's bidding if he
could, but he knew his danger, and that he should be forgiven if, to
save his own head, he did not execute the commission. The Princess
wished an immediate answer, and she had no difficulty in guessing the
truth.
"His Highness sent you to find Doña Dolores," she said. "Is that not
true?"
"It is true," replied Adonis. "But," he added, anticipating her wish out
of fear, "it is not easy to find Doña Dolores."
"It is impossible. Did you expect to find her by waiting in this corner!
Adonis, it is safer for you to serve me than Don John, and in serving me
you will help his interests. You know that. Listen to me--Doña Dolores
must believe him dead till to-morrow morning. She must on no account
find out that he is alive."
At that moment the officer who had offered to get information for the
dwarf returned. Seeing the latter in conversation with such a great
personage, he waited at a little distance.
"If you have found out where Doña Dolores de Mendoza is at this moment,
my dear sir," said Adonis, "pray tell the Princess of Eboli, who is very
anxious to know."
The officer bowed and came nearer.
"Doña Dolores de Mendoza is in his Majesty's inner apartment," he said.
* * * * *