“No,” he answered with a terrible air, “my mind is very clear. I see what I have been all my life. Philip’s plaything–no more. And I dreamt to be a King! He used me till I climbed too high and then cast me away. And you, señor, are to take my place. It was never meant that I should leave the Low Countries. It was never meant that I should return again a victor to Madrid–as servant and as brother I have served the King well, and in his own fashion he hath rewarded me.” He put his hands before his face and a shudder went through his body, for in that moment he thought of all the glorious past that had ended so suddenly and so terribly. “I suffer!” he moaned. “Jésu and Maria, I suffer!” He fell prostrate, face downwards, on the tumbled couch, and the strengthening sunlight played with a mocking brilliance on the scattered strands of his fair hair. The Prince of Parma lifted the curtain before the door and spoke to one of his servants who waited outside, then crossed and knelt beside his general. “Prince,” he said in a low tone, “the fever has turned your mind—” Juan raised his head. “I am no prince,” he answered. “I never was–but what I am your mother is, Farnese–you and I alike are tainted.” A sickly pallor crept into the Italian’s cheek; he clasped his fingers together as if he prayed for patience. “But you are too crafty to be deceived as I was,” resumed Don Juan faintly. “You would never dream as I dreamt of being ‘Infante’ of Spain, of being a King! Therefore Philip spares you, for you are a useful man, Farnese, and puts his foot on me because I dared too high–but we are both–his puppets.” The Prince of Parma clenched his hands till the knuckles showed white through the dark skin. “You–always–hated–me,” gasped Don Juan. “Are you in pain?” asked Farnese gently. “In the torments of Hell,” answered the sick man with a ghostly smile; “there is fire eating my heart, my blood, my brains.” The Prince of Parma’s face changed in an extraordinary fashion; it was a slight change, yet one that transformed his expression into that of utter and satisfied cruelty. But Don Juan kept his eyes closed, and did not notice this look bending over him. Farnese spoke, and his voice was still very gentle. “Will your Highness drink this potion?” The Prince lifted his burning lids and saw his page advancing with a goblet of rock crystal, in which a pale gold liquid floated. The boy gave this to the kneeling Farnese, who took it between his long, dark, capable hands. “This draught has often soothed your Highness,” he said. Don Juan dragged himself to a sitting posture; as he moved such a weak giddiness seized him that the clay walls, the rift of sky and the figure of Farnese swung round him like reflections in troubled water.