Dolores and Ruy Gomez had passed through the outer vestibule, and he
left her to pursue his way towards the western end of the Alcazar, which
was at a considerable distance from the royal apartments. Dolores went
down the corridor till she came to the niche and the picture before
which Don John had paused to read the Princess of Eboli's letter after
supper. She stopped a moment, for she suddenly felt that her strength
was exhausted and that she must rest or break down altogether. She
leaned her weight against the elaborately carved railing that shut off
the niche like a shrine, and looked at the painting, which was one of
Raphael's smaller masterpieces, a Holy Family so smoothly and delicately
painted that it jarred upon her at that moment as something untrue and
out of all keeping with possibility. Though most perfectly drawn and
coloured, the spotlessly neat figures with their airs of complacent
satisfaction seemed horribly out of place in the world of suffering she
was condemned to dwell in, and she fancied, somewhat irreverently and
resentfully, that they would look as much out of keeping with their
surroundings in a heaven that must be won by the endurance of pain.
Their complacent smiles seemed meant for her anguish, and she turned
from the picture in displeasure, and went on.
She was going back to her sister on the terrace, and she was going to
kneel once more beside the dear head of the man she had loved, and to
say one last prayer before his face was covered for ever. At the thought
she felt that she needed no rest again, for the vision drew her to the
sorrowful presence of its reality, and she could not have stopped again
if she had wished to. She must go straight on, on to the staircase, up
the long flight of steps, through the lonely corridors, and out at hist
to the moonlit terrace where Inez was waiting. She went forward in a
dream, without pausing. Since she had freed her father she had a right
to go back to her grief. But as she went along, lightly and quickly, it
seemed beyond her own belief that she should have found strength for
what she had done that night. For the strength of youth is elastic and
far beyond its own knowledge. Dolores had reached the last passage that
led out upon the terrace, when she heard hurrying footsteps behind her,
and a woman in a cloak slipped beside her, walking very easily and
smoothly. It was the Princess of Eboli. She had left the dwarf, after
frightening him into giving up his search for Dolores, and she was
hastening to Don John's rooms to make sure that the jester had not
deceived her or been himself deceived in some way she could not
understand.
Dolores had lost her cloak in the hall, and was bareheaded, in her court
dress. The Princess recognized her in the gloom and stopped her.
"I have looked for you everywhere," she said. "Why did you run away from
me before?"
"It was my blind sister who was with you," answered Dolores, who knew
her voice at once and had understood from her father what had happened.
"Where are you going now?" she asked, without giving the Princess time
to put a question.
"I was looking for you. I wish you to come and stay with me to-night--"
"I will stay with my father. I thank you for your kindness, but I would
not on any account leave him now."
"Your father is in prison--in the west tower--he has just been sent
there. How can you stay with him?"
"You are well informed," said Dolores quietly. "But your husband is just
now gone to release him. I gave Don Ruy Gomez the order which his
Majesty had himself placed in my hands, and the Prince was kind enough
to take it to the west tower himself. My father is unconditionally
free."
The Princess looked fixedly at Dolores while the girl was speaking, but
it was very dark in the corridor and the lamp was flickering to go out
in the night breeze. The only explanation of Mendoza's release lay in
the fact that the King was already aware that Don John was alive and in
no danger. In that case Dolores knew it, too. It was no great matter,
though she had hoped to keep the girl out of the way of hearing the news
for a day or two. Dolores' mournful face might have told her that she
was mistaken, if there had been more light; but it was far too dark to
see shades of colour or expression.
"So your father is free!" she said. "Of course, that was to be expected,
but I am glad that he has been set at liberty at once."
"I do not think it was exactly to be expected," answered Dolores, in
some surprise, and wondering whether there could have been any simpler
way of getting what she had obtained by such extraordinary means.
"He might have been kept under arrest until to-morrow morning, I
suppose," said the Princess quietly. "But the King is of course anxious
to destroy the unpleasant impression produced by this absurd affair, as
soon as possible."
"Absurd!" Dolores' anger rose and overflowed at the word. "Do you dare
to use such a word to me to-night?"
