y could hot meet his eyes. The King
was a sacred and semi-divine personage, privileged to ask any question
he chose and theoretically incapable of doing wrong, but it was
unbearable that this sleek black fox should have the right to hear Diego
de Mendoza confess his daughter's dishonour. Antonio Perez was not an
adventurer of low birth, as many have gratuitously supposed, for his
father had held an honourable post at court before him; but he was very
far from being the equal of one who, though poor and far removed from
the head of his own family, bore one of the most noble names in Spain.

"Let your Majesty dismiss Don Antonio Perez," said Mendoza boldly. "I
will then tell your Majesty all I know."

Perez smiled as he bent over his notes, for he knew what the answer
would be to such a demand. It came sharply.

"It is not the privilege of a man convicted of murder to choose his
hearers. Answer my questions or be silent. Do you confess that you knew
of your daughter's meeting with Don John this evening?"

Mendoza's lips set themselves tightly under his grey beard, and he
uttered no sound. He interpreted the King's words literally.

"Well, what have you to say?"

"Nothing, Sire, since I have your Majesty's permission to be silent."

"It does not matter," said Philip indifferently. "Note that he refuses
to answer the question, Perez. Note that this is equivalent to
confessing the fact, since he would otherwise deny it. His silence is &
reason, however, for allowing the case to go to the tribunal to be
examined in the usual way--the usual way," he repeated, looking hard at
Mendoza and emphasizing the words strongly.

"Since I do not deny the deed, I entreat your Majesty to let me suffer
for it quickly. I am ready to die, God knows. Let it be to-morrow
morning or to-night. Your Majesty need only sign the warrant for my
execution, which Don Antonio Perez has, no doubt, already prepared."

"Not at all, not at all," answered the King, with horrible coolness. "I
mean that you shall have a fair and open trial and every possible
opportunity of justifying yourself. There must be nothing secret about
this. So horrible a crime must be treated in the most public manner.
Though it is very painful to me to refer to such a matter, you must
remember that after it had pleased Heaven, in its infinite justice, to
bereave me of my unfortunate son, Don Carlos, the heir to the throne,
there were not wanting ill-disposed and wicked perso