In spite of her ill-health, she was still determined to give Philip a son.

Carlos was mad and must never be allowed to rule Spain. She traced this new and greater wildness in him to their adventure together when she had asked his help for Jeanne of Navarre, for again and again he would refer to his sympathy with heretics, and continually he spoke of her, the Queen.

Her secret weighed heavily upon her; she was remorseful, yet she knew that, could she have that time over again, she would act in exactly the same way.

Philip, absorbed in state duties, moodily occupied with thoughts of Carlos, did not notice the sad preoccupation of Isabella. Always with him she was the charming and obedient wife; and although he knew that he did not possess her passionate devotion, for which he longed, he still believed that one day it might be his.

Isabella spent much time at Pastrana in the Palace of the Prince and Princess of Eboli. She found great comfort in the companionship of Ruy and his wife. Ruy, in particular, understood something of the conflict within her and he knew that it concerned Carlos.

On one occasion he reminded her of the conversation they had had before the birth of her daughter. He knew, and the Princess his wife knew, that it would be unsafe for her to bear more children.

“This problem will have to be faced by Philip and the Council,” Ruy said to her. “Carlos cannot rule; but you and the King have two daughters. It may well be that Isabel Clara Eugenie will make as great a Queen as her forbear, the great Isabella.”

“What would Carlos feel if he were replaced by a girl?” she asked.

Ruy said: “Your Majesty must forgive my forwardness. If I speak to you as a father, that is because I am old enough to fill that role and because of my great regard for you. Let your task be to comfort Philip, to preserve your strength for this great work. You have given him two daughters. Let that suffice.”

She gave him her sweetest smile.

“I thank you, my Prince, for your advice, but I would not take it if I could. Very soon I hope my son will be born.”

Both Ruy and his wife were sad to hear this news that once again she was to have a child.

Carlos had decided to wait no longer. His father hated him. He had been born for one purpose, and he was now going to fulfill it. He was going to kill his father.

It had been such a wonderful dream: to raise the dagger and thrust it into the black velvet doublet, to watch the dull red stain on black velvet and diamonds, to see the pale eyes glaze in anguish—but not before Philip had looked into the face of the murderer and known him for his son.

Afterward he would ride away—perhaps to France, perhaps to Austria. But he would not long stay away from Spain; he would come back … for Isabella.

He kept his secret, planning cunningly. It would have to be a moment when he was alone with his father, for there must be none to protect Philip. He, Carlos, would be subdued; he would mislead Philip.

“Father,” he would say, “I will reform. I swear I will.”

And when Philip came close to lay a hand on his shoulder, to speak of his pleasure in his son’s calmness—then would come the quick uplift of the arm, the deep thrust, and blood … blood … the blood of Philip.

He had arranged for horses which would carry him away from the palace. He had told Juan and Garcia that he would need horses; he had ordered both of them to procure horses for him.

The idea of confession occurred to him. He had taken great pleasure in the confessional, for when he confessed it was as though he lived through exciting experiences again.

He did not intend to confess his plan to murder, but there was that about Fray Diego de Chaves which drew his innermost thoughts from him.

When he said: “What have you to confess this day, my son?” Carlos’s hot tongue licked his lips. He was obsessed with the great sin of patricide, but in the solemnity of the confessional box he was suddenly afraid. He was going to commit murder, but he told himself that it was a judicial murder. He was going to do something which, all his life, he had longed to do. But he wanted absolution. He did not want to burn in hell for committing a murder which was no ordinary murder.

So he would demand absolution, and this poor priest would not dare deny him, nor would he dare betray him.

He said: “I am going to kill a man, and I wish for absolution.”

“My son! You plan murder and you ask forgiveness! You know that cannot be.”

“It must be!” screamed Carlos. “It must be.”

“Murder, my son, is a mortal sin. You plan to commit it, and ask for absolution beforehand. Think what you say.”

“It is possible. I am the Prince.”

“Sir, there is One higher than all the princes of this world.”

“Then He will forgive me when He knows what a wicked man I intend to kill.”

