"You know what to write," said William. "Put it in your own hand and your own style—you do not, I think, use cipher——"
Tears of terror, rage, and mortification stood in the Irishman's eyes. He had come to excuse himself from a service that had become too dangerous, and found himself overpowered into going still greater lengths. He could not bring himself to write the letter which would eventually cut him off from all hope of pardon from England.
"He shall write," said the Prince, in a low tone, to M. de Hesse, "if I have to hold a pistol to his head the while."
And he came softly round behind the Ambassador's chair.
"Gentlemen," complained M. D'Albeville, "is this a way to treat the representative of His Britannic Majesty?"
The Landgrave and M. de Lunenburgh closed nearer round him.
M. D'Albeville looked up at the grave faces bent on him, and began to write.
"Make haste," said the Prince, drawing a round filigree watch from his pocket and glancing at the time.
The Ambassador groaned and drove his pen the faster; in a few moments the sheet of paper was covered, sanded, and signed.
"There is my ruin, Highness," said M. D'Albeville dramatically, handing it with shaking fingers.