"My dear Dolores, why do you lose your temper about such a thing?" asked
the Princess, in a conciliatory tone. "Of course if it had all ended as
we expected it would, I never should use such a word--if Don John had
died--"
"What do you mean?" Dolores held her by the wrist in an instant and the
maddest excitement was in her voice.
"What I mean? Why--" the Princess stopped short, realizing that Dolores
might not know the truth after all. "What did I say?" she asked, to gain
time. "Why do you hold my hand like that?"
"You called the murder of Don John an absurd affair, and then you said,
'if Don John had died'--as if he were not lying there dead in his room,
twenty paces from where you stand! Are you mad? Are you playing some
heartless comedy with me? What does it all mean?"
The Princess was very worldly wise, and she saw at a glance that she
must tell Dolores the truth. If she did not, the girl would soon learn
it from some one else, but if she did, Dolores would always remember who
had told her the good news.
"My dear," she said very gently, "let my wrist go and let me take your
arm. We do not understand each other, or you would not be so angry with
me. Something has happened of which you do not know--"
"Oh, no! I know the whole truth!" Dolores interrupted her, and resisted
being led along in a slow walk. "Let me go to him!" she cried. "I only
wish to see him once more--"
"But, dearest child, listen to me--if I do not tell you everything at
once, it is because the shock might hurt you. There is some hope that he
may not die--"
"Hope! Oh no, no, no! I saw him lying dead--"
"He had fainted, dear. He was not dead--"
"Not dead?" Dolores' voice broke. "Tell me--tell me quickly." She
pressed her hand to her side.
"No. He came to himself after you had left him--he is alive. No--listen
to me--yes, dear, he is alive and not much hurt. The wound was a
scratch, and he was only stunned--he is well--to-morrow he will be as
well as ever--ah, dear, I told you so!"
Dolores had borne grief, shame, torment of mind that night, as bravely
as ever a woman bore all three, but the joy of the truth that he lived
almost ended her life then and there. She fell back upon the Princess's
arm and threw out her hands wildly, as if she were fighting for breath,
and the lids of her eyes quivered violently and then were quite still,
and she uttered a short, unnatural sound that was more like a groan of
pain than a cry of happiness.
The Princess was very strong, and held her, steadying herself against
the wall, thinking anything better than to let her slip to the floor and
lie swooning on the stone pavement. But the girl was not unconscious,
and in a moment her own strength returned.
"Let me go!" she cried wildly. "Let me go to him, or I shall die!"
"Go, child--go," said the Princess, with an accent of womanly kindness
that was rare in her voice. But Dolores did not hear it, for she was
already gone.
Dolores saw nothing in the room, as she entered, but the eyes of the man
she loved, though Inez was still beside him. Dolores threw herself
wildly into his arms and hid her face, crying out incoherent words
between little showers of happy tears; and her hands softly beat upon
his shoulders and against his neck, and stole up wondering to his cheeks
and touched his hair, as she drew back her head and held him still to
look at him and see that he was whole. She had no speech left, for it
was altogether beyond the belief of any sense but touch itself that a
man should rise unhurt from the dead, to go on living as if nothing not
common had happened in his life, to have his strength at once, to look
into her eyes and rain kisses on the lids still dark with grief for his
death. Sight could not believe the sight, hearing could not but doubt
the sound, yet her hands held him and touched him, and it was he, unhurt
saving for a scratch and a bruise. In her overwhelming happiness, she
had no questions, and the first syllables that her lips could shape made
broken words of love, and of thanks to Heaven that he had been saved
alive for her, while her hands still fluttered to his face and beat
gently and quickly on his shoulders and his arms, as if fearing lest he
should turn to incorporeal light, without substance under her touch, and
vanish then in air, as happiness does in a dream, leaving only pain
behind.
But at last she threw back her head and let him go, and her hands
brushed away the last tears from her grey eyes, and she looked into his
face and smiled with parted lips, drinking the sight of him with her
breath and eyes and heart. One moment so, and then they kissed as only
man and woman can when there has been death between them and it is gone
not to come back again.
