It was the King who had drawn his own, then, and had killed his unarmed brother.

She felt as if something heavy were striking her head as the thoughts made broken words, and flashes of light danced before her eyes.

With her hands she tried to press feeling and reason and silence back into her brain that would not be quieted, but the certainty grew upon her that Don John was killed, and the tide of despair rose higher with every breath.
The sensation came upon her that she was dying, then and there, of a pain human nature could not endure, far beyond the torments Philip had threatened, and the thought was merciful, for she could not have lived an hour in such agony,--something would have broken before then.

She was dying, there, on her knees before the door beyond which her lover lay suddenly dead.

It would be easy to die.