of despair rose higher with every breath.

The sensation came upon her that she was dying, then and there, of a
pain human nature could not endure, far beyond the torments Philip had
threatened, and the thought was merciful, for she could not have lived
an hour in such agony,--something would have broken before then. She was
dying, there, on her knees before the door beyond which her lover lay
suddenly dead. It would be easy to die. In a moment more she would be
with him, for ever, and in peace. They would find her there, dead, and
perhaps they would be merciful and bury her near him. But that would
matter little, since she should be with him always now. In the first
grief that struck her, and bruised her, and numbed her as with material
blows, she had no tears, but there was a sort of choking fire in her
throat, and her eyes burned her like hot iron.

She did not know how long she knelt, waiting for death. She was dying,
and there was no time any more, nor any outward world, nor anything but
her lover's dead body on the floor in the next room, and his soul
waiting for hers, waiting beside her for her to die also, that they
might go together. She was so sure now, that she was wondering dreamily
why it took so long to die, seeing that death had taken him so quickly.
Could one shaft be aimed so straight and could the next miss the mark?
She shook all over, as a new dread seized her. She was not dying,--her
life clung too closely to her suffering body, her heart was too young
and strong to stand still in her breast for grief. She was to live, and
bear that same pain a lifetime. She rocked herself gently on her knees,
bowing her head almost to the floor.

She was roused by the sound of her father's voice, and the words he was
speaking sent a fresh shock of horror through her unutterable grief, for
they told her that Don John was dead, and then something else so strange
that she could not understand it.

Philip had stood only a few moments, sword in hand, over his brother's
body, staring down at his face, when the door opened. On the threshold
stood old Mendoza, half-stunned by the sight he saw. Philip heard, stood
up, and drew back as his eyes fell upon the old soldier. He knew that
Mendoza, if no one else, knew the truth now, beyond any power of his to
conceal it. His anger had subsided, and a sort of horror that could
never be remorse, had come over him for what he had done. It must have
been in his face, for Mendoza