“Poison,” said Don Juan rapidly. “Poison–why not the sword–as with Escovedo? I have made my peace with heaven–but when shall Philip clear himself before God?” The priest moved away silently as he had come; the sick man lay staring at the partial darkness; his blood was flaming with a returning agony. “Philip!” he cried. “Philip! Will you bury me in the Escurial? If I die will you put me next my father? My father as well as yours, Philip! Hold my hand, some one–are you all afraid? This is not the plague. I have watched the heretics burning–I am burning now–I shall not go to Hell; I am absolved. Who will absolve Philip? Give me a little ease—” The priest stood motionless beside the entrance, watching him; Juan dropped into silence, and then Francisco Orantes came again to his side and gazed as intently as the dim light allowed into the young, distorted and beautiful face. The Prince was unconscious; the priest’s bloodless hand crept gently to his heart, which still beat, though reluctantly and faintly. Farnese entered. “He sleeps,” said Francisco Orantes. The Prince of Parma made no answer; a slight convulsion shook him, and his face was swept with a look of limitless pride and ambition which distorted his fine features hideously. The priest glanced up at him and shrunk away. “This seems a foul end for one who loved life so,” he muttered. Farnese fingered his long gemmed chain. “You serve Philip,” he answered coldly. Don Juan struggled back to consciousness, opened his eyes and looked up at the two bending over him; a sensation that he had never known before in all his life overcame him–a sensation of wild fear. He fought with his weakness and dragged himself up. “Is there no one to help me?” he implored. “To save me from Philip and Philip’s men! Jésu whom I served in Africa do not let me die this way!” Farnese leant swiftly down and caught the Prince by the shoulder. “Hush!” he said, “Hush!” and forced him gently back into the cushions. Juan resisted him with all his feeble strength, his eyes glittering with terror. “You are murdering me as Carlos was murdered–and Escovedo,” his voice was hoarse, broken, but tense with fear, “as you will be murdered when Philip is weary of you. I do not want to die–I–will–not—” “Hush!” said Farnese again. Juan dragged away from him and crouched back against the wall. “I leave you heir,” he panted, “to all my honours, all my commands. Philip meant you as my successor. I leave you heir to my death of loneliness and exile. When did one of Philip’s servants escape this reward?” The priest shivered and his figure bowed together, but Farnese listened patiently like a man waiting for the cessation of something that soon must end. The Prince’s fear rose and swelled to a stronger passion, hate.