In the Palace of the King | Page 6

of the wintry day in
an instant. Dolores stood motionless before the window, undazzled,
like a statue of ivory and gold in a stone niche. With the light, as the
advancing procession sent the people before it, the trumpets rang high
and clear again, and the bright breastplates of the trumpeters gleamed
like dancing fire before the lofty standard that swayed with the slow
pace of its bearer's horse. Brighter and nearer came the colours, the
blazing armour, the standard, the gorgeous procession of victorious
men-at-arms; louder and louder blew the trumpets, higher and higher
the clouds were lifted from the lowering sun. Half the people of Madrid
went before, the rest flocked behind, all cheering or singing or shouting.
The stream of colour and light became a river, the river a flood, and in
the high tide of a young victor's glory Don John of Austria rode onward
to the palace gate. The mounted trumpeters parted to each side before
him, and the standard-bearer ranged his horse to the left, opposite the
banner of the King, which held the right, and Don John, on a grey Arab
mare, stood out alone at the head of his men, saluting his royal brother
with lowered sword and bent head. A final blast from the trumpets
sounded full and high, and again and again the shout of the great throng
went up like thunder and echoed from the palace walls, as King Philip,
in his balcony above the gate, returned the salute with his hand, and
bent a little forward over the stone railing.
Dolores de Mendoza forgot her father and all that he might say, and
stood at the open window, looking down. She had dreamed of this
moment; she had seen visions of it in the daytime; she had told herself

again and again what it would be, how it must be; but the reality was
beyond her dreams and her visions and her imaginings, for she had to
the full what few women have in any century, and what few have ever
had in the blush of maidenhood,--the sight of the man she loved, and
who loved her with all his heart, coming home in triumph from a
hard-fought war, himself the leader and the victor, himself in youth's
first spring, the young idol of a warlike nation, and the centre of
military glory.
When he had saluted the King he sat still a moment on his horse and
looked upward, as if unconsciously drawn by the eyes that, of all others,
welcomed him at that moment; and his own met them instantly and
smiled, though his face betrayed nothing. But old Mendoza, motionless
in his saddle, followed the look, and saw; and although he would have
praised the young leader with the best of his friends, and would have
fought under him and for him as well as the bravest, yet at that moment
he would gladly have seen Don John of Austria fall dead from his horse
before his eyes.
Don John dismounted without haste, and advanced to the gate as the
King disappeared from the balcony above. He was of very graceful
figure and bearing, not short, but looking taller than he really was by
the perfection of his proportions. The short reddish brown hair grew
close and curling on his small head, but left the forehead high, while it
set off the clear skin and the mobile features. A very small moustache
shaded his lip without hiding the boyish mouth, and at that time he
wore no beard. The lips, indeed, smiled often, and the expression of the
mouth was rather careless and good-humoured than strong. The
strength of the face was in the clean-cut jaw, while its real expression
was in the deep-set, fiery blue eyes, that could turn angry and fierce at
one moment, and tender as a woman's the next.
He wore without exaggeration the military dress of his time,--a
beautifully chiselled corslet inlaid with gold, black velvet sleeves, loose
breeches of velvet and silk, so short that they did not descend half way
to the knees, while his legs were covered by tight hose and leather
boots, made like gaiters to clasp from the knee to the ankle and heel.

Over his shoulder hung a short embroidered cloak, and his head
covering was a broad velvet cap, in which were fastened the black and
yellow plumes of the House of Austria.
As he came near to the gate, many friends moved forward to greet him,
and he gave his hand to all, with a frank smile and words of greeting.
But old Mendoza did not dismount nor move his horse a step nearer.
Don John, looking round before he went in, saw the grim face, and
waved his hand to Dolores' father; but