With a cry of anger Don John fell straight backwards, his feet seeming to slip from under him on the smooth marble pavement, and with his fall, as he threw out his hands to save himself, the sword flew high into the air, sheathed as it was, and landed far away.  He lay at full length with one arm stretched out, and for a moment the hand twitched in quick spasms.  Then it was quite still.

At his feet stood Philip, his rapier in his hand, and blood on its fine point.  His eyes shone yellow in the candlelight, his jaw had dropped a little, and he bent forwards, looking intently at the still, white face.

He had longed for that moment ever since he had entered his brother’s room, though even he himself had not guessed that he wanted his brother’s life.  There was not a sound in the room as he looked at what he had done, and two or three drops of blood fell one by one, very slowly, upon the marble.  On the dazzling white of Don John’s doublet there was a small red stain.  As Philip watched it, he thought it grew wider and brighter.

Beyond the door, Dolores had fallen upon her knees, pressing her hands to her temples in an agony beyond thought or expression.  Her fear had risen to terror while she listened to the last words that had been exchanged, and the King’s threat had chilled her blood like ice, though she was brave.  She had longed to cry out to Don John to give up her letter or the other, whichever the King wanted—­she had almost tried to raise her voice, in spite of every other fear, when she had heard Don John’s single word of scorn, and the quick footsteps, the drawing of the rapier from its sheath, the desperate scuffle that had not lasted five seconds, and then the dull fall which meant that one was hurt.

It could only be the King,—­but that was terrible enough,—­and yet, if the King had fallen, Don John would have come to the door the next instant.  All was still in the room, but her terror made wild noises in her ears.  The two men might have spoken now and she could not have heard them,—­nor the opening of a door, nor any ordinary sound.  It was no longer the fear of being heard, either, that made her silent.  Her throat was parched and her tongue paralyzed.  She remembered suddenly that Don John had been unarmed, and how he had pointed out to Philip that his sword lay on the table.  It was the King who had drawn his own, then, and had killed his unarmed brother.  She felt as if something heavy were striking her head as the thoughts made broken words, and flashes of light danced before her eyes.  With her hands she tried to press feeling and reason and silence back into her brain that would not be quieted, but the certainty grew upon her that Don John was killed, and the tide of despair rose higher with every breath.