“Who shall, then?” asked the King angrily.  “Do you expect that there will be a general rising of the people to liberate you, or that there will be a revolution within the palace, brought on by your party, which shall force me to set you free for reasons of state?  We are not in Paris that you should expect the one, nor in Constantinople where the other might be possible.  We are in Spain, and I am master, and my will shall be done, and no one shall cry out against it.  I am too gentle with you, too kind!  For the half of what you have said and done, Elizabeth of England would have had your life to-morrow—­yes, I consent to give you a chance, the benefit of a doubt there is still in my thoughts about you, because justice shall not be offended and turned into an instrument of revenge.  Yes—­I am kind, I am clement.  We shall see whether you can save yourself.  You shall have the chance.”

“What chance is that?” asked Don John, growing very quiet, for he saw the real danger near at hand again.

“You shall have an opportunity of proving that a subject is at liberty to insult his sovereign, and that the King is not free to speak his mind to a subject.  Can you prove that?”

“I cannot.”

“Then you can be convicted of high treason,” answered Philip, his evil mouth curling.  “There are several methods of interrogating the accused,” he continued.  “I daresay you have heard of them.”

“Do you expect to frighten me by talking of torture?” asked Don John, with a smile at the implied suggestion.

“Witnesses are also examined,” replied the King, his voice thickening again in anticipation of the effect he was going to produce upon the man who would not fear him.  “With them, even more painful methods are often employed.  Witnesses may be men or women, you know, my dear brother—­” he pronounced the word with a sneer—­“and among the many ladies of your acquaintance—­”

“There are very few.”

“It will be the easier to find the two or three, or perhaps the only one, whom it will be necessary to interrogate—­in your presence, most probably, and by torture.”

“I was right to call you a coward,” said Don John, slowly turning pale till his face was almost as white as the white silks and satins of his doublet.

“Will you give me the letter you were reading when I came here?”

“No.”

“Not to save yourself from the executioner’s hands?”

“No.”

“Not to save—­” Philip paused, and a frightful stare of hatred fixed his eyes on his brother.  “Will you give me that letter to save Dolores de Mendoza from being torn piecemeal?”

“Coward!”

By instinct Don John’s hand went to the hilt of his sheathed sword this time, as he cried out in rage, and sprang forward.  Even then he would have remembered the promise he had given and would not have raised his hand to strike.  But the first movement was enough, and Philip drew his rapier in a flash of light, fearing for his life.  Without waiting for an attack he made a furious pass at his brother’s body.  Don John’s hand went out with the sheathed sword in a desperate attempt to parry the thrust, but the weapon was entangled in the belt that hung to it, and Philip’s lunge had been strong and quick as lightning.