It was no wonder that Mendoza should have done such a deed, since he had believed her ruined and lost to honour beyond salvation.  That explained all.  He had guessed that she had been long with Don John, who had locked her hastily into the inner room to hide her from the King.  Had the King been Don John, had she loved Philip as she loved his brother, her father would have killed his sovereign as unhesitatingly, and would have suffered any death without flinching.  She believed that, and there was enough of his nature in herself to understand it.

She was as innocent as the blind girl who lay in her arms, but suddenly it flashed upon her that no one would believe it, since her own father would not, and that her maiden honour and good name were gone for ever, gone with her dead lover, who alone could have cleared her before the world.  She cared little for the court now, but she cared tenfold more earnestly for her father’s thought of her, and she knew him and the terrible tenacity of his conviction when he believed himself to be right.  He had proved that by what he had done.  Since she understood all, she no longer doubted that he had killed Don John with the fullest intention, to avenge her, and almost knowing that she was within hearing, as indeed she had been.  He had taken a royal life in atonement for her honour, but he was to give his own, and was to die a shameful death on the scaffold, within a few hours, or, at the latest, within a few days, for her sake.

Then she remembered how on that afternoon she had seen tears in his eyes, and had heard the tremor in his voice when he had said that she was everything to him, that she had been all his life since her mother had died—­he had proved that, too; and though he had killed the man she loved, she shrank from herself again as she thought what he must have suffered in her dishonour.  For it was nothing else.  There was neither man nor woman nor girl in Spain who would believe her innocent against such evidence.  The world might have believed Don John, if he had lived, because the world had loved him and trusted him, and could never have heard falsehood in his voice; but it would not believe her though she were dying, and though she should swear upon the most sacred and true things.  The world would turn from her with an unbelieving laugh, and she was to be left alone in her dishonour, and people would judge that she was not even a fit companion for her blind sister in their solitude.  The King would send her to Las Huelgas, or to some other distant convent of a severe order, that she might wear out her useless life in grief and silence and penance as quickly as possible.  She bowed her head.  It was too hard to bear.

Inez was more quiet now, and the two sat side by side in mournful silence, leaning against the parapet.  They had forgotten the dwarf, and he had disappeared, waiting, perhaps, in the shadow at a distance, in case he might be of use to them.  But if he was within hearing, they did not see him.  At last Inez spoke, almost in a whisper, as if she were in the presence of the dead.