For a Queen's Love: The Stories of the Royal Wives of Philip II

THREE

Philip was afraid, for Isabella was very ill, and he had a horror of childbirth.

He must think of those days which had followed the death of his first wife, and he could not rid himself of the superstitious fear that in love he was doomed to frustration. First Maria Manoela had died. Was it now to be Isabella?

Very little else seemed of any real importance to him now. His troops had suffered a great defeat at Tunis, and it seemed as if the Turks’ hold on the Mediterranean was becoming firmer. Here was a blow against the Faith itself. The Infidel was encroaching on Europe; and no Spaniard, remembering the tragic history of his country, could feel complacent. The Netherlands were clearly preparing to break into open revolt. Yet Philip could think of nothing but Isabella.

In the first months of her pregnancy he had had a silver chair made for her so that she might not tire herself by walking. In it she had been carried everywhere. He had to face the truth; for all her vivacity, she was not strong and she seemed to droop and fade like a flower in the heat of the sun.

Then had come the miscarriage. There was to be no child, and Isabella’s life was in danger.

He went to her bedchamber and sat by her bed. Day and night he stayed there, hoping that she would open her eyes and smile at him.

At times it seemed almost unbearably like that other occasion. But this was different. She was not going to die, and eventually she began to recover. She was very thin and her black hair seemed too heavy for her little head to carry; she wore it loose about her shoulders, for to have it piled on her head tired her so.

His only pleasure at that time was in arranging for her convalescence. He himself decided how she should rest, what she should eat. The women about her marveled, for the King of Spain had become a more devoted nurse than any of them.

The Queen was aware of this, and sometimes she would look at Philip with anxious puzzled eyes. One day she said to him: “It is a sad thing when a Queen cannot bear her husband sons.”

“You are a child yourself,” answered Philip. “And I am not old. There are many years left to us, for which I daily thank God.”

“What if I should never bear a child?”

“My dear, you must not say such things. Of course you will. I know you will.”

“It may be that I shall not.”

“We will not think of such a thing.”

“Is it not better to face facts, Philip?”

“You have become solemn during your illness, Isabella.”

“Nay. This thought has been with me often. The King of England put away his wives because they could not bear him sons.”

“He cut off the head of one because he wanted another woman. Have no fear, Isabella. I am not the King of England.”

“But you are the King of Spain; and the King of Spain needs sons even as did the King of England.”

“I have one son.”

“Carlos!”

“Oh, I admit I should like to have others … yours and mine, my dear. That I should like more than anything. But it will happen yet. Shall we lose heart because of one failure?”

“Philip, there is something you must know. You should have known before.”

“Well, Isabella?”

“The King of England could not get sons, and some say it was because his body was diseased. He suffered from La Malade Anglaise, some say.”

“I have heard that.”

“My grandfather suffered from that same disease. He died of it.”

“What are you trying to tell me?”

“Perhaps I am not the right wife for you.”

Her eyes were blank; he could not read the thoughts behind them. Did some part of her long for escape? Words came to his lips—tender and pleading. But all he said was: “You are. Of course you are. You are my wife. Is that not enough?”

She would not look at him. She said slowly: “But if I cannot give you sons … if I should be unable to give you sons …”

“Have no fear. If God wishes us to have sons we shall have them. Everything that happens to us is due to the will of God.”

“Philip, I am glad that you know of the rumors concerning my grandfather.”

“I have always known of them.”

She was thinking that her own brother Charles was wild, even as Carlos was wild, that François, the young King, suffered from many infirmities. It was God’s law that the children should suffer even unto the third and fourth generation for the sins of such fathers. If she was doomed to suffer for her grandfather’s excesses, she must accept God’s will as Philip would.

She was comforted and relieved because he knew of these things. There he sat, at her bedside, and she was aware of the warmth of his feelings beneath that cold surface. During her illness she had been perpetually conscious of his devotion.

He was a strange man, but he was good to her. She was more fond of him than she had ever been before; she put out her hand and he took it. She thought: If I were not afraid of him I could love him.

She was grateful; he had helped her escape from the fear which had dominated her childhood. She was no longer afraid of her mother, because she was under the protection of the man who would dominate her life from now on, and whom she might one day love.

There was bad news of Carlos. When was news of Carlos ever good?

