The sensation came upon her that she was dying, then and there, of a pain human nature could not endure, far beyond the torments Philip had threatened, and the thought was merciful, for she could not have lived an hour in such agony,—­something would have broken before then.  She was dying, there, on her knees before the door beyond which her lover lay suddenly dead.  It would be easy to die.  In a moment more she would be with him, for ever, and in peace.  They would find her there, dead, and perhaps they would be merciful and bury her near him.  But that would matter little, since she should be with him always now.  In the first grief that struck her, and bruised her, and numbed her as with material blows, she had no tears, but there was a sort of choking fire in her throat, and her eyes burned her like hot iron.

She did not know how long she knelt, waiting for death.  She was dying, and there was no time any more, nor any outward world, nor anything but her lover’s dead body on the floor in the next room, and his soul waiting for hers, waiting beside her for her to die also, that they might go together.  She was so sure now, that she was wondering dreamily why it took so long to die, seeing that death had taken him so quickly.  Could one shaft be aimed so straight and could the next miss the mark?  She shook all over, as a new dread seized her.  She was not dying,—­her life clung too closely to her suffering body, her heart was too young and strong to stand still in her breast for grief.  She was to live, and bear that same pain a lifetime.  She rocked herself gently on her knees, bowing her head almost to the floor.

She was roused by the sound of her father’s voice, and the words he was speaking sent a fresh shock of horror through her unutterable grief, for they told her that Don John was dead, and then something else so strange that she could not understand it.

Philip had stood only a few moments, sword in hand, over his brother’s body, staring down at his face, when the door opened.  On the threshold stood old Mendoza, half-stunned by the sight he saw.  Philip heard, stood up, and drew back as his eyes fell upon the old soldier.  He knew that Mendoza, if no one else, knew the truth now, beyond any power of his to conceal it.  His anger had subsided, and a sort of horror that could never be remorse, had come over him for what he had done.  It must have been in his face, for Mendoza understood, and he came forward quickly and knelt down upon the floor to listen for the beating of the heart, and to try whether there was any breath to dim the brightness of his polished scabbard.  Philip looked on in silence.  Like many an old soldier Mendoza had some little skill, but he saw the bright spot on the white doublet, and the still face and the hands relaxed, and there was neither breath nor beating of the heart to give hope.  He rose silently, and shook his head.  Still looking down he saw the red drops that had fallen upon the pavement from Philip’s rapier, and looking at that, saw that the point was dark.  With a gesture of excuse he took the sword from the King’s hand and wiped it quite dry and bright upon his own handkerchief, and gave it back to Philip, who sheathed it by his side, but never spoke.