Philip turned away from the Ambassador and watched the dance in silence.  The courtiers now stood in a wide half circle to the right and left of him as he faced the hall, and the dancers passed backwards and forwards across the open space.  His slow eyes followed one figure without seeing the rest.  In the set nearest to him a beautiful girl was dancing with one of Don John’s officers.  She was of the rarest type of Andalusian beauty, tall, pliant, and slenderly strong, with raven’s-wing hair and splendidly languorous eyes, her creamy cheek as smooth as velvet, and a mouth like a small ripe fruit.  As she moved she bent from the waist as easily and naturally as a child, and every movement followed a new curve of beauty from her white throat to the small arched foot that darted into sight as she stepped forward now and then, to disappear instantly under the shadow of the gold-embroidered skirt.  As she glanced towards the King, her shadowy lids half hid her eyes and the long black lashes almost brushed her cheek.  Philip could not look away from her.

But suddenly there was a stir among the courtiers, and a shadow came between the King and the vision he was watching.  He started a little, annoyed by the interruption and at being rudely reminded of what had happened half an hour earlier, for the shadow was cast by Mendoza, tall and grim in his armour, his face as grey as his grey beard, and his eyes hard and fixed.  Without bending, like a soldier on parade, he stood there, waiting by force of habit until Philip should speak to him.  The King’s brows bent together, and he almost unconsciously raised one hand to signify that the music should cease.  It stopped in the midst of a bar, leaving the dancers at a standstill in their measure, and all the moving sea of light and colour and gleaming jewels was arrested instantly in its motion, while every look was turned towards the King.  The change from sound to silence, from motion to immobility, was so sudden that every one was startled, as if some frightful accident had happened, or as if an earthquake had shaken the Alcazar to its deep foundation.

Mendoza’s harsh voice spoke out alone in accents that were heard to the end of the hall.

“Don John of Austria is dead!  I, Mendoza, have killed him unarmed.”

It was long before a sound was heard, before any man or woman in the hall had breath to utter a word.  Philip’s voice was heard first.

“The man is mad,” he said, with undisturbed coolness.  “See to him, Perez.”

“No, no!” cried Mendoza.  “I am not mad.  I have killed Don John.  You shall find him in his room as he fell, with the wound in his breast.”

One moment more the silence lasted, while Philip’s stony face never moved.  A single woman’s shriek rang out first, long, ear-piercing, agonized, and then, without warning, a cry went up such as the old hall had never heard before.  It was a bad cry to hear, for it clamoured for blood to be shed for blood, and though it was not for him, Philip turned livid and shrank back a step.  But Mendoza stood like a rock, waiting to be taken.