Front matter (continued 8)

It was my Lord Chamberlain, fast feeling himself falling before the wolves of faction, who urged the King to sacrifice even this to those great designs to which he had given his life—it was Sunderland who put the needs of Republic before him as he had after the Queen's death; and William had again responded, even out of the depths of agony.

But as the day approached for the departure of those Guards who had been with him since he had first marched out of The Hague against the French, whom he had led again and again in battle, who kept watch every night while he slept, who were devoted to him—not as the King of England, but as William of Orange—as the time drew near for him to say farewell to his friend de Ginckle and Monsieur de Schomberg, as he received daily the petitions of the poor French who had fought for him loyally, and to whom he had promised his protection, his spirit gave way. He made the last sacrifice of his pride, and he who had dealt haughtily with kings wrote a request in his own hand humbly asking the Parliament, as a personal favour to himself, to allow him to retain the Dutch Guards.

He sent the message down to the House by Lord Ranelagh, his Master of the Horse; and now, in his little cabinet at Kensington that had seen so many vigils of toil and sorrow, awaited the answer of the Commons.

Before him lay the draft of the message he had sent—

"His Majesty is pleased to let the House know that the necessary preparations are made for transporting the Guards who came with him into England, unless, out of consideration to him, the House is disposed to find some way of continuing them longer in his service, which His Majesty would take very kindly."

To this humility had William of Orange stooped; beneath this paper was another, half hidden by it—the farewell speech he had drawn up. His own words flashed up at him in his own impetuous handwriting: "Feeling that you have so little regard to my advice, that you take no manner of care of your own security, and that you expose yourselves to evident ruin by divesting yourselves of the only means of defence, it would not be just or reasonable that I should be witness of your ruin."

If he could but go down to the House and cast that at them—leave England, and die peacefully in Holland!

But Sunderland was right; he must endure even this for the sake of the Republic—and surely, even such as Harley could not refuse his personal appeal.

In his agitation and impatience he began pacing up and down the narrow room. He was in wretched health; night after night he could not sleep for grief and mortification; his headaches, his fainting-fits were frequent and terrible; even this gentle walking to and fro soon exhausted him; he sank into the window-seat coughing and holding his side, where his heart was beating with a dragging pain.

Soon inaction became intolerable; he rose, nearly struck the bell to summon M. Zulestein or M. Auverquerque, hesitated, did not, left the cabinet and his own apartments, and came out into the sunny quiet galleries of the palace.

Deep in thought, he walked slowly, with bent head and his hands clasped behind him under the full skirts of his brocade coat, when a sudden sound of voices caused him to look up.

He was in the empty antechamber leading to the King's gallery, the door of which was half open; it was from behind it that the voices came; one of them, very clear, serene, and beautiful in tone, was speaking as the King paused; the words came very levelly and distinctly—

"He actually asked it as a favour, you say? And of course they will refuse. I should have thought that the little upstart would have known by now that we ain't to be lorded by foreigners."

The King stepped back with an instinctive shock, as if he had put his foot on a sword. He knew the voice to be that of the man whom he most despised and loathed—John Churchill, my Lord of Marlborough. Though he was very well aware how he was traduced, lampooned, slandered, and abused behind his back, he had never heard himself referred to in these cool terms of contempt; though he knew these things were said, he had never actually figured what it would be to overhear them.

The blood rushed to his heart and lay there like a weight. He was of a family that had given an Emperor to the West five hundred years ago, and John Churchill was scarce of gentle blood and had climbed on infamy. The King's right hand crossed over to his sword hilt. The beautiful, insolent voice began again. William instantly pushed open the door and entered the long gallery.

At once silence fell. There were two men, Marlborough and Torrington, near the first window, and a small, weary, anxious-eyed and forlorn-looking child seated near them on a purple stool, making paper boats.

Torrington went scarlet at sight of the King, but Marlborough swept a graceful bow, without the least change in his composure. William looked at him steadily. He could have sent him to the block—not once, but many times, yet he had spared him even the humiliation of a pardon in affecting to ignore his treasons. It was curious to him to look at this man—young, splendid in towering strength and opulent beauty, rich, prosperous, advancing from power to power, infamous, heartless, conscienceless, the man who would be ruling England very shortly now, and in whose hands would rest the completion or the ruin of the task to which he, the King, had given his life.

Torrington, fearful lest William had overheard, made some stumbling remark about their presence. The King seated himself on the window-seat and coughed.

"Ah yes, I forgot that I was to have a visit from His Highness," he said. He looked languidly at the little Duke of Gloucester, Anne's sole child and heir of England. "Come here, sir," he added kindly, "and tell us of your studies."

The child came obediently and stood by the King's knee, gazing at him with very large eyes that shone as if they had a light behind them and were themselves of crystal. He was about ten, remarkably thin and as pale as wax to his very lips, which were compressed with a painful expression of control; the blue veins showed across his high temples, which were shaded by fine, light auburn hair. He wore a very stiff and heavy suit of crimson and gold, a miniature sword, and the garter under his knee. My lord his governor eyed him with the same kind of interest as a trader feels towards some object which, indifferent as it is to himself, he yet hopes to get a good price for.

William took him gently by the shoulders and drew him closer.

"What are they teaching you, eh?" he asked.

The child answered in a precise, toneless voice—

"I am progressing very well, I thank Your Majesty. The dead languages and mathematics, history, and the philosophy and errors of the ancients, the creation of the world and the feudal system; the Gothic Constitution and the beneficiary law are among my next subjects."

"Doth Your Highness remember all these grave matters?" asked the King, with a faint smile.

"I remember very well, sir, when I have not a headache."

"What gives you headache, Highness?"

The little Duke answered gravely—

"If it were not blasphemy, Your Majesty, I should say that it was acquiring religious knowledge and listening to sermons; but Dr. Burnett says that is a temptation of the devil to induce me to give up my studies."

"Dr. Burnet is making a scholar of you," answered William; "but you are to be a king and a soldier—do not forget that."

A pale colour came into the grave little face.

"Oh, I want to be a soldier. I like the riding-school; but things you like are of the devil, Dr. Burnet saith." He looked anxiously at the King, as if hoping for a contradiction.

"I think that is beyond Dr. Burnet to decide," replied William. "And Your Highness must not let any one speak ill of soldiers—there is nothing better for a man to be. As God hath called you to be a king you will best serve Him by being what you feel a king should be—before all, a brave soldier."

The child gave a short sigh.

"I fear it is a very difficult thing to be a king," he said anxiously.

"Perhaps the most difficult thing in the world," answered William. "But Your Highness will reign in happier times."

"Sometimes," continued the little Duke, frowning painfully, "when my head aches and I cannot remember, and Dr. Burnet is angry with me, and I feel so tired, I wish I did not have to be a king—I wish——" He paused.

"What?" asked William; he put his fine hand delicately over the soft hair.

"That I was in heaven," said the child simply.

"Already!" cried the King. He went very white; he had seen a sudden look of Mary in Mary's sister's child.

The Duke nodded.

"But it is wicked to want to go before God calls you," he said, quoting, obviously, his worthy tutor; "and being tired is a temptation of the devil."

"A strong one," answered the King shortly, and then was silent; it seemed terrible to him that this child should begin where he left off, in utter fatigue and despondency. He put his arm round the fragile little body.

"Highness," he said, "I will give you a troop of Horse, and you shall drill them yourself, and you shall have some hours off your studies for it, and I will come and give you lessons in soldiering."

The little Duke's face flushed and changed in a marvellous fashion; he caught the King's free hand and kissed it passionately.

"But Dr. Burnet——" he faltered instantly.

"God doth not only speak through Dr. Burnet," replied William. "Men and horses are more than paper and ink for all that I could ever see; ay, and dogs and swords more than Greek and Latin. The devil is as likely to be between the pages of a book as out in the open, with the animals whom you might love more than men, so faithful they are. My lord!" he called to Marlborough, who had withdrawn with Torrington, and the magnificent Earl came instantly, with his winning air of deference. "This child is too much closeted," said the King. "Look to it, my lord, that he is more on horseback."

"Dr. Burnet findeth him an apt pupil, sir," responded Marlborough, with the serenity and courtesy of indifference. "And Her Highness is very satisfied."

"But we are not," said William quietly. "It is our intention to give His Highness a troop of Horse." Then he was silent, for he recalled in a flash that his own beloved companions in arms might be taken from him with no more regard than Marlborough would show in taking wooden toys from this child. Perhaps some such thought was in my lord's mind; he smiled and let his fine eyes rest mildly on the King.

The little Duke clung to the voluminous ruffles on the King's breast; his face was scarlet with excitement, and had for the moment lost its premature look of wisdom and anxiety.

"When you next go to Flanders may I come too?" he whispered.

"Why, this is peace, Highness," smiled William.