Messengers came to Philip, who was staying in the Valladolid Palace at that time. He had been enjoying a certain peaceful contentment. He felt that he would soon subdue the Netherlands, and had started work on that great monastery, the Escorial, which, when he had witnessed the desecration of St. Quentin, he had vowed to build. He intended to fill it with the art treasures which his father had taught him to love and revere, and when he was there he would live quietly as a monk. His father had repudiated his crown when he retired to the monastic life. But Philip intended to combine the two. He would spend half his time in fasting and in prayer that he might the better rule his country.

Isabella’s health had improved considerably; her high-spirited temperament helped her. She was herself once more, and Philip felt that he had been foolish to have suffered so acutely. She was surely stronger than Maria Manoela had been. Soon there would be children born to them, and if he had a son—a healthy and intelligent boy—he would disinherit Carlos. He had discussed this possibility with Ruy, whose opinion it was that the disinheriting of Carlos—providing the Council agreed to it—could only be of advantage to Spain.

Ruy was grave when he talked of Carlos. He was fully aware of the Prince’s feelings for the Queen, and that knowledge Philip knew, disturbed him deeply.

Such were Philip’s thoughts when the news was brought to him.

“There has been an accident, your Majesty,” said the messenger from Alcala. “The Prince lies nigh to death.”

Ruy was with Philip at the time. Philip could not help but be aware of the sudden tension in his friend. Was it hope?

Philip betrayed nothing of his feelings, and the messenger hurried on. “It was a few nights ago, your Highness. The night was very dark and the Prince, hurrying down a staircase in his establishment, slipped and fell from top to bottom. He received injuries to his head and spine … terrible injuries Highness.”

“You came straight to me?” said Philip.

“Yes, your Highness.

“And it is some days since the accident,” said Ruy. “We know not what may have happened in the meantime.”

“I shall leave at once for Alcala,” said Philip.

Ruy rode beside him when they left. Philip knew that Ruy regarded the accident in the light of a blessing. Carlos was no good to Spain, no good to Philip; therefore, Ruy’s thoughts would run, it is well to be rid of him.

Philip knew, even as Ruy did, that while Carlos lived he would give trouble to all, and in particular to his father. Ruy worshipped logic, but Philip worshipped duty. However painful that duty, Philip would follow it. Ruy would have delayed on the journey so that the best physicians, who were with the court, might not reach Carlos in good time; but Philip saw nothing but the need to save his son, whatever misery that might bring to himself or to Carlos.

With all urgency, the court proceeded to Alcala.

Now the whole of Spain was in mourning. The heir to the throne was dying, wailed the people. They forgot the stories they had heard of his conduct. Don Carlos was the hero now. There were lamentations. There were pilgrimages to the shrines of the saints. Many sought to win Philip’s favor by having themselves publicly scourged in the hope, they said, of calling the saints’ attention to their sorrow, but actually in the hope of calling the King’s attention to their loyalty to the crown.

At Alcala Philip found Carlos in a very low state. He did not recognize his father, and this many thought to be fortunate for it was generally believed that excitement at this time would surely kill the Prince.

Dr. Olivares, the greatest physician in the world, whom Philip had brought with him from Valladolid, examined Carlos, and his verdict was that Carlos would die if nothing was done to save him; there was, he believed, a faint hope that the operation of trepanning might do this. If the King gave his permission for the operation, Dr. Olivares would see that it was carried out with all speed.

With Isabella and Ruy beside him, and his courtiers and statesmen about him, Philip waited for the news; and as he looked at the faces of those gathered about him, he fancied that only in Isabella’s did he see any expression of real grief.

Why should she care for the fate of this lame epileptic who was a source of anxiety to all those who came into contact with him? Why, of all these people, should Isabella be the only one who sincerely prayed for the recovery of Carlos?

Philip could not shut out of his mind the memory of a distorted face, of eyes which stared madly into his while a harsh voice cried: “She is mine … mine!”

How could he be jealous of a poor, half-mad creature like Carlos?

At length Olivares presented himself to the King, and one look at the doctor’s face was enough to tell everyone present that the operation had been successful.

But although Carlos had not died during the operation its results were far from satisfactory. The Prince’s head swelled to twice its usual size so that his eyes were completely buried in his flesh and he could not see. A rash broke out on his skin and he suffered agony.

He was in constant delirium, calling perpetually for Isabella; but when she went to him he did not know her. He shouted threats against someone, but as he mentioned no name, those about him could only guess at whom the threats were directed.

