His face was colourless with the pure pallor of a blonde complexion, and his long, pale waving hair clung to his damp forehead and hung dishevelled either side of his hollow cheeks; his large grey eyes, whose usual expression was so joyous, careless and ardent, now shone with the brilliancy of fever and were sunk and shadowed beneath with the bluish tinge that stained his close-drawn lips. His right hand, on which sparkled an emerald ring, clutched at the linen over his heart; the other was taut on the ground with the effort of supporting his body. In the niche above him a solitary white pigeon sat contented and surveyed his invaded home. Alessandro Farnese, tall and very slender, dark-haired, from head to foot in black save for a great chain of linked gold and jewels over his velvet doublet, let the improvised curtain fall into place over the doorway and stood leaning against the wall, never moving his sombre eyes from the Prince whose gleaming glance fiercely returned the scrutiny. “Your Highness is a whole man to-day,” he said; his voice was smooth, low, carefully trained like his expression and his gestures; Philip’s favourites always had this quiet way. “Whether I shall get well or no I cannot tell,” answered Don Juan hoarsely. “But this I know–that His Majesty hath forsaken me.” The Prince of Parma took his right elbow in his left hand and put his right hand to his pointed chin. “You speak too plainly, señor,” he said. His subtle mind disliked boldness of speech and action; he had always been annoyed by these qualities in Don Juan. “I have done with pretences,” answered the Prince. “I think I must be dying, for I care very little what happens on earth–yet I have some curiosity; it is because of that I sent for you—” he paused gathering his strength. “Why hath the King forsaken me?” he asked intensely. “Even if this were so,” said Alessandro Farnese, “how should I know it?” “It is so and you know it,” replied Don Juan. “The King hath cast me down, and he is putting you in my place.” The Prince of Parma lifted his dark, arched brows. “The mind of your Highness is still bemused by your sickness,” he answered soothingly. “Any hour may bring a post from Madrid.” Don Juan dropped from his elbow, and his head sank on the gold brocade cushions. “I was lost when they killed Escovedo,” he muttered; “there went my last friend. It would have been more honourable to die on the battle-field—” Farnese answered smoothly– “Your Highness will win many battles yet.” The Emperor’s son smiled up at him. “What did Philip pay you to mislead me?” he asked. The Italian’s shallow cheek flushed faintly, and a little quiver, it might be of rage or fear, ran through his sensitive frame. “The fever returns on you, señor,” he said coldly. Again Don Juan dragged himself into a sitting posture.