Then memory returned, though very slowly and broken in many places, for
it seemed to her as if she had not been separated from him a moment, and
as if he must know all she had done without hearing her story in words.
The time had been so short since she had kissed him last, in the little
room beyond: there had been the minutes of waiting until the King had
come, and then the trying of the door, and then the quarrel, that had
lasted a short ten minutes to end in Don John's fall; then the half hour
during which he had lain unconscious and alone till Inez had come at the
moment when Dolores had gone down to the throne room; and after that the
short few minutes in which she had met her father, and then her
interview with the King, which had not lasted long, and now she was with
him again; and it was not two hours since they had parted--a lifetime of
two hours.
"I cannot believe it!" she cried, and now she laughed at last. "I
cannot, I cannot! It is impossible!"
"We are both alive," he answered. "We are both flesh and blood, and
breathing. I feel as if I had been in an illness or in a sleep that had
lasted very long."
"And I in an awful dream." Her face grew grave as she thought of what
was but just passed. "You must know it all--surely you know it
already--oh, yes! I need not tell it all."
"Something Inez has told me," he replied, "and some things I guess, but
I do not know everything. You must try and tell me--but you should not
be here--it is late. When my servants know that I am living, they will
come back, and my gentlemen and my officers. They would have left me
here all night, if I had been really dead, lest being seen near my body
should send them to trial for my death." He laughed. "They were wise
enough in their way. But you cannot stay here."
"If the whole court found me here, it would not matter," answered
Dolores. "Their tongues can take nothing from my name which my own words
have not given them to feed on."
"I do not understand," he said, suddenly anxious. "What have you said?
What have you done?"
Inez came near them from the window, by which she had been standing. She
laid a hand on Dolores' arm.
"I will watch," she said. "If I hear anything, I will warn you, and you
can go into the small room again."
She went out almost before either of them could thank her. They had,
indeed, forgotten her presence in the room, being accustomed to her
being near them; but she could no longer bear to stay, listening to
their loving words that made her loneliness so very dark. And now, too,
she had memories of her own, which she would keep secret to the end of
her life,--beautiful and happy recollections of that sweet moment when
the man that seemed dead had breathed and had clasped her in his arms,
taking her for the other, and had kissed her as he would have kissed the
one he loved. She knew at last what a kiss might be, and that was much;
but she knew also what it was to kneel by her dead love and to feel his
life come back, breath by breath and beat by beat, till he was all
alive; and few women have felt that or can guess how great it is to
feel. It was better to go out into the dark and listen, lest any one
should disturb the two, than to let her memories of short happiness be
marred by hearing words that were not meant for her.
"She found you?" asked Dolores, when she was gone.
"Yes, she found me. You had gone down, she said, to try and save your
father. He is safe now!" he laughed.
"She found you alive." Dolores lingered on the words. "I never envied
her before, I think; and it is not because if I had stayed I should have
suffered less, dear." She put up her hands upon his shoulders again. "It
is not for that, but to have thought you dead and to have seen you grow
alive again, to have watched your face, to have seen your eyes wake and
the colour come back to your cheeks and the warmth to your dear hands! I
would have given anything for that, and you would rather that I should
have been there, would you not?" She laughed low and kissed away the
answer from his lips. "If I had stayed beside you, it would have been
sooner, love. You would have felt me there even in your dream of death,
and you would have put out your hand to come back to me. Say that you
would! You could not have let me lie there many minutes longer breaking
my heart over you and wanting to die, too, so that we might be buried
together. Surely my kisses would have brought you back!"
"I dreamed they did, as mine would you."
"Sit down beside me," she said presently. "It will be very hard to
tell--and it cannot be very long before they come. Oh, they may find me
here! It cannot matter now, for I told them all that I had been long in
your room to-night."
"Told them all? Told whom? The King? What did you say?" His face was
grave again.
"The King, the court, the whole world. But it is harder to tell you."
She blushed and looked away. "It was the King that wounded you--I heard
you fall."
"Scratched me. I was only stunned for a while."
