He sat up in bed. It was very quiet and must be past midnight. His heart was beating very fast, but he was not afraid.

She would be in that room still, he knew, for he had heard that she rarely went to bed. She sat in her chair and slept at any time of the day or the night; and sometimes she lay on the floor.

If he tiptoed out of his apartment and went along the corridors he would come to that room. He knew the way, because he had noted it carefully.

Cautiously he got out of bed and tiptoed to the door. He could hear the rhythmic breathing of his attendants. They were all fast asleep.

He was in the corridor, clutching about him the cloak he had picked up as he had got out of bed. Along the corridors he went, creeping cautiously past the sleeping guards. Outside the door of his great-grandmother’s room were two men-at-arms. They were slumped on stools and both were fast asleep. Quickly Carlos slipped past them and into the room.

The candles were still burning and she was in her chair, sitting there just as he had seen her when he had entered this room with his father. He shut the door very quietly.

She moved in her chair. “Who is there?” she croaked.

“Carlos,” he whispered. “The little one.”

He limped across the room.

“You limp, little one,” she said. “Philip limped at times. It was one of the joints in his knees.” She spoke in whispers, as though she realized the need for quietness. “That did not stop his running after the women, though.”

“Did it not?” said Carlos.

“Sit at my feet.”

He sat, and she let her fingers run through his hair.

“He had thick hair,” she said. “Ripples and curls. He was the loveliest man in the world. Who are you? You’re not Philip.”

“He is Carlos, this little one. Philip is his father.”

“Carlos … Not that Carlos! Not my son. Not Caesar.”

“No … no. I am your great-grandson. The son of Philip.”

“My Carlos took him from me … He took my Philip. He said: ‘My Mother, you cannot keep a dead body with you forever. I must take him away for decent burial.’ But my Philip was not dead. I would sit by the coffin and I would have it open … and I would kiss his lips … He could not escape me then. He could not run to other women then.”

“The Emperor who took your Philip away is this little one’s grandfather. There is another Philip now. He is this little one’s father. Carlos hates that Philip. He hopes he will soon die.”

“Your Philip, Carlos? Your Philip. He is not my Philip. They said I must marry my Philip and I wept and I stormed. I could weep and storm, little Carlos. Oh … I could. And my father … Great Ferdinand … the King of Aragon … he said I was mad when it was good for me to be mad … Good for me … Who cared for me? It was good for him that I should be mad … and sometimes it was good that I should be sane … Mad … sane … mad … sane …”

“They look at Carlos as though he is mad.”

“Mad … sane … mad … sane,” she murmured.

“You hated your Philip, did you not?” asked Carlos.

“Hated because I loved … loved because I hated. I sat by the coffin. I’d take off the lid and kiss him … fondle him … I said: ‘You cannot leave me now, Philip. Where are your women now?’ Ha … ha …”

Carlos joined in her laughter, then held up his fingers to his lips to remind her of the need for quiet.

“I would let no woman come near the coffin,” she murmured.

“Why not?”

“I could not trust him. He was full of cunning. I thought he might slip out … I could not keep him from women. Could death?”

“Could death?” asked Carlos.

“They have taken him from me … Carlos …”

“Not this Carlos. The other one … the father of my father. Not this Carlos. He loves you. This little one is your friend.”

“This is my friend, this little one.”

“He wants to bring his Aunt Juana here and live with you forever.”

“Carlos … you will live with me here, then?”

“Yes … yes … When Philip goes to England, Carlos will run away … he will come to you …”

“They wished to send me to England.”

“No, no … It is Philip who goes to England.”

“They said the King of England cannot marry a mad woman. I was mad then, you see, little one. Mad … sane … mad … sane … Mad! They said the King of England did not mind insanity. Insanity did not stop the bearing of children … So said the English …”

“The father of Carlos is going to England. He is to marry the Queen.”

“Henry Tudor wished to marry me. King Henry the Seventh of England. They said he was such a good man that he would make me sane again … mad … sane … mad … Sane!”

“Great-grandmother, you must not laugh so. They will hear, and send Carlos away from you.”

“They poisoned him, you know.”

“Whom did they poison, Great-grandmother?”

