“Your father is alone with the King,” he said.  “We must wait.”

Dolores scarcely heard what he said, and did not change her position nor open her eyes.  The old man looked at her, sighed, and sat down near a brazier of wood coals, over which he slowly warmed his transparent hands, from time to time turning his rings slowly on his fingers, as if to warm them, too.  Outside, the chamberlain in attendance walked slowly up and down, again and again passing the open door, through which he glanced at Dolores’ face.  The antechamber was little more than a short, broad corridor, and led to the King’s study.  This corridor had other doors, however, and it was through it that the King’s private rooms communicated with the hall of the royal apartments.

As Ruy Gomez had learned, Mendoza was with Philip, but not alone.  The old officer was standing on one side of the room, erect and grave, and King Philip sat opposite him, in a huge chair, his still eyes staring at the fire that blazed in the vast chimney, and sent sudden flashes of yellow through the calm atmosphere of light shed by a score of tall candles.  At a table on one side sat Antonio Perez, the Secretary.  He was provided with writing-materials and appeared to be taking down the conversation as it proceeded.  Philip asked a question from time to time, which Mendoza answered in a strange voice unlike his own, and between the questions there were long intervals of silence.

“You say that you had long entertained feelings of resentment against his Highness,” said the King, “You admit that, do you?”

“I beg your Majesty’s pardon.  I did not say resentment.  I said that I had long looked upon his Highness’s passion for my daughter with great anxiety.”

“Is that what he said, Perez?” asked Philip, speaking to the Secretary without looking at him.  “Read that.”

“He said:  I have long resented his Highness’s admiration for my daughter,” answered Perez, reading from his notes.

“You see,” said the King.  “You resented it.  That is resentment.  I was right.  Be careful, Mendoza, for your words may be used against you to-morrow.  Say precisely what you mean, and nothing but what you mean.”

Mendoza inclined his head rather proudly, for he detested Antonio Perez, and it appeared to him that the King was playing a sort of comedy for the Secretary’s benefit.  It seemed an unworthy interlude in what was really a solemn tragedy.

“Why did you resent his Highness’s courtship of your daughter?” enquired Philip presently, continuing his cross-examination.

“Because I never believed that there could be a real marriage,” answered Mendoza boldly.  “I believed that my child must become the toy and plaything of Don John of Austria, or else that if his Highness married her, the marriage would soon be declared void, in order that he might marry a more important personage.”

“Set that down,” said the King to Perez, in a sharp tone.  “Set that down exactly.  It is important.”  He waited till the Secretary’s pen stopped before he went on.  His next question came suddenly.