"He drew his sword, for I heard it. You know the sound a sword makes
when it is drawn from a leathern sheath? Of course--you are a soldier! I
have often watched my father draw his, and I know the soft, long pull.
The King drew quickly, and I knew you were unarmed, and besides--you had
promised me that you would not raise your hand against him."
"I remember that my sword was on the table in its scabbard. I got it
into my hand, sheathed as it was, to guard myself. Where is it? I had
forgotten that. It must be somewhere on the floor."
"Never mind--your men will find it. You fell, and then there was
silence, and presently I heard my father's voice saying that he had
killed you defenceless. They went away. I was half dead myself when I
fell there beside you on the floor. There--do you see? You lay with your
head towards the door and one arm out. I shall see you so till I die,
whenever I think of it. Then--I forget. Adonis must have found me there,
and he carried me away, and Inez met me on the terrace and she had heard
my father tell the King that he had murdered you--and it was the King
who had done it! Do you understand?"
"I see, yes. Go on!" Don John was listening breathlessly, forgetting the
pain he still suffered from time to time.
"And then I went down, and I made Don Ruy Gomez stand beside me on the
steps, and the whole court was there--the Grandees and the great
dukes--Alva, Medina Sidonia, Medina Cali, Infantado, the Princess of
Eboli--the Ambassadors, everyone, all the maids of honour, hundreds and
hundreds--an ocean of faces, and they knew me, almost all of them."
"What did you say?" asked Don John very anxiously. "What did you tell
them all? That you had been here?"
"Yes--more than that, much more. It was not true, but I hoped they would
believe it I said--" the colour filled her face and she caught her
breath. "Oh, how can I tell you? Can you not guess what I said?"
"That we were married already, secretly?" he asked. "You might have said
that."
"No. Not that--no one would have believed me. I told them," she paused
and gathered her strength, and then the words came quickly, ashamed of
being heard--"I told them that I knew my father had no share in the
crime, because I had been here long to-night, in this room, and even
when you were killed, and that I was here because I had given you all,
my life, my soul, my honour, everything."
"Great God!" exclaimed Don John starting. "And you did that to save your
father?"
She had covered her face with her hands for a moment. Then suddenly she
rose and turned away from him, and paced the floor.
"Yes. I did that. What was there for me to do? It was better that I
should be ruined and end in a convent than that my father should die on
the scaffold. What would have become of Inez?"
"What would have become of you?" Don John's eyes followed her in loving
wonder.
"It would not have mattered. But I had thrown away my name for nothing.
They believed me, I think, but the King, to spare himself, was
determined that my father should die. We met as he was led away to
prison. Then I went to the King himself--and when I came away I had my
father's release in my hand. Oh, I wish I had that to do again! I wish
you had been there, for you would have been proud of me, then. I told
him he had killed you, I heard him confess it, I threatened to tell the
court, the world, all Spain, if he would not set my father free. But the
other--can you forgive me, dear?"
She stood before him now, and the colour was fainter in her cheeks, for
she trusted him with all her heart, and she put out her hands.
"Forgive you? What? For doing the bravest thing a woman ever did?"
"I thought you would know it in heaven and understand," she said. "It is
better that you know it on earth--but it was hard to tell."
He held her hands together and pressed them to his lips. He had no words
to tell her what he thought. Again and again he silently kissed the firm
white fingers folded in his own.
"It was magnificent," he said at last. "But it will be hard to undo,
very hard."
"What will it ever matter, since we know it is not true?" she asked.
"Let the world think what it will, say what it likes--"
"The world shall never say a slighting word of you," he interrupted. "Do
you think that I will let the world say openly what I would not hear
from the King alone between these four walls? There is no fear of that,
love. I will die sooner."
"Oh, no!" she cried, in sudden fear. "Oh, do not speak of death again
to-night! I cannot bear the word!"
"Of life, then, of life together,--of all our lives in peace and love!
But first this must be set right. It is late, but this must be done
now--at once. There is only one way, there is only one thing to be
done."
He was silent for a moment, and his eyes looked quickly to the door and
back to Dolores' face.