Fray Diego prayed that he would be able to deal adequately with this new phase of madness. He said: “What plot is this? I must know before I can grant absolution.”

“It is a person of very high rank whom I shall kill.”

“It would be necessary for me to know the name of this person and any of those who plot with you.”

“None plot with me. I plot alone. Come, man. Grant absolution or I will run my sword through your miserable body.”

“I must know the name of this person of high rank.”

“You shall. His name is Philip, and he is King of Spain!”

The excitement was too much for Carlos; he fell to the ground in a fit.

The priest called for help and dispatched a messenger to the King.

Carlos was in his apartments. He was sullen, would speak to no one, and all that day he had eaten nothing. He could not remember what he had said to the priest.

He lay on his bed. Beneath the coverlet he had hidden two swords. They were naked, ready for use. Beneath his pillow were two loaded pistols. He was trembling with excitement. But what had he said to the priest?

He heard voices in the antechamber. With one hand he grasped a sword; with his chin he felt for the pistols.

The door opened unceremoniously and several men entered the room. Among them Carlos recognized the Count of Feria.

He struggled up. “How dare you break in on me thus!” he cried. “Why do you come? Men-at-arms … here! The Prince commands you. Arrest these intruders.”

There were several men about his bed then, and with a sudden movement Feria had stepped forward and stripped off the coverlet. Before Carlos could cry out, he had seized the two swords. Carlos’s hands went at once to the pistols, but one of the men was quicker than he was. He seized the Prince’s wrists while another took the pistols from under his pillow.

“How … dare you!” sobbed Carlos. “You forget … I am the son of the King.”

At that moment there was a brief hush as Philip himself entered the chamber. He stood at the end of the bed, and in the candlelight father and son gazed at each other. Carlos thought he had never seen such a cruel face, never looked into such cold eyes. He was very frightened; for he knew that at last he had gone too far.

“What … what does your Majesty want?” he stammered.

“Close all doors,” said Philip.

This was done, and now Carlos saw that the room was filled with men and that the Count of Feria had taken up his stand on the King’s right hand.

Carlos was trembling. He knew that the doom which he had always dreaded was upon him.

The King did not speak to his son. He addressed the assembly. “I place the Prince, Don Carlos, in your hands,” he said. “Guard him well. Do nothing that he commands without first consulting me. Keep him a close prisoner.”

“Why?” cried Carlos. “What have I done? I have not killed you. I have been betrayed. You cannot treat me thus … You cannot.”

“I have nothing more to say,” answered Philip; and he turned away.

Carlos knelt on the bed. “Father,” he pleaded. “I beg of you … do not make me a prisoner. Let me go free. I shall kill myself if I am a prisoner.”

“Only madmen kill themselves,” said Philip sternly.

“I am not mad. I am only sad … sad and desperately unhappy. I always have been. Nobody loves me except … except … But those who love me are kept from me. But that does not alter their love. I am there … whether you wish it or not. I am there between you. I am young, King Philip, and you are old. I shall kill somebody … even if it is myself …”

Philip was at the door. He had made up his mind how he would act, and the councillors of state had agreed with his actions. The matter was finished.

Windows were fastened; doors were locked; and guards placed inside and outside the apartment.

Don Carlos was indeed his father’s prisoner.

Carlos lived in his own dark world, lying on his bed for days, speaking to no one, rising in sudden frenzy and throwing himself against the walls of his room, refusing to eat for days at a time, then demanding a feast and eating so ravenously that he was ill.

What was to become of Carlos?

While Carlos lived there could be no peace of mind for Philip. The Prince was well guarded, but escape from a prison such as his was not impossible. What if he found his way to Philip and committed the crime he had planned? What if, Philip dead, he called himself King of Spain? Who could deny his right to the title?

Philip thought: I, who would give my life to my country, have given it a monster.

To whom could he speak of such a matter? To Isabella? She was frail, wraithlike; he trembled to look at her. She seemed aloof from him; he wondered what rumors she had heard.

“Philip,” she said, “could I not see Carlos?”