"But there will be war again, will there not, sir?"

"God forbid," answered the King solemnly, "for we have utterly disarmed ourselves."

Seeing him so suddenly grave the Duke was silent, and the old look of wonder and question came back into his eyes.

William turned to him again.

"But you will be a great soldier yet; remember me in your first battle, Highness."

The child fondled the King's star, and William, with exquisite tenderness, lifted his long smooth curls of auburn hair, and passed them round his fingers.

"Stewart locks," he murmured, and his voice trembled with the thought of what had been, what might have been, and what could now never be; and another ringlet of this hued hair that lay hidden in his bosom seemed to turn into a dagger that pierced into his heart.

With a great effort he put the child from him and rose.

"Bring His Highness to see us soon, my lord," he said to Marlborough; "and see he learns no lackey's tricks such as the vulgar one of speaking scornfully of your masters in your masters' houses, which faults, like the vile treasons of mean men, are beneath us to punish; but we would not have the child ape these manners."

Marlborough's serene face slightly flushed; he could not, for all his self-command, answer; he bowed very low under the King's straight gaze.

"You will not forget the soldiers, sir?" cried the little Duke anxiously.

"On my honour, no," answered William. "Tell Her Highness I shall soon wait on her."

He bent and kissed the smooth auburn head and then the upturned, grateful, earnest little face.

My lord left with his charge, and Torrington was soon after dismissed; the King remained in the window-seat. After awhile came my Lords Devonshire, Somers, and Dorset, straight from Westminster, looking very gloomy about this business of the breaking of the troops, and after them Lord Ranelagh, back with his answer from the Commons.

The King came forward a step to meet him, and Ranelagh, felt the blood leave his own face as he saw the look that sprang into William's haggard eyes.

He stood silent, and the other lords glanced at each other furtively.

The King put his hand to his heart.

"Why"—he looked round the distressed faces—"why—they have not—refused?"

Ranelagh dropped to one knee.

"Alas, sire," he began, "'twas from the first hopeless.... Harley hath such a hold——"

William interrupted.

"The Commons have refused our request?"

Ranelagh dared not make words about it.

"Yes, sire," he answered, in a broken voice.

"Ah!" exclaimed William. He turned away from all of them, and walked up and down the long shining floor; after a moment or so he paused beside Dorset, and said, in a very curious tone—

"I must get beyond sea—to—to breathe a little."

None of them ventured to speak, and he moved to the window again; there on the seat was the little crumpled paper boat William of Gloucester had been making out of a scrap of his lesson paper.

The King saw it, and a sudden passion kindled in him; he cast his eyes wildly about him, and exclaimed, with the vehemence of agony—

"Had I a son, by God, these Guards should not leave me!"

CHAPTER XII

APATHY

Matthew Prior, secretary to the English Embassy at The Hague, walked in the wonderful gardens at Loo, where the King Stadtholder lived in retreat.

It was early summer of the first year of the new century; there was peace in Europe, prosperity in England and the United Provinces; the work of William of Orange seemed finished indeed; he had dismissed the Parliament that had so insulted and humiliated him without a word, and as soon as it was up had gone into retirement at Loo; he had lost, it seemed, all interest in England, and even in the affairs of Europe. When the death of the infant Electoral Prince had reduced the first Partition Treaty to wastepaper, William had framed another with the Archduke Charles as claimant; the discovery of this had provoked great wrath in England.

Portland, Somers, and Montague had been threatened with impeachment; M. Canales, the Spanish Ambassador, had delivered an impertinent memorial to William, who was now regarded as a powerless cipher in a Parliament-ruled country, and the King had ordered him to be dismissed, and recalled his ambassador from Madrid. As long as Louis kept to the second Partition Treaty—and William could not doubt but that he would keep so grave an undertaking—he cared nothing for what they did in England; he left the government in the hands of a feeble Tory ministry, of which the late Queen's uncle, Lord Rochester, was the head, and, heedless of the complaints and murmurs, remained in retirement at Guelders.

Matthew Prior thought this a sorry end for his hero. This flinging of everything to chance, this cynical indifference, this apathetic calm, seemed a poor conclusion for all that high hope, that serene courage, that long, splendid, patient endeavour, that continuous, glorious action.

He thought sorrowfully that it was now too late. The King was no longer a power in Europe he had been crossed and humbled before all the world, his army had been taken from him, his private grants revoked, his public policy abused, his friends, his ministers, attacked, that Spanish government that in the days of his greatness had humbly offered him the Spanish Netherlands, now dared to insult him; and he was a dying man.

Matthew Prior sighed gloomily as he walked through the formal grounds with their exact parterres, flower-beds, groves, and alleys, their twin fountains and regular groups of trees.

The King had been at dinner when he arrived, and he was waiting his audience with some sinking of the heart; he had not seen William since the peace was proclaimed, three years ago.

It was about three of the clock when he was sent for, and conducted into the large dining-room where the King was still at table.

The Palace, which was one of the most admired in Europe, had been built by William with lavish magnificence on the site of his favourite hunting-box. Mr. Prior, who had seen Versailles, was impressed by the commodious nobility of the apartments through which he passed.

The dining-room was large, lofty, and cool, though filled with the reflected sunlight that shone in the thick trees that shaded the terrace on to which the four tall windows opened. The walls were hung with pictures of the Princes of the House of Orange, wearing armour and holding the baton of authority; above the deep fireplace was a portrait of Queen Mary in red and ermine, clasped with emeralds and pearls.

The whole room was full of the sense of afternoon sun, but was in shade by reason of the trees without; yet here and there the gold light penetrated and lay in glowing patches on walls, floor, and the white lace cloth that covered the long table that occupied the centre of the chamber.

A number of gentlemen sat round this table on velvet-covered stools; the dishes had been removed; the wineglasses and bottles showed pleasantly on the white linen.

At the head of the table sat the King, in a low arm-chair; beside him was a huge white boar-hound, who rested his long head on his master's knee. William's right arm was round this animal, whom he caressed with affectionate movements of his fingers.

Mr. Prior glanced round the company; he knew them all by sight: there was M. Albemarle, seated nearest to the King, N. Ginckel, my Lord Romney, my Lord Wharton, my Lord Pembroke, M. Zulestein, and M. Auverquerque; they were all laughing at something that featherbrain Lord Romney was relating, and most of them were in hunting attire and leant carelessly on the table.

Matthew Prior looked at the King with searching interest.

William was leaning back in a languid attitude, with his black plumed hat pulled over his eyes; he wore a full coat of velvet brocade in a dark purple, with the huge embroidered elbow-cuffs, now fashionable, and under-sleeves of gold tissue; a great quantity of heavy lace fell over his scarlet waistcoat and at his wrists; the long, thick, dark curls of his peruke half concealed the flash of his star.

This extravagant vesture increased the extreme delicacy of his appearance; he seemed sunk and fainting under the weight of velvet, silk, and lace. His face was pale and hollow, his eyes heavy-lidded and deeply shadowed beneath; constant pain had drawn his mobile mouth into an expression of endurance; his cleft chin, usually carried slightly raised, was sunk on his bosom.

Mr. Prior, as he came up to make his bow, noticed that His Majesty's hands were so thin that the diamond ring that he wore on the third finger of the hand that caressed the dog had slipped round till the rose was towards the palm.

He looked at the young secretary without interest.

"From The Hague?" he asked, and his voice was broken to a whisper with his unceasing asthma.

Mr. Prior went on one knee and handed the letter with which he had been charged. William motioned him to put it on the table by the wineglasses.

"Nothing of importance, eh?" he said.

"I think not, sire; it was merely to ask instructions as to how matters were to be arranged with Monsieur Heinsius with regard to the Spanish questions——"

"Let that wait," returned the King indifferently. He leant forward and took up his wineglass. "How do you like our house of Loo, Mr. Prior?"

"I think it worthy of Your Majesty."

"The gardens are at their finest," remarked William languidly.

Mr. Prior rose and awaited commands; but the King seemed to quickly forget his presence, and the other gentlemen took no notice of him at all; most of them were far gone in wine, and William was drinking heavily—a new thing, for he had ever been the most moderate of men and intolerant of excess in others.

The King turned his indifferent gaze on Romney and Wharton, who were arguing together.

"Discussing a Republic for England, my lords?" he asked.

"Something of the kind, sir," said Wharton.

"Well, I will disappoint you yet," answered William. "I will bring King James's son over on you and give you another Stewart king——"

"Why, that is as Your Majesty pleaseth," replied Wharton impudently.

"Or there is Tom of Pembroke," continued William; "there is a good block of wood out of which to chip a king!"

Pembroke raised a heated face at this mention of his name.

"Sir," he cried, leaning down the table towards the King, "my Lord Albemarle telleth me that I was insolent last night."

"So you were—damned insolent," said the King, in his quiet, tired, unmoved voice.

