"I set you free of those oaths—all of you, my lords—my convoy waiteth at Gravesend. In Holland I can be of service—not here." He, with infinite weariness, sat up and took his speech from the table. "Take this, my lord." He held it out to Lord Godolphin.
The minister went on one knee.
"I cannot be a party to this," he said. "Your Majesty must forgive me—but I cannot——"
The blood rushed into the King's thin cheek.
"What do you want of me?" he cried passionately. "You know I do not shirk labour. I have worked like a government clerk since I have been in London, and I am well used to it—but it is no use."
Godolphin answered him with equal passion.
"Is all this labour to come to nothing, sir? If Your Majesty giveth up, there will be no heart in any of us—everything will fly asunder, and we be unprotected for the French and Irish to overrun. Your presence, your Dutch troops alone keep order. Without you we are lost again, and worse than we were before '88——"
"Your Majesty cannot—Your Majesty must not," cried Caermarthen.
Shrewsbury raised his face; he was trembling, and weeping softly.
"God in heaven!" he whispered, under his breath.