“My Philip. My father sent his agents to poison my Philip.”

“Then you hate your father. Carlos hates his father too.”

“It was after a banquet that he died. They said it was a fever … but I know what it was.”

“Poison!” cried Carlos.

“I stayed by his side and none could move me from him. And when they said he was dead, I had him set upon a catafalque covered in cloth of gold, the color of his hair. I wrapped him in brocade and ermine. I sat beside him … through the days and nights. They could not tear me from him. Do you know who did it?”

“Your father? And you hate him?”

“My father’s friend and counselor. What was his name? I forget it. He was an Aragonese gentleman. I know! It was Mosen Ferer. He was a wicked man. They set him in charge of me … He said I was a heretic and he tortured me.”

“Tortured you! Tell Carlos.”

“Oh … torture … torture …”Her mouth twitched and she began to cry. “They told me they must save my soul.” She was silent for a while; then she began to mutter under her breath: “Mad … sane … sane … mad. Carlos … Carlos … are you there, little one?”

“Carlos is here,” whispered Carlos.

“Never … never let people make you do what they want, little one.”

“No!” breathed Carlos. “No.”

“Love that is hate … and hate that is love … mad that is sane and sane that is mad … My Philip was the handsomest man in the world. I would have a throne made for him and I would set him on it. I would sit at his feet and he would be my prisoner. I would never have women near him. I never will, Carlos … never … never … None save my washerwoman. She is ugly. He would not care for her. Carlos … come near to me and I will tell you something.”

“Yes … yes? Carlos is near you.”

“The whole world is mad, Carlos, and only you and I are sane …”

He looked wonderingly into her face, but she had closed her eyes suddenly; he watched the tears running down her cheeks; he thought that they were like rivers pushing their way through the soil.

There was silence in the room. One of the candles had gone out. He put his head against her ill-smelling gown, but he did not mind the smell. He was excited because he and she were the only sane people in a mad world.

“Great-grandmother,” he whispered; but she did not answer; the effort of talking so much had tired her and she had fallen asleep.

He sat there for a long time. He did not want to leave her. He and she had much to say to each other; but after a while he, too, fell asleep; and he lay against her, keeping his hand in hers.

The guards looked in, as they did periodically, to see that all was well.

She awoke and immediately was aware of the boy on the stool at her feet. There was queenly dignity in her voice as she said: “Don Carlos visited me. We talked and he grew tired. Carry him back to his apartments and carry him gently. Do not wake him. He is but a child.”

And the guards, who were never surprised at what she might do or say, bowed low, and one of them picked up the sleeping boy and with him went quietly out of the room.

The next day the brilliant cavalcade set out on its journey to the coast.

Carlos, riding beside his father, hated him more than ever. Carlos did not want to ride with his father; he wished to stay with his great-grandmother in Tordesillas. But he was quieter than usual and he did not make his wishes known. He believed that his father was going among savages who—if he managed to survive the terrible sea journey—would make short work of him.

At Santiago de Compostella, the procession halted. There they must stay for several days that Philip might pay his respectful devotion at the shrine of St. James, the tutelar saint of Spain. There were always many pilgrims gathered in this city, but on this occasion their numbers were increased on account of the royal visit.

The sojourn in this town was devoted to religious ceremonies, which were a change after the tourneys and bullfights which they had had to witness at Astorga and Benavente.

Here they met the envoys from England.

When Philip received them, his friends and followers were astonished by the change in him. It was as though he had found a lifelike mask which he had put over his severe features. He smiled at these Englishmen; he greeted them with warmth; and those of his friends who were not amazed were jealous.

“See,” they said to one another, “what smiles he has for these English! When has he ever given us such smiles?”

Only Ruy seemed to understand and, when they were alone, congratulated him on a masterly performance.

When Philip had given every Englishman in the Duke of Bedford’s embassy a costly present, the party began the thirty miles’ journey to Corunna.

A wonderful sight greeted them in the harbor there. A great armada had assembled to escort Philip to England, and protect him if need be from the French King’s fleet; for that monarch would doubtless do his best to prevent Philip’s arrival in England, as he was hoping to secure the English throne for his daughter-in-law, Mary Queen of Scots.