"I could not have been in my senses," said Pembroke, in a slightly maudlin tone.

"Oh, silly," cried the King, "you were drunk as any trooper; but I never mind what a man saith after his tenth bottle."

Romney laughed.

"You'll get more wisdom out of Tom then than when he is sober, sir!"

"And even more folly out of you, Harry," said His Majesty dryly.

He filled his tall glass, and was raising it when he glanced at Albemarle, who was looking at him steadily.

William laughed.

"Are you thinking of the doctors?" he asked.

"Your Majesty will ever disregard their advice," replied the young man, in a moved voice.

The King laughed again, not at all pleasantly or graciously.

"Do you think I would forego even the gratification this affordeth"—he touched the bottle contemptuously—"for years of life?"

He drank the wine, using all the while his left hand, for his right arm was round the boar-hound.

"Dr. Ratcliffe aspired to wit this morning," he said. "'I would not have you cough for your three kingdoms,' he remarked. 'Doctor,' I told him, ''tis the three kingdoms killing me, not the cough.'" He looked round and saw Mr. Prior still standing between the table and the green-gold light of the window.

"Why, Mr. Prior, I play the indifferent host," he murmured. "Join us—take your place——"

Romney and Wharton good-humouredly made way for the young poet, who drew another stool modestly to the table. He was surprised at the easy air of familiarity that reigned; the way these men spoke to the King, and the way in which he accepted it. The three older Dutchmen, Mr. Prior noticed, Mr. Zulestein, M. Auverquerque, and my Lord Athlone, were the gravest of the company; he fancied they were there only out of loyalty to the King.

Albemarle began talking to Wharton; they entered into a lively discussion of their separate racing-stables. The King leant back against the crimson cushions of his chair and turned his head so that he looked out of the window.

Mr. Prior gazed at him; he seemed absorbed in thought. Mr. Prior knew that it was the face of a dying man and a heart-broken man; there was not a line of hope, of peace, or pride in that wan countenance; only the serenity of grief, the apathy of utter weariness—a man worn out, done for, awaiting scornfully an inglorious end. And he had done great things; he had been a light to encourage half the world—a name to rally nations.

"He should have died outside Namur," thought Mr. Prior, and felt the tears smarting against his lids.

He was not deceived by the boon companions, the drinking, the careless talk. He knew that the King cared for none of it, save as a means to hasten death; indeed, the little poet wondered, what had he to live for?—the Queen had gone, then Portland, then the army—his task was finished.

It might have been an hour or more that the King lay back in his chair looking out on the slow-waving, full-leaved boughs, through which the changing sunlight moved; while the noisy talk of the others filled the shadowy spaces of the mellow, lofty room.

Albemarle looked at him often and anxiously, but did not speak.

At last William moved, rousing the sleeping dog.

"I will go into the garden," he said, "before the sun leaves it. I would see those Turkey pears."

Joost van Keppel rose instantly. The King took his arm and got up slowly, coughing with the effort of movement. Mr. Prior was shocked to see that he could not stand alone, but must support himself on Albemarle's young strength.

The others rose, save my Lord Pembroke, who had been asleep this half-hour across the table. The King saw him—an unpleasing spectacle of a stout gentleman with peruke awry and a coarsely red face, breathing heavily through his open mouth, with a wet stain of wine under his cheek and over his cravat.

Mr. Prior expected a burst of anger from the King; but, instead, His Majesty, still holding on to my Lord Albemarle's arm, broke into a long fit of laughter, in which the others joined for no reason at all save their vacant humours.

The poet could not force even a smile. William's unusual and immoderate amusement had a sad sound to him.

Romney and Wharton went to drag Pembroke to his feet, and the King continued laughing.

He was still laughing when an usher and a courier entered the room.

"From England, sire," said the latter, dropping to one knee.

Albemarle sobered instantly. The King ceased laughing and let go my lord's arm, holding himself upright by aid of the table edge.

"Well, what of England?" he muttered. "We have no great interest in England."

"Grave news, Your Majesty," answered the exhausted courier, who had ridden fast from the Hague.

The King took the dispatch and broke it open; it was from Lord Rochester, and contained a few lines written in haste: "His Highness the Duke of Gloucester died suddenly last night of a chill. He desired to be remembered to Your Majesty."

William's hands trembled; the news was serious in so far as it meant that the English succession was now absolutely unsettled. But he was not thinking of that, but of the white, anxious child's face framed in those auburn curls, and the gallant spirit looking out of troubled eyes that had faced the miseries of royalty so bravely.

"My Lord of Gloucester is dead," he said briefly, flinging down the dispatch. "They might have spared their Greek and Latin—poor sweet wretch!" His voice shook a little. "I am glad he had his troop of Horse." Then, during the little pause of consternation that held them all mute, he spoke again: "And I am glad he did not live to be a King."

CHAPTER XIII

FRANCE CHALLENGES

The sentry on duty at the foot of the great staircase in Hampton Court Palace was nearly asleep.

The palace had been silent for hours; ever since he had relieved the soldier before him he had not heard a sound. It was now nearly three o'clock and beginning to be dark on the huge, gloomy stairway, for it was mid-November and a mist had risen all day from the river.

The sentry yawned and then shivered. Wren's palace was neither very cheerful nor very well warmed. The sentry preferred Whitehall, with the noises of the city without and the coming and going of people to the public galleries.

His Majesty was in residence at Hampton Court, but that made little difference. He lived so quietly and saw so few people, that he might, the sentry thought, as well have stayed at Loo. He only came, as was well known, to open Parliament, and the moment it was up he would be off again to Holland—a poor compliment to England; and now there was not the excuse of the campaigns.

The sentry yawned again and stretched himself, after carefully resting his musketoon against the dark wall; then he looked up the stairs, which were painted with great, scrambling, heathen figures that swarmed up to the roof, where they were lost in the fast gathering shadows. He then walked up and down to keep himself warm, and began to wonder how much longer now before he was changed; it was difficult to keep count of the time because he had lost the last chiming of King Henry's great, painted clock.

Presently the door at the head of the stairs opened, very slowly, but with a distinct sound in the perfect silence.

The sentry caught up his musketoon, thinking that this was one of the officers from the guard-room, and peered cautiously up the stairway.

It was, however, a gentleman in private clothes who was slowly closing the door after him with, it seemed, some difficulty.

The sentry, who knew no one had gone up, wondered who it could be. The stairs were so dark that he could distinguish no more than a slight figure, hatless, and wearing a cloak.

There was a moment's pause and silence, then the new-comer began to descend the wide, shadowed stairs, and the sentry knew who it was—there was only one person who moved about the palace with that slow and painful step, and that was the King.

The man drew back, rigid, to his post. He wondered that the King should be coming down the state staircase unattended and on such an inclement day. As he stood, stiff at the salute, he watched the frail figure crawling with dragging pauses through the dusk.

The King had one hand on the heavy balustrade, and, by grasping this, helped himself along. His head was bowed, and he continually paused to cough or gasp for breath, his hesitating and unequal steps began to rasp in the sentry's brain—he wished some one else would come. It seemed an intolerable length of time as the King made his difficult progress from step to step, and the cloaked figure with the bent, hidden face and the one white hand, so thin that every bone in it showed, moving slowly down the baluster, affected the solitary watcher with a sense almost of terror.

As the King approached this terror increased, as if some ghostly or unearthly presence neared. The hall and stairway rapidly darkened, and the King was but a shadow among shadows when he at length reached the last step and stood grasping the post with his left hand and holding his heart with his right.

He stood there so long and so silently that the sentry's sense of discomfort increased, and he felt a strong desire to turn and fly.

Presently the King moved, with difficult, faltering steps, across the hall, and unlatched the door that gave on the courtyard. As he did so, a full ray of ghastly light fell across the obscurity, and the reason of the sudden darkness was explained, for a thin cloud of snow could be seen against the grey masonry of the palace.

The sentry, who knew that it was dangerous for the King to go out save when the weather was very fair, was startled to see him standing there with the chill wind stirring his cloak and the bitter light of the snow on his face. He stepped forward instinctively, but the King did not hear him.

After a few seconds William passed out, and, acting on an irresistible impulse, the sentry followed him.

The King turned to the left under the covered arcade, and, half resting himself on the inner wall, made weary progress, the snow drifting in through the open arches as far as his feet. He was continually so shaken with his cough that he had to pause, and once the sentry caught a short ejaculation of pain.

They had made almost the circuit of the courtyard and had come to another entrance to the palace, when a second sentry crossed their path. William murmured something, passed him without looking back; the soldier stared after him, then caught sight of the other following.

"What is this?" he asked, in a quick whisper.

The sentry explained as best he could. Ought the King to go out alone—to go out this weather at all?—why, he could hardly crawl, and his cough hurt one to hear.

