"Your Majesty hath other friends," answered Portland bitterly.
"You are unreasonable," said the King, in the same sad, broken voice. "I cannot withdraw my favour from M. van Keppel—justice and dignity forbid it. You should understand that, William. I also might have my complaints; it is not easy for me to keep the peace between you and M. van Keppel. Your constant quarrels make my household in a perpetual tumult—and, I must say it, it is not M. van Keppel who is generally the aggressor."
"His presence is an offence," declared Portland hotly; "a creature of my Lord Sunderland, a flattering, smooth-tongued boy—a dissolute rake who hath done nothing for your service!"
The King turned his face towards his friend.
"It cuts me to the heart," he said, with great emotion, "that you should dream—for one second—that he could make me ever forget or undervalue all the services I owe to you. Nothing could alter my affection for you; it is my great grief that you should not feel that as I do."
"You have changed," was all Portland said.
The King lifted his eyes to the sky showing between the trees they rode past, his haggard face was faintly visible in the increasing light.
"Yes, I have changed," he said slowly. "Perhaps even you cannot guess how much. I could not convey to you how utterly indifferent all the world is to me save only my hope to a little more complete the task God put upon me. Your friendship is all that is left to me. Nothing hath been real since—she—died. I only act and think and go through my days because I believe she would have wished it. I only do this and that because I think—she would have done it. I only keep on because she wished that, even at the last. I only endure to live because I dare to hope she may be somewhere—waiting——"
His voice sank so low as to be almost incoherent; Portland could scarcely catch the words. They came to a little hollow beside the path that was filled with spring flowers opening to the dawn, daisies and lilies and tufts of fresh green.
The King spoke again.