"I cannot go away," she cried, nestling to him. "You will not make me
go? What does it matter?"
"It matters much. It will matter much more hereafter." He was on his
feet, and all his energy and graceful strength came back as if he had
received no hurt. "There is little time left, but what there is, is
ours. Inez!" He was at the door. "Is no one there upon the terrace? Is
there no servant, no sentry? Ho, there! Who are you? Come here, man! Let
me see your face! Adonis?"
Inez and the dwarf were in the door. Dolores was behind him, looking
out, not knowing what he meant to do. He had his hand on the dwarf's arm
in his haste. The crooked creature looked up, half in fear.
"Quick! Go!" cried Don John. "Get me a priest, a monk, a
bishop,--anything that wears a frock and can speak Latin. Bring him
here. Threaten his life, in my name, if you like. Tell him Don John of
Austria is in extreme need, and must have a priest. Quick, man! Fly!
Your life and fortune are in your legs! Off, man! Off!"
Adonis was already gone, rolling through the gloom with swinging arms,
more like a huge bat than anything human, and at a rate of speed none
would have guessed latent in his little twisted legs. Don John drew back
within the door.
"Stay within," he said to Dolores, gently pressing her backwards into
the room. "I will let no one pass till the priest comes; and then the
world may come, too, and welcome,--and the court and the King, and the
devil and all his angels!" He laughed aloud in his excitement.
"You have not told me," Dolores began, but her eyes laughed in his.
"But you know without words," he answered. "When that is done which a
priest can do in an instant, and no one else, the world is ours, with
all it holds, in spite of men and women and Kings!"
"It is ours already," she cried happily. "But is this wise, love? Are
you not too quick?"
"Would you have me slow when you and your name and my honour are all at
stake on one quick throw? Can we play too quickly at such a game with
fate? There will be time, just time, no more. For when the news is
known, it will spread like fire. I wonder that no one comes yet."
He listened, and Inez' hearing was ten times more sensitive than his,
but there was no sound. For besides Dolores and Inez only the dwarf and
the Princess of Eboli knew that Don John was living; and the Princess
had imposed silence on the jester and was in no haste to tell the news
until she should decide who was to know it first and how her own
advantage could be secured. So there was time, and Adonis swung himself
along the dim corridor and up winding stairs that be knew, and roused
the little wizened priest who lived in the west tower all alone, and
whose duty it was to say a mass each morning for any prisoner who
chanced to be locked up there; and when there was no one in confinement
he said his mass for himself in the small chapel which was divided from
the prison only by a heavy iron grating. The jester sometimes visited
him in his lonely dwelling and shocked and delighted him with alternate
tales of the court's wickedness and with harmless jokes that made his
wizened cheeks pucker and wrinkle into unaccustomed smiles. And he had
some hopes of converting the poor jester to a pious life. So they were
friends. But when the old priest heard that Don John of Austria was
suddenly dying in his room and that there was no one to shrive him,--for
that was the tale Adonis told,--he trembled from head to foot like a
paralytic, and the buttons of his cassock became as drops of quicksilver
and slipped from his weak fingers everywhere except into the
buttonholes, so that the dwarf had to fasten them for him in a furious
hurry, and find his stole, and set his hat upon his head, and polish
away the tears of excitement from his cheeks with his own silk
handkerchief. Yet it was well done, though so quickly, and he had a kind
old face and was a good priest.
But when Adonis had almost carried him to Don John's door, and pushed
him into the room, and when he saw that the man he supposed to be dying
was standing upright, holding a most beautiful lady by the hand, he drew
back, seeing that he had been deceived, and suspecting that he was to be
asked to do something for which he had no authority. The dwarf's long
arm was behind him, however, and he could not escape.
"This is the priest of the west tower, your Highness," said Adonis. "He
is a good priest, but he is a little frightened now."
"You need fear nothing," said Don John kindly. "I am Don John of
Austria. This lady is Doña Maria Dolores de Mendoza. Marry us without
delay. We take each other for man and wife."
