Without waiting for an attack he made a furious pass at his brother's body.

Don John's hand went out with the sheathed sword in a desperate attempt to parry the thrust, but the weapon was entangled in the belt that hung to it, and Philip's lunge had been strong and quick as lightning.
With a cry of anger Don John fell straight backwards, his feet seeming to slip from under him on the smooth marble pavement, and with his fall, as he threw out his hands to save himself, the sword flew high into the air, sheathed as it was, and landed far away.

He lay at full length with one arm stretched out, and for a moment the hand twitched in quick spasms.

Then it was quite still.
At his feet stood Philip, his rapier in his hand, and blood on its fine point.

His eyes shone yellow in the candlelight, his jaw had dropped a little, and he bent forwards, looking intently at the still, white face.
He had longed for that moment ever since he had entered his brother's room, though even he himself had not guessed that he wanted his brother's life.