Philip prayed for guidance. Isabella knew that he was thinking what a blessing it would be if Carlos died, and she knew that he was fighting against such thoughts. To Philip, duty was all-important, and she was aware that if he believed it was his duty to go into the sickroom, put a cushion over Carlos’s face, and suffocate him, he would not hesitate to do so.

Was he wondering even now whether he might hint to the doctors that the moment had come to rid Spain of Carlos?

Her fear of this strange man who was her husband was growing. She would never be able to forget the fanatical light which had shone in his eyes when he had talked to her of the work of the Inquisition. She was dreading the day—for she knew that as Queen of Spain she could not escape it—when she would have to attend an auto-da-fé. She recalled with horror the executions her mother had forced her to witness at Amboise. She was a good Catholic, but cruelty horrified her. She could not look on calmly while men and women were tortured, no matter what they believed. Now it seemed to her that she had escaped her mother’s tyranny for that of another. The last months had made a woman of a frivolous girl, and as that woman was a tender-hearted one, she could not love a man who thought it righteous and godly to torture men and women, even though he had been to her the kindest of husbands. She was becoming complicated, whereas she had been simple; she wanted to escape, but she knew not how.

Philip decided that it was his duty to do everything in his power to save his son’s life.

He explained to Isabella that in the Monastery of Jesu Maria were buried the bones of the Blessed Diego, a Franciscan lay brother, who had led a life of sanctity and was said to work miracles.

“It is years since he died,” said Philip, “but his memory has never faded. If he saves the life of my son he shall be canonized.”

“Let us pray to him,” said Isabella.

“We will do more. I will have his bones dug up, and they shall be brought to Carlos and laid upon him.”

Philip’s indecision was past. He had found the solution to his tormenting problem. If Carlos was saved through the intercession of the Blessed Diego, he would know that he, Philip, and Spain were not yet to be relieved of their burden.

Carlos was tossing on his bed. Don Andrea Basilo and Dr. Olivares, the King’s most worthy physicians, stood by his bedside.

Carlos was moaning in agony. The terrible swelling of his face made him unrecognizable.

Philip arrived in the sick-room, and with him were two monks from the Monastery of Jesu Maria. They carried a box in which were the bones of the Blessed Diego.

Philip said: “We will place them about the body of my son. Then we will kneel and pray to the saint to intercede for us. He is noted for his sympathy for the sick. Doubtless his intercession will succeed.”

So the bones of the long-dead monk were placed about Carlos, and some pieces of the cerecloth, in which the body had been wrapped, were scraped off the bones and laid on Carlos’s face.

Carlos screamed. “What is this, then? You have come to kill me, I smell death. I smell decay. Is death here then?”

“We have brought the bones of the Blessed Diego,” said Olivares.

“You have brought death. I smell it. It fills the room. You have brought death to me. It is my father who has done this because he longs for my death.”

Dr. Olivares bent over the bed. “We are striving to save your life,” he said. “Pray with us. We have here the bones of the Blessed Diego, and to him we are directing our prayers. The King and the Queen are praying for you now. They pray for a miracle.”

“The Queen …” said Carlos in a whisper.

“Pray, your Highness. Pray to the Blessed Diego.”

Carlos was delirious. He dreamed that he saw a monk rise from his tomb, his body wrapped in cerecloth.

“You will recover, Carlos,” said the Holy Man.

In Carlos’s delirium, the cerecloth fell away from the body of the monk; and now it was clothed in a dress of the becoming French style, and the dress covered not the old bones, but the beautiful young body of Isabella.

“I am praying for you,” she said. “Carlos, I wish you to be well.”

When at last the delirium faded the swelling in his head began to subside. People in the palace and in the town and in all the country were saying: “Here is another miracle of the Blessed Diego.”

Carlos had recovered physically, but his mental sickness had taken a more violent turn. Yet he could not be kept at Alcala indefinitely; he was old enough now to take his place at court, and this the people would expect of him. So he came to Madrid where he had for company Don Juan, Alexander Farnese, and his two cousins, the sons of Maximilian and Maria of Austria, who were to be brought up at the Spanish court.

