Then all the attendants were sent from the room, and Philip was left alone with his son. “I meant to save you this scene,” he said, “but I wish you to see how the monarchies of the earth end. You see that God has denuded me of all the glory and majesty of a monarch in order to hand them to you. In a very few hours I shall be covered only with a poor shroud and girded with a coarse rope. The king’s crown is already falling from my brows, and death will place it on yours. Two things I especially commend to you: one is that you keep always faithful to the Holy Catholic Church, and the other is that you treat your subjects justly. This crown will some day fall away from your head, as it now falls from mine. You are young, as I was once. My days are numbered and draw to a close; the tale of yours God alone knows, but they too must end.” This was Philip’s farewell to his royal state, for he concerned himself no more with mundane affairs. Patient, kindly solicitous for those around him, in gentle faith and serene resignation, he waited for his release. On September 11, two days before he died, he took a last farewell of his son, and of his beloved daughter, the Infanta Isabel, who for years had been his chief solace and constant companion, even in his hours of labour. He was leaving her the sovereignty of the Netherlands, in union with the Archduke Albert, whom she was to marry, and he urged her to uphold inviolate the Catholic faith in her dominions. The farewell was an affecting one for the Infanta, but the father was serene through it all. When it was ended he gave to his confessor, Father Yepes, his political testament for his son, copied from the exhortations of St. Louis. He would fain have taken the sacrament again, but Moura was obliged to tell him that the physicians feared he was too weak to swallow the host. Towards the next night Moura warned him that his hour had nearly come, and he smiled gratefully when he heard it. All through the dragging night in the small gloomy chamber the prayers and dirges for the dying went on. When for a moment they ceased, the dying king would urge their continuance. “Fathers,” he said, “go on. The nearer I draw to the fountain, the greater grows my thirst.” During the night the watchers thought the great change had come, and hastily placed in the king’s hand a blessed candle he had kept for many years to illumine his last moments upon earth. But he was still collected. “No,” he said, “not yet. The time has not come.”