She became slack in his arms; he laid her back on the pillow, and rose.
She was smiling up at him, but there was an awful change in her face.
He put his hand before his eyes, and fell down beside her bed, motionless, along the shining floor.
Mary clasped her hands on her bosom, and her head drooped to one side; she continually coughed, and her lids closed heavily.
Lady Temple had run forward as the King fell; Portland and Leeds raised and carried him, easily enough, into the antechamber.
Dr. Radcliffe gave the Queen a cordial; she thanked him, and seemed a little revived.
"Let me sit up," she whispered. Her ladies raised her against the piled-up cushions. "The King"—she added—"the King?—my eyes are weak—I thought—he left me——"
"Dear Lady," answered Dorothy Temple, commanding her own tears, "he is in the next chamber——"
She knew while she spoke that he had fallen into a succession of fits so terrible that not one doctor there thought he could live.
"Perhaps," gasped Mary, "it were better if we—were spared—a final farewell—I could not well bear it——"