A slight convulsion shook her; her breath clove her lips apart, and her lids fluttered over her eyes.
The clergymen were on their knees reading the prayer for the dying. As they finished, Dr. Radcliffe put out the candle, on the table by the bed, that shone over the Queen's face.
"It is over," he said; "Her Majesty is dead."
The Palace clock struck the four quarters, and then the hour of one.
The King opened his eyes and looked about him on the hushed kneeling figures. Portland endeavoured to restrain him, but he rose from the couch and moved slowly and languidly towards the bed.
No one dared speak or move.
When he saw the still, disordered coverlet, the shadowed face, the white hand on which the wedding-ring glowed ghastly bright, he put his hand to his breast, and stood for a full minute so, gazing at her; then his senses reeled back to oblivion and he fainted again, falling at the feet of the Archbishop, as that clergyman rose from his knees.
As he lay along the floor they marked how slight and frail he was, and, when they lifted him, how light his weight, and how reluctantly and slowly the heart that had beaten so high stirred in his bosom.
PART III
THE KING