The Archbishop performed his part the better of the two; for between him and his sovereign there were no strained relations; he was also on closer terms of reference to the Powers above; and so, while giving earthly circumstances their due, he rendered grateful thanks to a Beneficence which had guided and directed all. The Prime Minister did not.
The King, in recalling afterwards the happy impromptus of that scene when Prelates and Laity were vying with each other in the expression of their relief, remembered how once or twice the Prime Minister had halted and gone back to the repetition of a former phrase, like one who having learned a lesson had momentarily lost the hang of it.
The circumstance did not greatly impress him at the time, he was ready to make allowances, for between him and his minister the situation was somewhat embarrassing. They had parted with unreconciled views, and by no stretch of terms could their relationship any longer be regarded as friendly. All the same, on such an occasion it was incumbent upon the Prime Minister to say the correct thing, and he had said it: he had described the outrage as "a dastardly attempt," and the immunity of his sovereign as "a happy and almost miraculous escape" for which none had more reason to be thankful than himself and his colleagues; he had also said that the passionate attachment of the people of Jingalo to the person of their ruler had now been made abundantly evident, and he trusted might ever so continue.
Later in the day, when the short ceremony of Parliament's closing was over (for it was impossible under the circumstances to return to stiff formality, no one being in the mood for it), later in the day, he again presented himself, and besought a private audience. And then—while once more repeating what he had said previously, almost in the same words,—he showed that he had something very serious of which to deliver himself.
He began with a great parade of leaving the matter to the King's decision only; his duty was merely to state the case as it would strike the world.
"We are in your Majesty's hands," he said, "and I have no wish to revive a discussion in which your Majesty has by right the last word. I have only to ask whether the circumstances of the last few hours have in any way affected your Majesty's decision."
As usual this formal insistence upon his "majesty" aroused the King's distrust; with his ministers in privacy he always disliked it. But all he said was: "Why should it?"
The Prime Minister pursed his lips and elaborately paused, as though finding it difficult to express himself. Then he said—
"After an attempted assassination so nearly successful, abdication would have a different effect to what your Majesty presumably intended."
"How?" inquired the King. But though he asked he already knew; and mentally his jaw dropped, as a new apparition of failure rose up and confronted him.