ccident 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.

In another moment furious confusion filled the hall. From every side at
once rose women's cries, and the deep shouts of angry men, and high,
clear yells of rage and hate. The men pushed past the ladies of the
court to the front, and some came singly, but a serried rank moved up
from behind, pushing the others before them.

"Kill him! Kill him at the King's feet! Kill him where he stands!"

And suddenly something made blue flashes of light high over the heads of
all; a rapier was out and wheeled in quick circles from a pliant wrist.
An officer of Mendoza's guard had drawn it, and a dozen more were in the
air in an instant, and then daggers by scores, keen, short, and strong,
held high at arm's length, each shaking with the fury of the hand that
held it.

"Sangre! Sangre!"

Some one had screamed out the wild cry of the Spanish soldiers--'Blood!
Blood!'--and the young men took it up in a mad yell, as they pushed
forwards furiously, while the few who stood in front tried to keep a
space open round the King and Mendoza.

The old man never winced, and disdained to turn his head, though he
heard the cry of death behind him, and the quick, soft sound of daggers
drawn from leathern sheaths, and the pressing of men who would be upon
him in another moment to tear him limb from limb with their knives.

Tall old Ruy Gomez had stepped forwards to stem the tide of death, and
beside him the English Amba