He thought that he saw in these two instruments of the King a symbol of the two things that had dogged his glory all his life, the powerful cruelty of his brother that had used his gifts, his successes, his popularity for his own ends, lured him with the promise of rewards and always withheld them, and the opinion of the world that the degradation of his mother equalled the splendour of his father and would always prevent him taking that last step into royal rank. It _had_ prevented him; he saw that now, he saw how hopeless his ambition had been from the first.… “If I had my life again I would not serve Philip,” he muttered. Then pain began to seize and grip him, and he became unconscious of everything save the physical agony; he fell on his face and clutched the rich mantles on which he lay, groaned and shrieked in blasphemous ravings. “He hath not much fortitude after all,” said Farnese, who had looked on suffering so often that no anguish could move him; his cold eyes had many times rested on men and women flaming at the stake with the same expression of cruel indifference with which they now rested on this man of his own blood, who had served his turn and was no longer useful to the policies of Spain. “How long will this last?” asked the priest. “I cannot tell,” answered the Prince of Parma. “He must have great strength.” “He had until he used it in the delights of Italy,” said Francisco Orantes. “Such a life as his, señor, does not make for old age—” “Escovedo! Escovedo!” moaned Don Juan. “Help me! Succour me! I am burning–burning to the bone, the marrow! Jèsu! Jèsu and Maria!” “Ay, pray for your sins,” remarked Farnese sombrely, “or you will go to light the flames that burn to all eternity.” “Nay, señor,” said the priest; “he confessed and received absolution.” “Who shall absolve Philip?” murmured Don Juan, who had caught the sentence. “I wish I had not betrayed Don Carlos. How awful it is to die!” Drops of sweat stood out on his forehead, and his fingers trembled on the brocade covering him. “The war,” he whispered, “the war.” He thought of the great armies sweeping to and fro over the Low Countries, of all the toss and turmoil of Europe through which he had moved so gaily, so splendidly, of the infidel smitten in Africa; he did not think of his childhood at all. Life seemed to have begun for him on the day on which he had first met the King in the green forest glade. “Pray,” urged the priest, “pray, señor.” He shook his head feebly; he was not at all afraid of God–only of Philip. Besides, he did not mean to die. The dreadful pain was lessening in his veins; he turned over on his side and looked up at Farnese. “Where shall we put your body when your soul has left us?” asked the priest. The sick man’s eyes gleamed.