"But--" the little priest hesitated--"but, your Highness--the banns--or
the bishop's license--"
"I am above banns and licenses, my good sir," answered Don John, "and if
there is anything lacking in the formalities, I take it upon myself to
set all right to-morrow. I will protect you, never fear. Make haste, for
I cannot wait. Begin, sir, lose no time, and take my word for the right
of what you do."
"The witnesses of this," faltered the old man, seeing that he must
yield, but doubtful still.
"This lady is Doña Inez de Mendoza," said Don John, "and this is Miguel
de Antona, the court jester. They are sufficient."
So it chanced that the witnesses of Don John of Austria's secret
marriage were a blind girl and the King's fool.
The aged priest cleared his throat and began to say the words in Latin,
and Don John and Dolores held their clasped hands before him, not
knowing what else to do, and each looked into the other's eyes and saw
there the whole world that had any meaning for them, while the priest
said things they but half understood, but that made the world's
difference to them, then and afterwards.
It was soon done, and he raised his trembling hand and blessed them,
saying the words very softly and clearly and without stumbling, for they
were familiar, and meant much; and having reached them, his haste was
over. The dwarf was on his knees, his rough red head bent reverently
low, and on the other side Inez knelt with joined hands, her blind eyes
turned upward to her sister's face, while she prayed that all blessings
of life and joy might be on the two she loved so well, and that they
might have for ever and unbroken the infinite happiness she had felt for
one instant that night, not meant for her, but dearer to her than all
memories or hopes.
Then as the priest's words died away in the silent room, there was a
sound of many feet and of many voices on the terrace outside, coming
nearer and nearer to the door, very quickly; and the priest looked round
in terror, not knowing what new thing was to come upon him, and wishing
with all his heart that he were safe in his tower room again and out of
all harm's way. But Don John smiled, while he still held Dolores' hand,
and the dwarf rose quickly and led the priest into the study where
Dolores had been shut up so long, and closed the door behind him.
That was hardly done when the outer door was opened wide, and a clear,
formal voice was heard speaking outside.
"His Majesty the King!" cried the chamberlain who walked before Philip.
Dolores dropped Don John's hand and stood beside him, growing a little
pale; but his face was serene and high, and he smiled quietly as he went
forward to meet his brother. The King advanced also, with outstretched
arms, and he formally embraced Don John, to exhibit his joy at such an
unexpected recovery.
Behind him came in torch-bearers and guards and many of the court who
had joined the train, and in the front rank Mendoza, grim and erect, but
no longer ashy pale, and Ruy Gomez with him, and the Princess of Eboli,
and all the chief Grandees of Spain, filling the wide bedchamber from
side to side with a flood of rich colour in which the little
constellations of their jewels shone here and there with changing
lights.
Out of respect for the King they did not speak, and yet there was a soft
sound of rejoicing in the room, and their very breathing was like a
murmur of deep satisfaction. Then the King spoke, and all at once the
silence was profound.
"I wished to be the first to welcome my dear brother back to life," he
said. "The court has been in mourning for you these two hours, and none
has mourned you more deeply and sorrowfully than I. We would all know
the cause of your Highness's accident, the meaning of our friend
Mendoza's strange self-accusation, and of other things we cannot
understand without a word from you."
The chair in which Don John had sat to read Dolores' letter was brought
forward, and the King took his seat in it, while the chief officers of
the household grouped themselves round him. Don John remained standing,
facing him and all the rest, while Dolores drew back a little into the
shadow not far from him. The King's unmoving eyes watched him closely,
even anxiously.
"The story is short, Sire, and if it is not all clear, I shall crave
your Majesty's pardon for being silent on certain points which concern
my private life. I was alone this evening in my room here, after your
Majesty had left supper, and I was reading. A man came to visit me then
whom I have known and trusted long. We were alone, we have had
differences before, to-night sharp words passed between us. I ask your
Majesty's permission not to name that man, for I would not do him an
injury, though it should cost me my life."
His eyes were fixed on the King, who slowly nodded his assent. He had
known that he could trust his brother not to betray him, and he wondered
what was to come next. Don John smiled a little as he went on.
