A single woman's shriek rang out first, long, ear-piercing, agonized, and then, without warning, a cry went up such as the old hall had never heard before.

It was a bad cry to hear, for it clamoured for blood to be shed for blood, and though it was not for him, Philip turned livid and shrank back a step.

But Mendoza stood like a rock, waiting to be taken.
In another moment furious confusion filled the hall.

From every side at once rose women's cries, and the deep shouts of angry men, and high, clear yells of rage and hate.

The men pushed past the ladies of the court to the front, and some came singly, but a serried rank moved up from behind, pushing the others before them.
"Kill him! Kill him at the King's feet! Kill him where he stands!" And suddenly something made blue flashes of light high over the heads of all; a rapier was out and wheeled in quick circles from a pliant wrist.
An officer of Mendoza's guard had drawn it, and a dozen more were in the air in an instant, and then daggers by scores, keen, short, and strong, held high at arm's length, each shaking with the fury of the hand that held it.
"Sangre! Sangre!" Some one had screamed out the wild cry of the Spanish soldiers--'Blood! Blood!'-- and the young men took it up in a mad yell, as they pushed forwards furiously, while the few who stood in front tried to keep a space open round the King and Mendoza.
The old man never winced, and disdained to turn his head, though he heard the cry of death behind him, and the quick, soft sound of daggers drawn from leathern sheaths, and the pressing of men who would be upon him in another moment to tear him limb from limb with their knives.
Tall old Ruy Gomez had stepped forwards to stem the tide of death, and beside him the English Ambassador, quietly determined to see fair play or to be hurt himself in preventing murder.
"Back!" thundered Ruy Gomez, in a voice that was heard.