In another moment furious confusion filled the hall.  From every side at once rose women’s cries, and the deep shouts of angry men, and high, clear yells of rage and hate.  The men pushed past the ladies of the court to the front, and some came singly, but a serried rank moved up from behind, pushing the others before them.

“Kill him!  Kill him at the King’s feet!  Kill him where he stands!”

And suddenly something made blue flashes of light high over the heads of all; a rapier was out and wheeled in quick circles from a pliant wrist.  An officer of Mendoza’s guard had drawn it, and a dozen more were in the air in an instant, and then daggers by scores, keen, short, and strong, held high at arm’s length, each shaking with the fury of the hand that held it.

“Sangre!  Sangre!”

Some one had screamed out the wild cry of the Spanish soldiers—­’Blood!  Blood!’—­and the young men took it up in a mad yell, as they pushed forwards furiously, while the few who stood in front tried to keep a space open round the King and Mendoza.

The old man never winced, and disdained to turn his head, though he heard the cry of death behind him, and the quick, soft sound of daggers drawn from leathern sheaths, and the pressing of men who would be upon him in another moment to tear him limb from limb with their knives.

Tall old Ruy Gomez had stepped forwards to stem the tide of death, and beside him the English Ambassador, quietly determined to see fair play or to be hurt himself in preventing murder.

“Back!” thundered Ruy Gomez, in a voice that was heard.  “Back, I say!  Are you gentlemen of Spain, or are you executioners yourselves that you would take this man’s blood?  Stand back!”

“Sangre!  Sangre!” echoed the hall.

“Then take mine first!” shouted the brave old Prince, spreading his short cloak out behind him with his hands to cover Mendoza more completely.

But still the crowd of splendid young nobles surged up to him, and back a little, out of sheer respect for his station and his old age, and forwards again, dagger in hand, with blazing eyes.

“Sangre!  Sangre!  Sangre!” they cried, blind with fury.

But meanwhile, the guards filed in, for the prudent Perez had hastened to throw wide the doors and summon them.  Weapons in hand and ready, they formed a square round the King and Mendoza and Ruy Gomez, and at the sight of their steel caps and breastplates and long-tasselled halberds, the yells of the courtiers subsided a little and turned to deep curses and execrations and oaths of vengeance.  A high voice pierced the low roar, keen and cutting as a knife, but no one knew whose it was, and Philip almost reeled as he heard the words.

“Remember Don Carlos!  Don John of Austria is gone to join Don Carlos and Queen Isabel!”

Again a deadly silence fell upon the multitude, and the King leaned on Perez’ arm.  Some woman’s hate had bared the truth in a flash, and there were hundreds of hands in the hall that were ready to take his life instead of Mendoza’s; and he knew it, and was afraid.