"You did not believe the assassination plot itself until I produced Prendergrass, who had heard them discuss who was to fire the bullet on Turnham Green."
The King answered simply—
"One becometh so well used to these attempts, I should have been dead ten times if assassins could have done it. That was not the way ordained."
"I hope," said Portland dryly, "that your clemency will be rewarded. I, for one, could well wish to see these traitors come to their punishment—yea, and such men as Sunderland——"
William interrupted.
"I hope they will leave me Sunderland—I could ill do without him. But I hear he is likely to be pressed hard in the Commons."
"I cannot wonder," returned Portland, "but only at you who continue to employ such a man."
The King did not answer at once. The moon was sinking and taking on a yellow colour, the shadows were fainter and blended one with another, the trunks, branches, and clustering leaves of the great trees began to show dimly against a paling sky; there was a deep stir of freshness in the still air, the perfume of grass, bracken, and late violets. The steady, unbroken tramp of the great army seemed to grow louder with the first lifting of the night; the men, in ranks of not more than four, could be seen defiling through the yet dark forest.
The King spoke, looking ahead of him.
"Of late I can do nothing to please you," he said in a whisper. "It is not pleasant to me to have this growing coldness."