The second sentry only knew that they were to stay at their posts; he advised his companion to go back to his lest the captain discovered. As for the King, it was known that he was not good for long anyhow, and it was no business of theirs.

The other soldier was not so sure; he thought my Lord Albemarle ought to know, at least. The King might easily be murdered by the French or the Jacks, and then they would be blamed.

But by now William had disappeared. The soldiers continued arguing in subdued voices, when they were interrupted by the approach of a slim gentleman in furs and velvet, who came with an easy, graceful step along the arcade. Both the men knew him; he was the great Earl of Sunderland.

His quick eye noticed two soldiers in place of one, and that they were talking. His suspicions, that never lay very deep, were instantly roused, he clapt his hand to his sword and paused.

The man who had followed the King found courage to speak.

"My lord, I humbly ask the pardon of your lordship, but His Majesty hath gone out unattended in this foul weather, and I was bold enough to follow His Majesty, thinking of all the late plots."

"Who are you?" demanded Sunderland.

"May it please your lordship, the sentry at the foot of the state staircase."

My lord narrowed his eyes on the man.

"You were on guard once outside Whitehall on the day the bishops were acquitted. I spoke to you—'God and the King'—you recall, fellow?"

The soldier was silent with astonishment at the memory of my lord; for himself, he recollected very well, but it was marvellous that a great nobleman should remember such an incident during so many years.

Sunderland gave him no time to speak.

"Where did His Majesty go?"

The soldier humbly pointed out the way, and my lord turned on his heel and went rapidly across the dark, snowy courtyard. He had reached the farther court, untouched by Sir Christopher and still of the fashion of the great cardinal and Harry Tudor, before he saw the King ahead of him, a solitary figure in the grey afternoon.

My lord was instantly beside him.

"Sire, I must speak with you, and at once."

William looked round calmly.

"Come to the river—I had a mind to see the river."

Sunderland, standing uncovered, answered with energy and decision—

"Sire, if you have no regard for your own health, consider mine. This weather is death."

William took his arm.

"No, Robert, 'tis the fireside that is death to me—to sit and doze like a sick woman in shawls; but come into the great Hall, where we may be undisturbed. Dr. Burnet is in my apartments with a packet of sermons." He paused to cough, and then added: "As for your news—you are going to offer me your resignation."

"That," said Sunderland, "and something else."

"Important?"

"Of the greatest importance."

They turned back across the courtyard, came to a dark archway, and mounted a few steps to the left of it that led straight into the great banqueting hall of Cardinal Wolsey, that, all dismantled and unfurnished as it was, had the air of a vast, deserted church. It was even colder than the outer air, and only an obscure light filtered through the tall stained-glass windows.

But William liked the place for its very sombreness. He led the way to the room beyond, that was hung with old arras and suits of armour, and lit by an oriel window, brilliant, even now, with coats and emblazonments.

A circular seat ran round this window, and in front of it was a table.

Here the King and his minister seated themselves. William leant back against the stained-glass, he was wrapped in his cloak to the chin, and his face was quite colourless; only his eyes fixed Sunderland with a look clear, vivid, and penetrating as ever.

"So even you are leaving me?" he said.

My lord laid his hat on the table and began to pull off his gloves.

"As to that," he answered, "I am assured that there are a hundred and sixty voices in the House for my impeachment. My friends could not face that. And I am too old, sire, and too tired to brave what I once would have braved."

William nodded.

"I would not ask it of you."

Sunderland detached the Lord Chamberlain's gold key from his crimson waistcoat and placed it on the pale oak table.

"I shall be always at your service—just the same," he said; "but I shall never climb again." He smiled. "This is the sum of it, sire—I have no title that I was not born to, I shall have an impaired estate, a detested memory—but I have lived my life, and I have no regrets—none."

"You take with you my deep thanks and gratitude," responded William, with animation. "I could never have done what I have done but for you. You will remain my friend, if not my minister. What is your other news?"

"Of far greater importance, sire. Of terrible meaning to Your Majesty."

William's eyes flashed. He leant forward.

"To do—with France?" he breathed.

"Yes, sire. The courier from Paris will be here to-night, but the news is all abroad in London now."

The King's hollow cheek flushed.

"Tell me," he commanded.

Sunderland hesitated; it was not easy to tell a great statesman that he had been duped, that his laborious schemes had ended in humiliating failure. It was not easy to tell a dying man that his life-work was all to do again.

"Well?" urged the King imperiously.

"Sire, when the King of Spain died and left his crown to Philippe D'Anjou, Your Majesty was not disturbed?"

"No—because of the Partition Treaties."

Sunderland looked away, and said in a low voice—

"King Louis hath flung over the Partition Treaties, accepted the will, and published a memorial justifying his action."

On hearing that he had been so cheated, deceived, betrayed, that, for the first time in his life, he had made a huge political mistake, a blunder, in trusting France, and that France had been all this time laughing at him, that he had been King Louis' dupe, that he was despised and challenged by the court he had once humbled, William gave a little gasp like a sob, and sat very still.

"Louis," continued Sunderland, "defies you, the Republic, and the Emperor, and thinks of nothing but seating his grandson on the throne of Spain."

William sprang up with the energy of a strong man.

"My God!" he cried, "I was a fool to trust France. I should have known! I should have known!"

A colour was in his face, his eyes were brilliant, his breast heaved.

"Their effrontery!" he cried again; "their shameful effrontery! I did not think even they would have broken a solemn treaty made in the face of the whole world! I must confess I am a dupe," he added proudly, "but if faith and honour are to be disregarded 'tis easy to cheat any man."

He sank back on the window-seat and pressed his hand to his forehead.

"They think I am a cipher now—a King without an army—a dying man, but I am he who met them single-handed once and could again." His voice, broken and weak as it was, expressed an extraordinary enthusiasm and resolution. "France shall pay for this. I will commit Europe to demand payment, even if I do not live to see it given. Dear Lord! doth Louis think that while I draw a breath a Bourbon shall rule over Spain, the Netherlands, Milan, Sicily—the Indies?"

He rose and began to walk about; his eyes had flashed no brighter in his youth. He clasped his sword-hilt and half drew it from the scabbard.

"The sword, the sword!" he said, "no way but that. Did I not ever say so? The sword shall bring them to their knees yet; that is the only way to deal with France."

Sunderland sat silent. He was appalled at the thought of the task before the King if he would resist the aggressions of Louis; for the English were in no humour for another war, and had been from the first inclined to the King of Spain's will, not the Partition Treaty—principally, perhaps, because William had framed the latter.

My lord ventured to hint some of this.

"I know," answered William quietly. "The blindness here is incredible—the ignorance, the malice, astonishing. It is the utmost mortification to me that I cannot at once act with the rigour I should, but I have performed some hard tasks before. I must bring England into this. And there is the Republic—when did she fail? She is with me always."

He came and sat by Sunderland again, rested his elbows on the table and looked down at the floor, supporting his head on his left hand.

He was face to face with, and had instantly and deliberately undertaken, a task more difficult and tremendous than those he had carried through in '72 and '88. It would be the greatest action of his life—and he had perhaps a few months, at most a few years, to live. There were as many odds against him as there had ever been; so many, so continuous, had been his humiliations and sorrows, that a few moments ago he had not desired to live another day. Now he found himself called to the supreme task of all his laborious career—a task which, if successful, would crown his work with ultimate triumph, however distant, and which, if it failed, would make his whole life useless indeed.

He looked at his wasted hand lying on the table. Every breath was a pain to him. He had scarcely the strength to sit upright. He had to be lifted on to his horse, or into his coach. The doctors gave him dates beyond which he could not live; but his spirit was unchanged since the day that it had inspired him to wrest his country from the conqueror, and it rose now to such a strength of enthusiasm that it actually laughed at the weakness of the poor body that held it...

William of Orange looked up smiling.

"I shall succeed," he said. "I shall succeed."

CHAPTER XIV

THE VANGUARD OF THE WORLD

Again the trees were yellowing in the splendid park at Loo; again the autumn sun fell tenderly over the Palace and the stiff beds of late roses.

William of England and Monsieur Heinsius were standing by the sundial, which was the centre of formal walks and exact parterres.

They were discussing the progress of that endeavour the King had set himself nearly a year ago, when he learnt of Louis's breaking of the Partition Treaty—a year of toil, of patience, of skill, of tact, of sacrifice on the part of William; and it had met with success. Even the English Parliament had not been able to resist his exquisite management. Meanwhile he was quietly forming the Grand Alliance and feeling his way to hurl the inevitable challenge at France.

He was leaning now on a thick polished malacca cane, with a gold and ivory handle, from which swung two heavy crimson tassels, and listening to the Grand Pensionary of Holland, who had been in everything the perfect friend, the perfect servant.

"We can do no more," M. Heinsius was saying; "the States are in readiness. We must wait for England."

