He drank the wine, using all the while his left hand, for his right arm was round the boar-hound.
"Dr. Ratcliffe aspired to wit this morning," he said. "'I would not have you cough for your three kingdoms,' he remarked. 'Doctor,' I told him, ''tis the three kingdoms killing me, not the cough.'" He looked round and saw Mr. Prior still standing between the table and the green-gold light of the window.
"Why, Mr. Prior, I play the indifferent host," he murmured. "Join us—take your place——"
Romney and Wharton good-humouredly made way for the young poet, who drew another stool modestly to the table. He was surprised at the easy air of familiarity that reigned; the way these men spoke to the King, and the way in which he accepted it. The three older Dutchmen, Mr. Prior noticed, Mr. Zulestein, M. Auverquerque, and my Lord Athlone, were the gravest of the company; he fancied they were there only out of loyalty to the King.
Albemarle began talking to Wharton; they entered into a lively discussion of their separate racing-stables. The King leant back against the crimson cushions of his chair and turned his head so that he looked out of the window.
Mr. Prior gazed at him; he seemed absorbed in thought. Mr. Prior knew that it was the face of a dying man and a heart-broken man; there was not a line of hope, of peace, or pride in that wan countenance; only the serenity of grief, the apathy of utter weariness—a man worn out, done for, awaiting scornfully an inglorious end. And he had done great things; he had been a light to encourage half the world—a name to rally nations.
"He should have died outside Namur," thought Mr. Prior, and felt the tears smarting against his lids.
He was not deceived by the boon companions, the drinking, the careless talk. He knew that the King cared for none of it, save as a means to hasten death; indeed, the little poet wondered, what had he to live for?—the Queen had gone, then Portland, then the army—his task was finished.
It might have been an hour or more that the King lay back in his chair looking out on the slow-waving, full-leaved boughs, through which the changing sunlight moved; while the noisy talk of the others filled the shadowy spaces of the mellow, lofty room.
Albemarle looked at him often and anxiously, but did not speak.