“Nay, señor,” said the priest; “he confessed and received absolution.”
“Who shall absolve Philip?” murmured Don Juan, who had caught the sentence. “I wish I had not betrayed Don Carlos. How awful it is to die!”
Drops of sweat stood out on his forehead, and his fingers trembled on the brocade covering him.
“The war,” he whispered, “the war.”
He thought of the great armies sweeping to and fro over the Low Countries, of all the toss and turmoil of Europe through which he had moved so gaily, so splendidly, of the infidel smitten in Africa; he did not think of his childhood at all. Life seemed to have begun for him on the day on which he had first met the King in the green forest glade.
“Pray,” urged the priest, “pray, señor.”
He shook his head feebly; he was not at all afraid of God–only of Philip. Besides, he did not mean to die.
The dreadful pain was lessening in his veins; he turned over on his side and looked up at Farnese.
“Where shall we put your body when your soul has left us?” asked the priest.
The sick man’s eyes gleamed.