"I have been doing that," answered William, "all my life." And he sighed a little, though not with discouragement. There had of late been every sign that the temper of the English was changing. They began to murmur at the Parliament and its constant thwarting of the King. Louis had been, as usual, insolent in his triumph, and British pride began to rise at French insults. William had waited with infinite patience, worked with infinite skill. He still waited and still worked, but with a sure hope of success. Louis, in the infatuation of his success, might easily commit some arrogant action that would inflame the people of England beyond the control of any faction-ridden Commons.

William took out his crystal and gold filigree watch and set it by the sundial. The sky, the trees, the walks and groves, the stately lines of the Palace, were all radiant in an amber-coloured light. The breeze was warm as mid-summer, and lifted the leaves with a pleasant sound. The King raised his eyes to the peaceful autumn beauty, and there was a look in them that was never absent when he was in his own country—an unconscious expression of the deep passion he felt for his own land, for the very air of it, the very grass and trees and clouds.

Presently he and M. Heinsius went into the house. Some German princes were to dine with the King. All his Dutch friends were there also (save only Portland), and it seemed like the old days again when the Stadtholder would escape for a few days' hunt to Guelders—when he was young and everything was yet to do.

Albemarle, lately invested with the garter, and radiant under his splendours and in the satisfaction of great abilities finding scope, had newly come from London, and during the meal William questioned him on the state of parties there. His answers were satisfactory: the men of Kent had lately sent a stern memorial to the Parliament, requesting them to give up their internal quarrels and aid the King in helping his allies in a fitting manner to resist French dominion in Europe.

The King spoke affectionately and gratefully to Albemarle; then leant back in his chair, and was, after his habit, silent.

His reserve had grown on him more and more of late; he scarcely spoke at all save to his intimates, and saw only those when he was obliged.

Towards the end of the long dinner he roused himself, and, leaning towards M. Heinsius, who sat on his right, said a curious thing.

It was—"Do you think Monsieur de Witt would be proud of his pupil now?"

Heinsius could find no answer.

"He was about the age I am now when he met his end," continued William, in a quiet tone. "After all, he had a happier life than I have had ... Monsieur de Witt! How long ago it seemeth!"

He filled his glass, and lifted it as if he drank a silent toast. He looked down the rich table and the splendid guests and up at the portrait of his wife above the dark chimney-piece.

A full ray of dusky sunlight struck across the canvas and gave the painted face something of the glow and bloom of life. The large brown eyes seemed to sparkle, the red lips to move, the white breast to heave. The King was still looking straight at this picture when a messenger entered.

At a glance William saw that his dispatches were from England and France. He set the wine down, and broke open that from London.

M. Heinsius, intently watching him, saw his countenance change, a violent flush rise to his cheek, and his hands tremble.

He pulled his hat over his eyes to cover his emotion, and nervously tore open the French dispatch. M. Heinsius saw that this was in the hand of my Lord Manchester, English Ambassador in Paris.

When the King had read it he was composed again, but even paler than usual. He folded both the letters up and placed them in the huge flap pocket of his coat; then he cast his dimmed but still eagle eye round the table.

"Gentlemen," he said, in a firm voice, "His late Majesty King James is dead at St. Germains."

He pushed back his chair a little and drew a quick breath.

"And King Louis hath shamelessly outraged us by proclaiming his son, the pretended Prince of Wales, as King of Great Britain."

For a moment the company could not grasp the import of this news: it was too monstrous.

"His Christian Majesty hath been foolish before," added William, with grim meaning; "never, I think, as foolish as this."

"By God!" cried M. Heinsius, "there will be no further difficulty with England now!"

The silence broke into murmurs and exclamations. The King took no notice of them; he was thinking of the meaning of this in Europe. Louis had now broken the Treaty of Ryswyck as he had the Partition Treaties. The result would be instant and inevitable war. Even the peace party in the English Commons could not hang back now...

He turned suddenly to Albemarle.

"Send at once to London that M. Poussin is to leave as quickly as M. Barillon did in '88." He laughed shortly. "This will be the second time I have turned a French Ambassador out of London! And Manchester shall be recalled at once." He rose. "Gentlemen," he said, addressing the eager Dutch and Germans, "this meaneth our third war with France; and this time I think it will be conclusive, and we, not France, be left the vanguard of the world."

CHAPTER XV

THE EVE OF WAR

Service was being held in the Royal Chapel at Hampton Court.

There were not many people there: only the King, the officers of his household, and one or two others, including Mr. Prior, new come from The Hague.

William knelt alone in his pew while his chaplain delivered the final and beautiful prayers of the Anglican service; he was not listening to or repeating these prayers.

The old austerity of his stern religion had become softened with his vaster knowledge and experiences, nor could his firm conception of a wide tolerance maintain the narrow prejudices of sectarian belief; but the old teaching of the faith that had supported his youth and manhood through so much was still strong in him. It suited his nature and his circumstance; it was the creed of his beloved country, and had ever been under the especial protection of his family. The heart of the King was still as Calvinist as it had been when he learnt his grim theology from Pastor Trigland. Though he knelt in English churches and listened to Anglican services, it pleased him to close his eyes and imagine himself back in the bare whitewashed Groote Kerk, an eager grave boy, a silent anxious man, seated in the stiff pew watching the sunlight fall athwart the massive, tall pillars, and drawing stern comfort and noble inspiration from the pastor's thunderous declamation of the theology of Geneva.

This morning the picture came before him with a peculiar and painful vividness. He put his hand over his eyes and thought that he could hear the little stir of Mary's gown beside him, and that if he put out his hand he would touch hers, warm on her Prayer Book ...

Long after the prayers had ceased he continued kneeling, and when he at last rose there was a curious expression on his face.

When he left the Chapel his words were to know if Albemarle had yet arrived.

No, he was told, but my lord might be expected any hour, as the packet from Holland had got in last night.

The King had constantly shown a wistful impatience for the return of Albemarle, when he had parted from him with great pain; but my lord was the only person who knew his exact wishes in the matter of the disposal of the troops in the United Provinces and whom he could entrust with his minute instructions to M. Heinsius.

He now calculated that my lord, even riding all night, could scarcely be there before midday, and he ordered out his horse and said he would ride in the park awhile. It was a day in February, and mild and fine. Of late, too, he had been unexpectedly better in health, and had even hunted and spent hours on horseback.

As the little company left the Chapel, Mr. Prior fell behind to speak with Lord Buckhurst, son of my Lord Dorset, Mr. Prior's former patron.

"Everything is done, is it not?" he asked eagerly.

"Everything," said my young lord, with enthusiasm. "We—and the allies—will take the field this spring. God bless His Majesty!"

"Ay, he did it. I would I could have heard his speech to Parliament. They say, sir, it hath roused Europe like the trumpet-call to charge——"

"Europe, Mr. Prior, and the Commons of England. I think no nobler words were ever heard in Westminster—he raised them all above themselves—you have read the speech? It is in a dozen different tongues already. England might hold the balance of Europe, he said, if she would exert her ancient vigour and forget her unhappy internal animosities;—and she will, Mr. Prior, she will—thanks to His Majesty."

My Lord Buckhurst was only voicing the general sentiment of enthusiasm and loyalty that William had at last succeeded in rousing.

"Will the King take the campaign this year?" asked Matthew Prior, as they strolled out into the magnificent gardens.

"I do not think so—it is to be my Lord Marlborough."

"A man who was ever detested by the King."

"His Majesty saith he is the greatest general and statesman. Next year he might go himself—there seemeth hope that he might be recovered then."

They passed the yew hedges and fountains, the famous patterned flower-beds, and came out by King Charles's Long Canal, with the resplendent avenue of trees rising up lofty against the pale spring sky and fading into a fair, hazy distance. Coming now into the park where the fresh grass was pushing up through the dead damp leaves of last autumn, and the little groups of slender deer moved delicately through the open sloping glades, they perceived the King riding with two grooms, and holding his hat in his hand to catch the full strength of the faint sun on his face.

He drew up his horse as he saw the two gentlemen, and spoke to them kindly, telling them of the new fine entrance-gates he proposed to make from the Palace grounds to Bushey Park.

He looked more animated and cheerful than he had done for a long while. He was mounted on a splendid young sorrel horse, that he managed with all his old skill.

"A new fellow," he remarked. "The grooms warned me he was spirited, but I could scarcely be afraid of a horse—eh?" He faintly smiled and patted the great creature's glossy neck with his thin, white, ungloved hand.

My Lord Buckhurst looked at the frail figure of the King and the great power of the animal, and indeed wondered that he could manage him. He secretly agreed with the grooms that William was perhaps relying too much on his exquisite horsemanship in mounting such an untried brute.

"I hope," said William, "that I shall find my Lord Albemarle when I return."