These lively, intelligent young people might have been excellent company for a normal boy; but poor Carlos was far from normal. He was sullen for days on end; he refused to eat for long periods, so that all feared he would starve to death; then he would decide to eat, and make himself ill because he would not do so in moderation. He would rise from his bed in the middle of the night and demand boiled capon; he would lash his attendants with a whip which he kept handy for the purpose, until the food was brought to him. All his attendants longed to be removed from his service, with the exception of his half-brother, Garcia Osorio, who seemed able to soothe him better than anyone else. This boy, perhaps out of gratitude to Philip, had made the Prince his special charge, and would show the utmost tact in dealing with him. Carlos was relying more and more on his half-brother; he tolerated him because, although he was handsome and of lively intelligence, he was illegitimate, and that pleased Carlos, as it gave him a sense of superiority. Young Garcia was of great value in the household, since he could manage Carlos better than anyone except the Queen; and the King had ordered that the Queen should see her stepson but rarely.

It was a matter of continual grievance to Carlos that Isabella was kept from him.

Sometimes he would get together a band of young men—the most dissolute he could find—and they would roam the streets of Madrid, insulting women, pulling off their cloaks, forcing them against walls, and mishandling them. Rape was rarely committed, for Carlos forbade this; this fact set in circulation rumors that he was impotent, which in its turn enraged Carlos. But he did nothing to prove it was not, which supported the belief.

The whole world now knew that the heir of Spain was at least unbalanced. Yet many sought his hand. Catherine de Medici still wanted him for Margot, and sent urgent letters to the Queen of Spain. There was talk of his marrying his Aunt Juana, and Philip himself was not against this. It was said that Carlos and Juana would have made a strange pair—she with her melancholy madness, he with his wild insanity. Philip’s sister Maria and her husband Maximilian were very eager to secure him for their daughter Anne. They wrote to him and professed great affection for him.

Carlos liked to imagine himself as a husband—either of Margot or Anne. A favorite game of his was to imagine himself procuring horses and riding to France, where Catherine de Medici would receive him and marry him to her daughter Margot, or riding to Austria where he would be fêted by his Uncle Max and Aunt Maria, and married to his cousin Anne.

But there was one who remained for him the most desirable in the world, the mere mention of whose name could soften his ugliest moods and bring him back to comparative sanity. That was Isabella—his father’s wife.

Although Isabella continued to wear her beautiful dresses and give them away with the utmost extravagance, she could no longer delight in these things. At times she felt homesick for France; but at others she felt she no longer had a part in what was happening in her old home. Margot’s letters were gay and inconsequential; they were all about Margot’s own adventures and the people who admired her, what she wore, what journeys she made, and how Henry of Guise grew more handsome than ever. But when Isabella thought of her native land nowadays, it was of terrible conflicts between Catholics and Huguenots. There had been such quarrels in the days of her youth, but it was only now, when she was living close to the mighty shadow of the Inquisition, that they seemed to have such horrible significance. The people she had known and loved were involved in wars against each other. There were the Guises against the Prince of Condé and Coligny. There was Jeanne of Navarre, whom she had known so well and with whose little son she had played, in terrible strife with her husband, Antoine, that kinsman with whom she had parted so piteously when she had been brought to Spain. And all these conflicts had their roots in religion. It was incongruous. Christians were supposed to love each other; yet these Christians were fighting … killing each other.

She was at length obliged to attend an auto-da-fé. She did not know how she would endure that ordeal. The memory of the hot square would live in her mind forever; she would never, she feared, forget the grim Inquisitors, the pomp of the royal gallery, the victims in their yellow garments dragging their tortured bodies to the stakes.

I am a Catholic, she told herself. I know the Catholic Faith to be the only true Faith, but I cannot bear to see these people suffer so. And when I see them I care not that they are heretics. I only want to save them. I find myself caring for nothing … not for God, not for religion if God and religion demand of us such action.

She felt a hatred toward the land of her adoption because it was the home of torture. She shrank with revulsion from the man who sat beside her in the royal gallery, his eyes intent, the fervor lighting his face. She wanted to cry out in protest when the people shouted with glee and the agonized screams of men and women filled the air while the flames licked their already mutilated bodies.

She wanted to live in a world of kindness and fun—not torture and misery.

One day Madame Clermont, one of the French ladies who had accompanied her into Spain, came to her and intimated that she had something important to say.

When they were alone, Madame Clermont could scarcely speak, she was so excited.

“Your Majesty, I have discovered a Frenchman in distress.”

“What is this?” asked Isabella indulgently, for poor Clermont was of a romantic nature and was constantly bewailing the lack of those adventures which had seemed to come about so naturally in France.

“He had an accident in the street close to one of the inns there … which was fortunate for him. It might have been on the mountain roads, and then Monsieur Dimanche would have said good-bye to this life.”

“You are incoherent, Clermont. Who is this Dimanche, and what is this all about?”

