He lay at full length with
one arm stretched out, and for a moment the hand twitched in quick
spasms. Then it was quite still.

At his feet stood Philip, his rapier in his hand, and blood on its fine
point. His eyes shone yellow in the candlelight, his jaw had dropped a
little, and he bent forwards, looking intently at the still, white face.

He had longed for that moment ever since he had entered his brother's
room, though even he himself had not guessed that he wanted his
brother's life. There was not a sound in the room as he looked at what
he had done, and two or three drops of blood fell one by one, very
slowly, upon the marble. On the dazzling white of Don John's doublet
there was a small red stain. As Philip watched it, he thought it grew
wider and brighter.

Beyond the door, Dolores had fallen upon her knees, pressing her hands
to her temples in an agony beyond thought or expression. Her fear had
risen to terror while she listened to the last words that had been
exchanged, and the King's threat had chilled her blood like ice, though
she was brave. She had longed to cry out to Don John to give up her
letter or the other, whichever the King wanted--she had almost tried to
raise her voice, in spite of every other fear, when she had heard Don
John's single word of scorn, and the quick footsteps, the drawing of the
rapier from its sheath, the desperate scuffle that had not lasted five
seconds, and then the dull fall which meant that one was hurt.

It could only be the King,--but that was terrible enough,--and yet, if
the King had fallen, Don John would have come to the door the next
instant. All was still in the room, but her terror made wild noises in
her ears. The two men might have spoken now and she could not have heard
them,--nor the opening of a door, nor any ordinary sound. It was no
longer the fear of being heard, either, that made her silent. Her throat
was parched and her tongue paralyzed. She remembered suddenly that Don
John had been unarmed, and how he had pointed out to Philip that his
sword lay on the table. It was the King who had drawn his own, then, and
had killed his unarmed brother. She felt as if something heavy were
striking her head as the thoughts made broken words, and flashes of
light danced before her eyes. With her hands she tried to press feeling
and reason and silence back into her brain that would not be quieted,
but the certainty grew upon her that Don John was killed, and the tide