"Why—not failure," protested the Englishman.
Portland paused by the clustered pillars which divided the open windows; a few ghastly flakes of snow were falling from a disturbed sky against the worn, crumbling, and grey masonry.
"Miserable failure," repeated the Earl; his fine fair face was pale and stern in the colourless shadows of the heavy arches. "Parliament needeth a leader, the Republic needeth her magistrate, the allies their commander—there is very much to do—with every day, more—and the man who should do it is as useless as a sick girl."
"I think," said Romney, with some gentleness, "that his heart is broken."
"A man," flashed Portland, "hath no right to a broken heart. Good God, could we not all discover broken hearts if we took time to probe them? I know the Queen's worth, what she was to him, and all of us—but is she served by this weakness of grief? He would best commemorate her by making no pause in his task."
"That is a hard doctrine," answered the Englishman half sadly.
"It is a hard fate to be a great man, my lord—the destinies of nations are not made easily nor cheaply. When the King began his task he was prepared for the price—he should not now shirk the paying of it——"
"It is higher than he thought would be exacted, my lord."
Portland answered sternly—
"You surely do not understand. What was she, after all, but an incident? He had been ten years at his work before she came."