“No, for I have nothing to leave,” he answered, “so I am spared that trouble.”
Francisco Orantes then asked if he would have the canvas drawn over the broken roof and wall, for the sun was creeping very near his face.
He answered yes, and it was done; the barn was now only lit by the glimmer from the one small window.
“Father, I am not dying,” said Don Juan. “When I die it will be in Spain or Italy; tell the King so–tell him I know that he wants me dead–but that I will not die like this.”
The priest, seeing he was out of his wits, made no answer, but approached and felt his wrist and brow.
“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.