He touched up the horse and galloped away out of sight down the long avenue, the grooms after him.

Lord Buckhurst and Mr. Prior lingered a little in the pleasant dim sun and shade, talking over this great prospect opening out over Europe, and the part the nations of the world would play in the coming struggle—which could not fail to establish for ever the Protestant faith and the liberty of peoples.

Presently the sun clouded over, and they were for returning to the Palace, when the distant sound of hoofs on the grass caused them to look round, thinking this might be the King returning.

What they saw was a riderless horse—a monstrous sorrel horse—galloping across the glade, with the stirrups flying loose.

"The King—his horse!" exclaimed Mr. Prior breathlessly. Lord Buckhurst said nothing; he turned and ran swiftly towards where the animal had come from. Cumbered as he was with sword, full extravagant vesture, and a wide-bottomed peruke, youth brought him easily over the ground, and in a few minutes he came to the spot he made for—a little clearing beyond the great trees of the avenue, with Mr. Prior breathless at his heels.

They saw there what they had been dreading to see: the King lying on the ground, and the two frightened grooms coming up, one dismounted and in an embarrassment to know what to do with his horse, the other giving doleful exclamations and cries for help.

William had raised himself on one elbow, and was holding a handkerchief to his mouth.

Buckhurst and Prior rushed up to him.

"Are you hurt, sire?" cried my lord.

The King removed the handkerchief from his lips; it was scarlet with blood.

"No," he answered. "The brute threw me over that molehill—the first time, my lord, I have been thrown——"

He put his hand to the shoulder on which he had fallen.

"Something broken, I think," he said, in a fainter voice. "They were right—I overestimated my skill—I have not the seat—I—once—had."

My lord endeavoured to raise him, tenderly enough; but at the attempt to move the King's face went of an ashy colour, and he fainted with pain.

"This is the end," murmured my lord. "Take him up, Mr. Prior—dear God, I think this is the end."

With the aid of the two servants, who had now left their horses, they carried him back, by easy degrees, into the Palace, and his own apartments.

Before the doctor could be called he came to his senses and asked for Albemarle. On being told he had arrived, he bid him rest a little before he delivered his news, and, having sent the message, called M. Zulestein to bring him his yet unfinished letter to M. Heinsius.

When it was brought, and quill and ink, he sat up in his great chair with arms, and added painfully these words: "God be praised, all difficulties are overcome," and his name.

He bid them, in a broken whisper, send off this letter immediately, and fell back again in his chair, very white and frowning.

The alarmed gentlemen were for his seeing the doctor immediately, but he desired to give Albemarle his audience first.

My lord came on the instant, spurred and dusty, and all in a reek from travel.

He entered, with a breathless air of dread, the throne-room, where they had brought the King.

William was seated in a great low chair of red velvet, in front of the blue dais and throne, which bore in silver the Royal arms and the motto of Nassau: "Je Maintaindrai." He still wore his buff hunting-coat with the gold galloon on the wide skirt and the tight doeskin boots with the gilt spurs; his waistcoat was open on his laced shirt, and he held his right hand over his heart.

Lord Albemarle fell on his knees and passionately kissed the King's free hand.

William looked down at him affectionately, and said, between quick little gasps—

"How go matters in Holland?"

"Well, sire, well—everything is in readiness. The States are willing to everything that Your Majesty wisheth; all the preparations are complete for an early campaign—but you, Your Majesty——"

"Tell me of Holland," interrupted William faintly.

Albemarle looked round the company, and hesitated; but at a sign from M. Zulestein obeyed the King, and spoke of the affairs of the Republic, and of their response to the King's call to arms.

William of Orange listened to these words, that told him his lifework was at last accomplished, with such calm that it seemed indifference, or as if he was giving no attention to the matter of the discourse; he never changed his attitude or raised his downcast eyes. It seemed as if even this could not rouse him now.

When Albemarle paused at last and waited, half fearfully, William spoke, but so faintly that my lord, kneeling close as he was, could hardly catch the words.

"I have often wished to die," he murmured; "but now I might wish to live and see this prospect fulfilled; but I draw near my end—the end—the end——"

He said the word three times with so many little sighs, and then fainted, dropping his hand from his heart.

CHAPTER XVI

GOD AND THE KING

Monsieur Heinsius sat in the little room at the Binnenhof, which had belonged to the Grand Pensionnaries of Holland ever since the Republic had been formed. The furniture and the tall clock in the corner were unchanged since the time of the great John de Witt; the window looked on the Vyverberg, where the swans were floating on the grey, shining, and placid water. It was a day in late March, the year 1702, and the clock of the Groote Kerk had just struck four.

There was a pause in M. Heinsius's strenuous work; for the moment he had nothing to do, and he was very glad of the rare leisure. He had not been in good health for some time, and to-day felt feverish and heavy in his limbs; he winced at the effort of giving instructions to his secretaries, putting up his papers, and going home, so remained, half dozing in his chair, looking at the peaceful surface of the lake, and the still bare trees, and neat brick houses beyond.

Before him, on his old black polished bureau, lay the last letter from the King-Stadtholder, which had given him great pleasure, for alarming reports had been current in The Hague as to the health of His Majesty since his accident at Hampton Court; but in this he said not one word of his illness. The last words were—"I am infinitely concerned to learn that your health is not yet quite established. May God be pleased to grant you a speedy recovery. I am unalterably your good friend, William."

True, the letter was dated the 20th of February, and had been delayed in the coming, and M. Heinsius knew that there might be other news in the packets that were held up in the North Sea by the spring storms; but he believed that the King would not so have written had he been in any danger.

Then an extraordinary thing happened to M. Heinsius. He was leaning back in his chair, weary and exhausted, his head aching with a little fever, and a kind of lassitude on his senses, when something caused him to move his head sharply and look through the open door into the next chamber, where two of his secretaries usually worked.

They were, however, now absent in the Assembly, and M. Heinsius believed himself alone in the two rooms; he was therefore surprised to see a young man standing in this outer chamber looking out at the Vyverberg and The Hague with an arrested air of intense interest.

M. Heinsius moved round in his chair, but felt no desire to speak. Both the rooms were full of early sunshine and absolutely silent. M. Heinsius observed the stranger with a sensation of vague wonder.

He was very young—little more than a boy—but of a very grave, still carriage; he wore a violet coat, a black sash, a plain sword, and a cravat of Frisian needlework; his clothes were of the fashion of thirty years ago—of the time of John de Witt.

He was very slender and slight; his hair, which was long, thick, and heavily curling, of a deep chestnut colour, fell either side a thin hawk face that M. Heinsius could only imperfectly see; he wore one jewel, and that was the colour of the Garter.

M. Heinsius neither spoke nor moved. Presently the youth turned and came towards the Grand Pensionary's cabinet, walking stiffly, and holding his hat under his arm. M. Heinsius noticed the old-fashioned rosettes on his square-toed shoes.

He came steadily through the sunlight, his glance cast thoughtfully down, and advanced to the desk before which M. Heinsius sat; he moved between the Grand Pensionary and the window, and, leaning forward, put his right hand, which was ringless and beautiful, on the letter of William of Orange.

Then he lifted a pair of eyes of singular power and of a marvellous brilliancy, and flashed a smile at M. Heinsius.

"It is finished," he said, pressing his palm on the letter. "But you will know what to do."

Then he turned and looked out of the window with wistful passion, as of one leaving something he loves, and sighed a little. After a moment he moved away, reluctantly it seemed, and went as he had come, slowly and gravely into the outer chamber, with the sunshine all about him.

M. Heinsius rose now, and turned to follow him; when he reached the door of the anteroom he found it empty....

The Grand Pensionary returned to his seat and hid his face in his hands, telling himself that he had the fever; he tried to think and argue with himself, but it was a useless effort, and he fell presently into a little sleep—or swoon—from which he only roused when he felt a touch on his shoulder, and started up to find the room dark and his secretary standing with a candle and a packet in his hand.

"From England?" murmured M. Heinsius.

"Yes, Mynheer."

The Grand Pensionary took the letter eagerly, hoping to see the writing of the King; but it was addressed in the hand of my Lord Albemarle.

"I have been exhausted unto sleep," he said. "Light me the candles—I will read this and go home."

The candles, in their pale brass sticks, illumined the dark, simple room, the black shining desk, the pale worn face of M. Heinsius, as he opened the letter from England.

It was dated at Kensington House, and this was what the Grand Pensionary read:—

"I have to offer you the saddest and most unwelcome news in the world, which indeed I am not yet able to write plainly.

"My beloved master died yesterday between seven and eight of the evening, which is a loss that we and indeed all Europe cannot be too sensible of.

"He died with the greatest courage and serenity, speaking not at all during his last days, save to thank us graciously for our services. He had no words even for the priests who came about him, which may cause some scandal here.

