Farnese leant swiftly down and caught the Prince by the shoulder.
“Hush!” he said, “Hush!” and forced him gently back into the cushions.
Juan resisted him with all his feeble strength, his eyes glittering with terror.
“You are murdering me as Carlos was murdered–and Escovedo,” his voice was hoarse, broken, but tense with fear, “as you will be murdered when Philip is weary of you. I do not want to die–I–will–not—”
“Hush!” said Farnese again.
Juan dragged away from him and crouched back against the wall.
“I leave you heir,” he panted, “to all my honours, all my commands. Philip meant you as my successor. I leave you heir to my death of loneliness and exile. When did one of Philip’s servants escape this reward?”
The priest shivered and his figure bowed together, but Farnese listened patiently like a man waiting for the cessation of something that soon must end.
The Prince’s fear rose and swelled to a stronger passion, hate.
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.