"He had it but slightly," answered M. Zulestein. "He was back at the army in twenty days. They say it was his own resolution not to die and the services of M. Portland that saved him, but I do not think this lady hath any such will to live."
"God bless us," cried the Bishop, "who would have thought a man of the King's feeble constitution would have survived the Queen!" He shook his head sorrowfully. "She was our principal hope, our support—a prince of an extraordinary goodness."
"If she dieth she hath the better part," answered the Dutchman. "I know not how the King will well bear it—he hath hardly slept since her illness—for fear of his cough disturbing her he will not lie in her chamber, but hath his camp-bed in the anteroom—yet he is never on it—he hath himself nursed her—day and night with such devotion and care as moveth the heart." He paused, and added, with great emotion, "Had you seen him as I have, in all manner of dangers and fatigues and troubles, always master of himself, and of such an heroical courage that he inflamed those about him, you would find it, sir, terrible to see him as he is now."
"When I last saw him he was struck beyond expression," answered Dr. Burnet. "But I never thought his temper would bear an open display of emotion."
"You know him as well as any Englishman—yet you do not know him," said M. Zulestein.
The pompous self-love of the Bishop was rather hit at this, but he let it pass (as he would not have done at any other time), and neither spoke again before they reached Kensington House.
They found the household in much disorder—the courtyard filled with carriages, the corridors with messengers waiting for the news. M. Zulestein told his companion that the Princess Anne (in open disgrace on account of her championship of my Lord Marlborough, who had been discovered in flagrant treachery) had sent a humble loving message, and that the King had replied warmly, but requested her not to come till there was a turn for the better.
Dr. Burnet thought this answer of the King's looked as if the doctors held out hope; he shouldered his way through the crowd to the Queen's private apartments, and rather breathless and without ceremony he and M. Zulestein put aside the ushers and entered the first antechamber of Mary's apartments.
It was empty save for a couple of curious, frightened servants; but the door into the next room was open, and the two new-comers beheld an extraordinary scene.
A little group with their faces hidden stood before the window; near them at the table was a florid, coarse-featured man, plainly dressed, and cast down before him a gentleman in a violet coat—on his knees with his hands raised in a gesture of abandoned entreaty.