“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.”