"I did not undertake this for pleasure, your lordship; there was no one else would dare tell His Majesty."
Portland got the King to his feet; the others stood awkward and still; William looked round and saw Dr. Burnet.
"Did you hear?" he asked, under his breath—"did you hear?"
He sank into the chair by the table. The Bishop approached with some faltering words of comfort, but the King cut him short.
"They say there is no hope of the Queen!" he broke out. "No hope! I was the most happy creature upon earth, and now shall be the most miserable! There was no fault in her, not one—you know her as well as any, but you could not know her as I did—there was a worth in her none could know but I!"
With that he burst into a passion of tears, and hid his face on the table in an abandonment of agony which amazed those about him, who knew neither what to say nor do in face of this overthrow of the Master whom they had always regarded as one who would preserve a decent control in the face of any sorrow, since he was a soldier and a statesman, and had kept his countenance in many a bitter crisis, and always shown a singular pride in controlling his passions—so much so, as to be stately and cold even to those he loved; yet here he wept before the very staring servants and gave no heed. Lord Portland thought there was something womanish and unworthy in this desperate grief; he went up to the King and spoke with a kind of heat.
"Will you give way thus? Where is your trust in God?"
He was speaking not to the King of England, but to William of Nassau, at whose side he had faced so many years of danger, his companion in arms, his truest friend.
"She will go to everlasting peace," he said, with energy. "You, who have faced so much, can face the loss of her—for her sake, for her eternal good."
If the King heard these words they did not touch him; he raised his head a little, and broke into incoherent lamentation in a misery of tears.