was bidding
me clearly see to it that he died immediately.

I sat down and wrote at once, and the burden of my letter was: "Be more
explicit, Sire. What manner of dispatch is it your will that Escovedo
should be given?"

On the morrow, which was Thursday of Holy Week, that note of mine
was returned to me, and on the margin of it, in Philip's own hand,
Escovedo's death-warrant. "I mean that it would be well to hasten the
death of this rascal before some act of his should render it too late;
for he never rests, nor will anything turn him from his usual ways. Do
it, then, and do it quickly, before he kills us."

There was no more to be said. My instructions were clear and definite.
Obedience alone remained. I went about it.

Just as all my life I have been blessed with the staunchest friends, so
have I, too, been blessed with the most faithful servants. And of these
none was more faithful than my steward, Diego Martinez, unless, indeed,
it be my equerry, Gil de Mesa, who to this day follows my evil fortunes.
But Mesa at that time was as yet untried, whilst in Diego I knew that I
had a man devoted to me heart and soul, a man who would allow himself to
be torn limb from limb on the rack on my behalf.

I placed the affair in Diego's hands. I told him that I was acting
under orders from the King, and that the thing at issue was the private
execution of a dangerous traitor, who could not be brought to trial lest
there he should impeach of complicity one whose birth and blood must be
shielded from all scandal. I bade him get what men he required, and see
the thing done with the least possible delay. And thereupon I instantly
withdrew from Madrid and went to Alcala.

Diego engaged five men to assist him in the task; these were a young
officer named Enriquez, a lackey named Rubio, the two Aragonese--Mesa
and Insausti--and another whose name was Bosque. He clearly meant to
take no chances, but I incline to think that he overdid precaution, and
employed more hands than were necessary for the job. However, the six of
them lurked in waiting on three successive nights for Escovedo near his
house in the little square of Santiago. At last, on the night of Easter
Monday, March 31st, they caught him and dispatched him. He died almost
before he realized himself beset, from a sword-thrust with which
Insausti transfixed him. But there were at least half a dozen wounds in
the body when it was found. Diego, I have said, was a man who made