His royal presence quelled the tumult; all weapons were lowered till the King should have passed on his way. But the King's keen eye had noted that something unusual had happened—that the English and the Germans were confronting each other in deadly hostility.
He beckoned Count Mansfeld to his side, the reiter chieftain had been riding behind him. Pointing to the two groups of soldiers, he said—
"Something has gone amiss. Your brave reiters, Count, are getting out of hand. Stay here with fifty of my guards, inquire into the case and report it to me this night."
Mansfeld bowed low in acquiescence, and the King rode slowly off in the rear of the priestly procession. The instant the King was gone the Count turned sternly on the offenders as the fifty guards drew up behind him.
The old Count was the sternest disciplinarian in the Spanish army, and all men knew it. None but he could bring an enraged, riotous reiter to order.
"Come hither, Friedrich," he said in cold tones of command to the leader of the German troop. "Tell me briefly, what means this?"
"Yon Englishman," said Friedrich, "ran his poniard through Gustav's arm, and we were about to avenge him."
"And wherefore did he that?" said Mansfeld.
The reiter captain hesitated, and the Count's face grew sternly fierce.
"Was that the cause?" he said, pointing to where the body of the woman lay.