"I believe his thoughts to have been always on the Republic, from some short ejaculations he made, even while the prayers for the dying were being read. I think that even at the very last his sole concern was the United Provinces.

"He asked for my lord of Portland, who came; but His Majesty was past speech, yet he took my lord's hand very tenderly, and carried it up to his heart, which was then at the last beat, and died in that attitude, after but a short struggle with his breath.

"They found a locket of the late Queen's hair fastened by a black ribbon to his sword-arm.

"As he was spared nothing during his life, neither was he at his death; for the doctors say now that he must have been in great and perpetual agony, for his broken collar-bone had pierced his lungs—yet not a single murmur escaped him. His courage was of the most resplendent any man may have—for it was tried in every way.

"I cannot write a fuller account, for I am struck beyond expression by this event. You will, of course, hear of it from others.

"There is very little grief here. They talk of a statue—but when shall we see it raised? They are busy praising Queen Anne, who is the silliest creature I know—a strange people, these English; I am out of humour with them, and you will see me at The Hague very soon.

"I must tell you that the Earl of Sunderland died in retirement at Althorp a few weeks since, despised and neglected by all. But the King remained his friend to the end, and even consulted with him secretly, and he had the faithful attendance of my lady, who is as good a woman as any I ever met, and, God knows, a lonely one now.

"People here, I think, cannot realize what His Majesty did, nor the task he put through when he was in a manner dying, nor their own ingratitude. But you and I know, and England will come to enjoy the fruits of his work in the years that are coming—and in Holland he can never be forgotten, for he was the greatest of the family of the noblest and most patriotic princes whom the world hath ever seen, and while we are a people we shall revere his name.

"There is much to tell you; but I cannot write of business now, and think to see you soon.—Mynheer the Grand Pensionary, your affectionate friend, ALBEMARLE."

M. Heinsius put down the letter; he felt scarcely sad; a glorious enthusiasm stirred his heart; the room seemed all too confined for his mood; he went to the window, pushed it open, and looked out at the dark water and the dark houses beyond, where the lights were beginning to show in the windows.

Now there was no doubting the identity of the young man of his vision, nor what the words meant—

"It is finished, but you know what to do."

The Grand Pensionary knew; he held in his hands all the clues to the vast policies of his late master; he could guide the Republic though the coming great events of war as the King would have wished.

The peaceful evening fell to complete darkness; still Antoon Heinsius stood looking over The Hague. The King hath gone to give his account to God, he thought, and God will say—Not in vain did I make you my captain—not in vain.

THE END

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METHUEN'S COLONIAL LIBRARY

A SERIES OF COPYRIGHT BOOKS BY EMINENT AND POPULAR AUTHORS, PUBLISHED AS FAR AS POSSIBLE SIMULTANEOUSLY WITH THEIR APPEARANCE IN ENGLAND. THEY ARE OF VERY HANDSOME APPEARANCE, BEING PRINTED ON ANTIQUE PAPER AND BOUND TASTEFULLY IN CRIMSON PAPER OR IN ATTRACTIVE CLOTH COVERS

FICTION

ALBANESI, E. MARIA

SUSANNAH AND ONE OTHER CAPRICIOUS CAROLINE LOVE AND LOUISA THE BROWN EYES OF MARY I KNOW A MAIDEN THE INVINCIBLE AMELIA THE BLUNDER OF AN INNOCENT PETER, A PARASITE THE GLAD HEART

ANNESLEY, MAUDE

THIS DAY'S MADNESS WIND ALONG THE WASTE SHADOW-SHAPES

BAGOT, RICHARD

A ROMAN MYSTERY THE PASSPORT TEMPTATION ANTHONY CUTHBERT LOVE'S PROXY DONNA DIANA CASTING OF NETS THE HOUSE OF SERRAVALLE

BAILEY, H. C.

STORM AND TREASURE THE LONELY QUEEN

BALL, OONA H. (Barbara. Burke)

BARBARA GOES TO OXFORD THEIR OXFORD YEAR

BARING-GOULD, S.

IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA THE QUEEN OF LOVE KITTY ALONE NOEMI THE BROOM-SQUIRE PABO THE PRIEST WINEFRED THE FROBISHERS CHRIS OF ALL SORTS

BARR, ROBERT

IN THE MIDST OF ALARMS THE MUTABLE MANY THE COUNTESS TEKLA

BARRETT, WILSON

THE SIGN OF THE CROSS THE NEVER-NEVER LAND

BELLOC, H.

A CHANGE IN THE CABINET

BENNETT, ARNOLD

CLAYHANGER THE CARD HILDA LESSWAYS

BENSON, E. F.

DODO

BIRMINGHAM, G. A.

THE BAD TIMES SPANISH GOLD THE SEARCH PARTY LALAGE'S LOVERS

BOWEN, MARJORIE

I WILL MAINTAIN DEFENDER OF THE FAITH GOD AND THE KING

CAPES, BERNARD

THE GREAT SKENE MYSTERY THE LOVE STORY OF ST. BEL WHY DID HE DO IT? CONFESSIONS OF DIANA PLEASE JAY OF ITALY A ROGUE'S TRAGEDY JEMMY ABERCRAW

CAREY, WYMOND

LOVE THE JUDGE

CASTLE, AGNES and EGERTOH

FLOWER O' THE ORANGE

CASTLETON, ROBERT

THE ADVENTURES OF AN ACTOR

CONRAD, JOSEPH

THE SECRET AGENT A SET OF SIX WESTERN EYES

CORELLI, MARIE

A ROMANCE OF TWO WORLDS VENDETTA THELMA ARDATH THE SOUL OF LILITH WORMWOOD BARABBAS THE SORROWS OF SATAN THE MASTER-CHRISTIAN TEMPORAL POWER GOD'S GOOD MAN HOLY ORDERS BOY THE MIGHTY ATOM CAMEOS THE LIFE EVERLASTING

CROCKETT, S. R.

LOCHINVAR THE STANDARD BEARER

CROKER, B. M.

PEGGY OF THE BARTONS A STATE SECRET ANGEL JOHANNA THE HAPPY VALLEY THE OLD CANTONMENT A NINE DAYS' WONDER KATHERINE THE ARROGANT BABES IN THE WOOD

CROSBIE, MARY

KINSMEN'S CLAY

DOYLE, SIR A. CONAN

ROUND THE RED LAMP

DUNCAN, SARA JEANNETTE

A VOYAGE OF CONSOLATION COUSIN CINDERELLA THE BURNT OFFERING

ELLIOT, ROBERT

THE IMMORTAL CHARLATAN

FINDLATER, JANE H.

THE GREEN GRAVES OF BALGOWRIE THE LADDER TO THE STARS

FINDLATER, MARY

THE ROSE OF JOY A BLIND BIRD'S NEST THE NARROW WAY OVER THE HILLS

FITZSTEPHEN, GERALD

GRIFFITH COLGROVE'S WIFE

FOOTNER, HULBERT

TWO ON THE TRAIL

FRANCIS, H. E.

GALATEA OF THE WHEATFIELD MARGERY O' THE MILL HARDY-ON-THE-HILL STEPPING WESTWARD

FRASER, MRS. HUGH

GIANNELLA

FRY, B. and C. B.

A MOTHER'S SON

GERARD, DOROTHEA

THE BRIDGE OF LIFE THE IMPROBABLE IDYL

GERARD, LOUISE

THE GOLDEN CENTIPEDE THE HYENA OF KALLU

GIBBON, PERCEVAL

MARGARET HARDING

GISSING, GEORGE

THE CROWN OF LIFE

HAMILTON, COSMO

MRS. SKEFFINGTON

HARRADEN, BEATRICE

IN VARYING MOODS THE SCHOLAR'S DAUGHTER HILDA STRAFFORD INTERPLAY

HERBERTSON, A. G.

DEBORAH

HICHENS, ROBERT B.

BYEWAYS TONGUES OF CONSCIENCE THE PROPHET OF BERKELEY SQUARE FELIX THE WOMAN WITH THE FAN THE GARDEN OF ALLAH THE BLACK SPANIEL THE CALL OF THE BLOOD BARBARY SHEEP THE DWELLER ON THE THRESHOLD

HILLIERS, ASHTON

THE MASTER GIRL

HOLDSWORTH, ANNIE

THE LITTLE COMPANY OF RUTH

HOPE, ANTHONY

A MAN OF MARK A CHANGE OF AIR THE GOD IN THE CAR THE CHRONICLES OF COUNT ANTONIO PHROSO SIMON DALE THE KING'S MIRROR QUISANTÉ A SERVANT OF THE PUBLIC TALES OF TWO PEOPLE THE GREAT MISS DRIVER MRS. MAXON PROTESTS

HORNIMAN, ROY

CAPTIVITY

HOUGH, EMERSON

THE WAY OF A MAN

HUEFFER, FORD MADOX

MR. APOLLO AN ENGLISH GIRL THE PORTRAIT

HUTTEN, BARONESS VON

THE HALO

HYNE, C. J. CUTCLIFFE

MR. HORROCKS, PURSER

JACOBS, W. W.