"There were sharp words," he said, "and being men, steel was soon out,
and I received this scratch here--a mere nothing. But as chance would
have it I fell backward and was so stunned that I seemed dead. And then,
as I learn, my friend Mendoza there came in, either while we fought, or
afterwards, and understood--and so, as I suppose, in generous fear for
my good name, lest it should be told that I had been killed in some
dishonest brawl, or for a woman's sake--my friend Mendoza, in the
madness of generosity, and because my love for his beautiful daughter
might give the tale some colour, takes all the blame upon himself, owns
himself murderer, loses his wits, and well-nigh loses his head, too. So
I understand the matter, Sire."
He paused a moment, and again the King slowly nodded, but this time he
smiled also, and seemed much pleased.
"For what remains," Don John continued, "that is soon explained. This
brave and noble lady whom you found here, you all know. I have loved her
long and faithfully, and with all my heart. Those who know me, know that
my word is good, and here before your Majesty, before man and before
Heaven, I solemnly swear upon my most sacred word that no harm has ever
come near her, by me, or by another. Yet, in the hope of saving her
father's life, believing and yet not believing that he might have hurt
me in some quarrel, she went among you, and told you the tale you know.
I ask your Majesty to say that my word and oath are good, and thereby to
give your Majesty's authority to what I say. And if there is any man
here, or in Spain, among your Majesty's subjects, who doubts the word I
give, let him say so, for this is a grave matter, and I wish to be
believed before I say more."
A third time the King nodded, and this time not ungraciously, since
matters had gone well for him.
"For myself," he said, "I would take your word against another man's
oath, and I think there is no one bold enough to question what we both
believe."
"I thank your Majesty. And moreover, I desire permission to present to
your Majesty--"
He took Dolores' hand and drew her forward, though she came a little
unwillingly, and was pale, and her deep grey eyes gazed steadily at the
King's face.
"--My wedded wife," said Don John, completing the sentence.
"Your wife!" exclaimed the King, in great surprise. "Are you married
already?"
"Wedded man and wife, Sire," answered Don John, in tones that all could
hear.
"And what does Mendoza say to this?" asked Philip, looking round at the
veteran soldier.
"That his Highness has done my house a great honour, your Majesty; and I
pray that my daughter and I be not needlessly separated hereafter."
His glance went to Dolores' triumphant eyes almost timidly, and then
rested on her face with a look she had never seen in his, save on that
evening, but which she always found there afterwards. And at the same
time the hard old man drew Inez close to him, for she had found him
among the officers, and she stood by him and rested her arm on his with
a new confidence.
Then, as the King rose, there was a sound of glad voices in the room, as
all talked at once and each told the other that an evil adventure was
well ended, and that Don John of Austria was the bravest and the
handsomest and the most honourable prince in the world, and that Maria
Dolores de Mendoza had not her equal among women for beauty and high
womanly courage and perfect devotion.
But there were a few who were ill pleased; for Antonio Perez said
nothing, and absently smoothed his black hair with his immaculate white
hand, and the Princess of Eboli was very silent, too, for it seemed to
her that Don John's sudden marriage, and his reconciliation with his
brother, had set back the beginning of her plan beyond the bounds of
possible accomplishment; and she was right in that, and the beginning of
her resentment against Don John for having succeeded in marrying Dolores
in spite of every one was the beginning of the chain that led her to her
own dark fate. For though she held the cards long in her hands after
that, and played for high stakes, as she had done before, fortune failed
her at the last, and she came to unutterable ruin.
It may be, too, that Don John's splendid destiny was measured on that
night, and cut off beforehand, though his most daring fights were not
yet fought, nor his greatest victories won. To tell more here would be
to tell too much, and much, too, that is well told elsewhere. But this
is true, that he loved Dolores with all his heart; that the marriage
remained a court secret; and that she bore him one fair daughter, and
died, and the child grew up under another reign, a holy nun, and was
abbess of the convent of Las Huelgas whither Dolores was to have gone on
the morning after that most eventful night.
End of Project Gutenberg's In The Palace Of The King, by F. Marion Crawford