“It is very mysterious, dear Majesty; and that is what makes it so exciting. No one seems to know who he is or what his mission; and he, poor man, is too far gone in delirium to speak much sense. But he is handsome—very handsome—and he is a Frenchman. Spanish innkeepers are a grasping breed. Do you know, Highness, they do not wish to keep him in their miserable inn, for fear he should be unable to pay his bill? They do not like foreigners, they say. And that is a slight to your Majesty! They have put him in a barn close by; and he, poor man, is very sick indeed.”

“What is he doing here, I wonder?” said Isabella.

“That we shall doubtless discover later; but knowing how interested your Majesty is in our own countrymen, and women, I guessed you would not care to know that one of them was lodged in a barn, and a sick man at that!”

“Indeed I do not,” said Isabella. “It is most inhospitable.”

“One of the palace serving-women has a comfortable lodging not far from the inn—nor from the palace. If it should be your Majesty’s wish that this man be taken there, she is willing to have him, and to care for him until he has recovered.”

“Let it be done,” said Isabella. “I will send one of my own doctors to him. I should not like a Frenchman to return to France with tales of the ill-treatment he received in Spain.”

So the mysterious Frenchman was removed from the barn to the lodging of the serving-woman; and it was some days before Isabella knew what an important problem he was to bring into her life.

For the next day or so Isabella thought no more of the Frenchman. It was her custom to interest herself in her fellow countrymen, and if any visited Spain to do all in her power to see that their stay was enjoyable. It was not the first time she had helped people in distress. She herself would pay the servant in whose house Dimanche was lodged; she would reward her doctor for his services to the man. It appeared to her at that time that there the affair of Dimanche ended.

It was Clermont who brought the news to her—excitable Clermont who looked for drama and romance in everyday life. Drama had certainly been found among the papers of Monsieur Dimanche and, Clermont assured the Queen, in the few words he had let slip in his semi-conscious state.

Clermont begged to be alone with the Queen and, when she was absolutely sure that they would not be overheard, divulged what she had discovered.

“Dearest Highness, I do not know how to tell you. Dimanche is in the service of Spain.”

“A Frenchman … in the service of Spain!”

“What I have found out, Highness, is horrible. And I do not know what to do. I remember them so well … as you do … the Queen and her little son. That brightest of boys …”

“Clermont, Clermont, what do you mean? Of whom are you speaking?”

“The Queen of Navarre and her son young Henry. There is a conspiracy—and this Dimanche is one of those who will carry it out—to ride to Pau in Navarre, where the Queen is at this time with her son, to kidnap them and bring them here to Spain … to … the Inquisition.”

Isabella could not speak. The memories were too vivid. She was back in that hideous square; she was watching the shambling figures in their yellow robes. Their faces had been indistinct; perhaps she had not had the courage to look at their faces; perhaps she did not want those to haunt her all the days of her life. But now there would be faces … the faces of the Queen of Navarre—dear Aunt Jeanne—and little Henry, the rough young Béarnais of whom, in spite of his crudeness, they had all been so fond.

A plot had been discovered through this accident to one of the conspirators, a plot to take honest, noble Jeanne and torture her and burn her alive—and perhaps her little son with her. And Fate had brought this to the knowledge of the Queen of Spain.

“Highness,” cried Clermont, “what shall we do? What can we do?”

Isabella did not speak. She could only hear the chanting voices, taking the terrible Oath; she saw the man beside her—the man she had married—his eyes aflame, his sword in his hand, swearing to serve the Inquisition, to torture and murder—yes, murder—Jeanne of Navarre because she was a heretic.

At length her voice sounded in her ears, firm and ringing, so that she did not recognize it. “It must not be.”

“No!” cried Clermont excitedly. “No, your Highness. It must not be. But what can we do?”

What could she do—she the little Queen, the petted darling? Could she go to Philip and beg him not to do this thing? It would be useless, for she would not be pleading with the indulgent husband; it was that man with the eyes of flame and the sword in his hand who had decided the fate of Jeanne of Navarre.

It would be so easy to weep, to shudder, to try to forget. She had been her mother’s creature, now she was Philip’s.

But she would not be. She was herself—Isabella, kinswoman of the noble Jeanne; for noble she was, heretic though she might be.

So she said again: “It must not be.” And then: “It shall not be.”

She was going to fight this evil. She was going to pit her wits against Philip, against the Inquisition. She did not care what happened to her. She was going to do everything in her power to save Jeanne.