MANY CARGOES SEA URCHINS A MASTER OF CRAFT LIGHT FREIGHTS THE SKIPPER'S WOOING ODD CRAFT AT SUNWICH PORT DIALSTONE LANE THE LADY OF THE BARGE SALTHAVEN SAILORS' KNOTS SHORT CRUISES

JAMES, HENRY

THE FINER GRAIN THE OUTCRY

LE QUEUX, WILLIAM

THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW BEHIND THE THRONE THE CROOKED WAY THE CLOSED BOOK THE HUNCHBACK OF WESTMINSTER

LINDSEY, WILLIAM

THE SEVERED MANTLE

LISLE, DAVID

A PAINTER OF SOULS

LONDON, JACK

WHITE FANG

LUBBOCK, B.

DEEP SEA WARRIORS

LUCAS, E. V.

MR. INGLESIDE LISTENER'S LURE OVER BEMERTON'S

LYALL, EDNA

DERRICK VAUGHAN, NOVELIST

MAARTENS, MAARTEN

THE NEW RELIGION BROTHERS ALL THE PRICE OF LIS DORIS HARMEN POLS

MCCARTHY, JUSTIN HUNTLY

THE LADY OF LOYALTY HOUSE THE DUKE'S MOTTO

MacNAUGHTAN, S.

THE FORTUNE OF CHRISTINA M'NAB PETER AND JANE

MALET, LUCAS

THE WAGES OF SIN THE CARISSIMA THE GATELESS BARRIER A COUNSEL OF PERFECTION COLONEL ENDERBY'S WIFE SIR RICHARD CALMADY

MANN, MARY E.

ROSE AT HONEYPOT THE HEART SMITER AVENGING CHILDREN MEMORIES OF RONALD LOVE GRANMA'S JANE MRS. PETER HOWARD THE EGLAMORE PORTRAITS A WINTER'S TALE ONE ANOTHER'S BURDENS OLIVIA'S SUMMER PARISH OF HILBY THE PARISH NURSE ASTRAY IN ARCADY A WIDOW WOMAN

MARSH, RICHARD

THE GIRL AND THE MIRACLE THE COWARD BEHIND THE CURTAIN THE SURPRISING HUSBAND A ROYAL INDISCRETION LIVE MEN'S SHOES

MARSHALL, ARCHIBALD

MANY JUNES THE SQUIRE'S DAUGHTER THE ELDEST SON

MASON, A. E. W.

CLEMENTINA

MATHERS, HELEN

TALLY HO! THE FERRYMAN

MAUD, CONSTANCE ELISABETH

A DAUGHTER OF FRANCE

MAUD, P.

THE EXPIATION OF JOHN COURT

MAXWELL, W. B.

VIVIEN THE RAGGED MESSENGER THE GUARDED FLAME ODD LENGTHS THE COUNTESS OF MAYBURY HILL RISE FABULOUS FANCIES THE REST CURE

MEADE, L. T.

DRIFT VICTORY RESURGAM

MERRICK, L.

ALL THE WORLD WONDERED

MILNE, A. A.

THE DAY'S PLAY

MITFORD, BERTRAM

THE SIGN OF THE SPIDER THE RED DERELICT

MORRISON, ARTHUR

TALES OF MEAN STREETS A CHILD OF THE JAGO TO LONDON TOWN THE HOLE IN THE WALL DIVERS VANITIES

NESBIT, E.

DORMANT

HICKLIN, CONSTANCE

THE HOUR AND THE WOMAN

NOBLE, EDWARD

LORDS OF THE SEA

NORMAN, MRS. GEORGE

LADY FANNY DELPHINE CARFREY

OLLIVANT, ALFRED

OWD BOB THE TAMING OF JOHN BLUNT

ONIONS, OLIVER

THE EXCEPTION GOOD BOY SELDOM

OPPENHEIM, E. PHILLIPS

MASTER OF MEN THE MISSING DELORA

OSBOURNE, LLOYD

THE KINGDOMS OF THE WORLD

OXENHAM, JOHN

A WEAVER OF WEBS THE GATE OF THE DESERT PROFIT AND LOSS THE LONG ROAD THE SONG OF HYACINTH MY LADY OF SHADOWS LAURISTONS THE COIL OF CARNE

PAIN, BARRY

LINDLEY KAYS THE GIFTED FAMILY THE EXILES OF FALOO HERE AND HEREAFTER

PARKER, GILBERT

THE TRAIL OF THE SWORD WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC AN ADVENTURER OF THE NORTH PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE MRS. FALCHION THE SEATS OF THE MIGHTY THE POMP OF THE LAVILETTES THE BATTLE OF THE STRONG THE TRANSLATION OF A SAVAGE NORTHERN LIGHTS

PATTERSON, J. E.

WATCHERS BY THE SHORE

PEMBERTON, MAX

THE FOOTSTEPS OF A THRONE I CROWN THEE KING LOVE THE HARVESTER THE MYSTERY OF THE GREEN HEART

PERRIN, ALICE

THE CHARM

PHILLPOTTS, EDEN

SONS OF THE MORNING CHILDREN OF THE MIST LYING PROPHETS THE RIVER THE HUMAN BOY THE AMERICAN PRISONER THE SECRET WOMAN THE POACHER'S WIFE THE PORTREEVE THE STRIKING HOURS THE FOLK AFIELD DEMETER'S DAUGHTER

PICKTHILL, MARMADUKE

SAID THE FISHERMAN BRENDLE THE HOUSE OF ISLAM

Q.

THE MAYOR OF TROY MERRY GARDEN MAJOR VIGOUREUX

QUERIDO, ISRAEL

TOIL OF MEN

RAWSON, MAUD STEPNEY

THE ENCHANTED GARDEN THE EASY GO LUCKIES HAPPINESS SPLENDID ZIPPORAH

RHYS, GRACE

THE BRIDE

RIDGE, W. PETT

A SON OF THE STATE THE WICKHAMSES NAME OF GARLAND SPLENDID BROTHER ERB MRS. GALER'S BUSINESS NINE TO SIX-THIRTY THANKS TO SANDERSON

ROBINS, ELIZABETH

THE CONVERT

RUSSELL, W. CLARK

MY DANISH SWEETHEART HIS ISLAND PRINCESS ABANDONED

SHEERING, HERBERT

GOPI

SIDGWICK, MRS. ALFRED

THE KINSMAN THE SEVERINS THE LANTERN BEARERS ANTHEA'S GUEST

SOMERVILLE, E. OE., & MARTIN ROSS

DAN RUSSEL THE FOX

STONE, LOUIS

JONAH

SWAYNE, MARTIN

LORD RICHARD IN THE PANTRY

THURSTON, E. TEMPLE

MIRAGE

VAN VORST, MARIE

THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMY BULSTRODE IN AMBUSH

WAINEMAN, PAUL

THE WIFE OF NICHOLAS FLEMING THE SONG OF FOREST THE BAY OF LILACS

WATSON, H. B. MARRIOTT

A MIDSUMMER DAY'S DREAM THE PRIVATEERS A POPPY SHOW THE FLOWER OF THE HEART THE CASTLE BY THE SEA TWISTED EGLANTINE THE HIGH TOBY ALISE OF ASTRA AT A VENTURE

WEBLING, PEGGY

VIRGINIA PERFECT A SPIRIT OF MIRTH

WELLS, H. G.

THE SEA LADY

WEYMAN, STANLEY J.

UNDER THE RED ROBE

WHITBY, BEATRICE

THE RESULT OF AN ACCIDENT ROSAMUND

WHITE, EDMUND

THE HEART OF HINDUSTAN

WHITE, PERCY

THE PATIENT MAN LOVE AND THE WISE MEN THE LOST HALO

WIGRAM, EIRENE

THE AFFAIR OF THE ENVELOPE

WILLIAMSON, Mrs. C. N.

THE ADVENTURE OF PRINCESS SYLVIA PAPA THE WOMAN WHO DARED THE SEA COULD TELL THE CASTLE OF THE SHADOWS

WILLIAMSON, C. N. and A. M.

THE LIGHTNING CONDUCTOR THE PRINCESS PASSES MY FRIEND THE CHAUFFEUR LADY BETTY ACROSS THE WATER THE CAR OF DESTINY THE BOTOR CHAPERON SCARLET RUNNER SET IN SILVER LORD LOVELAND DISCOVERS AMERICA THE GOLDEN SILENCE

WYLLARDE, DOLF

THE PATHWAY OF THE PIONEER THE UNOFFICIAL HONEYMOON