Together the two looked at the body for a full minute and more, each silently debating what should be done with it.  At last Mendoza raised his head, and there was a strange look in his old eyes and a sort of wan greatness came over his war-worn face.  It was then that he spoke the words Dolores heard.

“I throw myself upon your Majesty’s mercy!  I have killed Don John of Austria in a private quarrel, and he was unarmed.”

Philip understood well enough, and a faint smile of satisfaction flitted through the shadows of his face.  It was out of the question that the world should ever know who had killed his brother, and he knew the man who offered to sacrifice himself by bearing the blame of the deed.  Mendoza would die, on the scaffold if need be, and it would be enough for him to know that his death saved his King.  No word would ever pass his lips.  The man’s loyalty would bear any proof; he could feel horror at the thought that Philip could have done such a deed, but the King’s name must be saved at all costs, and the King’s divine right must be sustained before the world.  He felt no hesitation from the moment when he saw clearly how this must be done.  To accuse some unknown murderer and let it be supposed that he had escaped would have been worse than useless; the court and half Spain knew of the King’s jealousy of his brother, every one had seen that Philip had been very angry when the courtiers had shouted for Don John; already the story of the quarrel about the glove was being repeated from mouth to mouth in the throne room, where the nobles had reassembled after supper.  As soon as it was known that Don John was dead, it would be believed by every one in the palace that the King had killed him or had caused him to be murdered.  But if Mendoza took the blame upon himself, the court would believe him, for many knew of Dolores’ love for Don John, and knew also how bitterly the old soldier was opposed to their marriage, on the ground that it would be no marriage at all, but his daughter’s present ruin.  There was no one else in the palace who could accuse himself of the murder and who would be believed to have done it without the King’s orders, and Mendoza knew this, when he offered his life to shield Philip’s honour.  Philip knew it, too, and while he wondered at the old man’s simple devotion, he accepted it without protest, as his vast selfishness would have permitted the destruction of all mankind, that it might be satisfied and filled.

He looked once more at the motionless body at his feet, and once more at the faithful old man.  Then he bent his head with condescending gravity, as if he were signifying his pleasure to receive kindly, for the giver’s sake, a gift of little value.

“So be it,” he said slowly.

Mendoza bowed his head, too, as if in thanks, and then taking up the long dark cloak which the King had thrown off on entering, he put it upon Philip’s shoulders, and went before him to the door.  And Philip followed him without looking back, and both went out upon the terrace, leaving both doors ajar after them.  They exchanged a few words more as they walked slowly in the direction of the corridor.