How?

It was not impossible. The chief conspirator was for the time being a victim of his accident. It would, she gathered, be some days before he could set about his diabolical work.

She said: “We have a few days’ start of him.”

“Yes, Highness. But what shall we do?”

“It is simple. We must see that she is warned.”

“How?”

“By sending a messenger into Navarre.”

“Dearest lady, this is dangerous. Can you send such a messenger?”

“I have my servants.”

“They are the servants of his Majesty.”

Isabella was silent, and Clermont, her face suddenly very grave, went on: “If you do this, you are working against the King your husband.”

Isabella answered: “I know it.” Her young face hardened suddenly with resolution. “And I will do it,” she said.

She was no one’s creature now. She was indeed herself; and so should it be to the end of her days.

But who could help her? Whom could she trust?

There was one who would do all in his power to please her, one who would keep her secret from Philip.

She had begun to realize how loyal all these people of the court were to their King. There was only one of them who would go against him.

Don Juan, Alexander, Garcia, the young Austrian Princes, Ruy, and all the courtiers and statesmen could not be trusted. She knew that if she told them of her need they might agree to help her or not, but they would all consider it their duty to lay their knowledge before the King.

If she asked one of her grooms to take a message to Navarre, how could she be sure that he would obey her in what must surely be done in disobedience to the King? Surely, they would reason, if she wished to send a message to her kinswoman she should not have to do it in secret unless it was against the wishes of the King.

There was one alternative, and however unwise it might be she must take it. She must warn Jeanne.

Carlos had lately been collecting horses. She knew that he had been making wild plans to escape from Spain to France or Austria, taking with him one or two of his attendants, whom he believed he could trust. He was constantly sending away horses from his stables and bringing in new ones. There were a few men who would be faithful to the Prince, for even if they did not love and respect him, they believed that he would one day come to the throne.

Yes, Carlos had it in his power to help her now; and there was no one else whom she could trust.

She sought him out and told him that she wished to speak to him privately; she asked if he would take a walk with her in the gardens.

When they were safe from eavesdroppers, she said: “Carlos, I want your help. I need it badly.”

Carlos was delighted.

“I will do anything,” he assured her. “You have but to ask me.”

“I must have horses and riders. Perhaps two horses and two trusty men. You will not betray me, Carlos?”

“Dearest Isabella, they could torture me on the chevalet and I would never betray you.”

“I knew it, Carlos. God bless you. You are my friend.”

“You never had a truer friend, Isabella.”

“Then promise you will be calm, for we need calmness.”

“I will be calm. Look at me, Isabella. See how calm I am.”

“Yes, Carlos, I see. I should not burden you with this, but I can trust no one else. The King must not know.”

Now Carlos was eager. He had a secret with Isabella, and Philip was shut out. This was one of his happiest dreams come true.

“I have to get a message to my aunt, the Queen of Navarre. She must be warned to leave Navarre at once and ride to Paris, and she must take her son with her, for there is a plan to capture her and hand her to the Inquisition.”

Carlos’s eyes gleamed. “My father plans that,” he said. “He is angry because the French do not fight the Huguenots as he would have them do. Isabella, shall we fight with the Huguenots? Are we heretics, then?”

“Nay, Carlos. It is not that. We are good Catholics. But she is my dear kinswoman and I cannot bear to think of them torturing her. It makes me so unhappy. Perhaps I am a bad Catholic, but when I see strangers hurt I become desperately unhappy, and I would rather die myself than see my aunt taken. I would risk God’s displeasure if need be.”

“We will defy them all, Isabella.”

“Carlos, you have the horses. Will you help me to get a message to her?”

“At once. Oh, Isabella, thank you … thank you for making me so happy. We will send two riders and each shall take a different route. I would I could go myself … Then you would see what I would do for you.”

“I see it now, Carlos.”

“I can send riders whom none will miss. I … I … You see …” He began to laugh suddenly and wildly.

“Carlos,” she begged, “do not laugh like that. You will spoil everything. Be calm and clever as you have been.”

He was silent at once. “I will be calm and clever. And I will be happy because in this we are together … you and I, Isabella … against Philip.”

She shivered, and, gripping her arms, he looked up into her face and cried: “I am happy … happy … happy, Isabella. I am happy tonight.”

He looked sane now, and almost handsome. She wanted to weep, not only for his madness, but for that other madness which made men delight in torturing each other.