At last William moved, rousing the sleeping dog.
"I will go into the garden," he said, "before the sun leaves it. I would see those Turkey pears."
Joost van Keppel rose instantly. The King took his arm and got up slowly, coughing with the effort of movement. Mr. Prior was shocked to see that he could not stand alone, but must support himself on Albemarle's young strength.
The others rose, save my Lord Pembroke, who had been asleep this half-hour across the table. The King saw him—an unpleasing spectacle of a stout gentleman with peruke awry and a coarsely red face, breathing heavily through his open mouth, with a wet stain of wine under his cheek and over his cravat.
Mr. Prior expected a burst of anger from the King; but, instead, His Majesty, still holding on to my Lord Albemarle's arm, broke into a long fit of laughter, in which the others joined for no reason at all save their vacant humours.
The poet could not force even a smile. William's unusual and immoderate amusement had a sad sound to him.
Romney and Wharton went to drag Pembroke to his feet, and the King continued laughing.
He was still laughing when an usher and a courier entered the room.
"From England, sire," said the latter, dropping to one knee.
Albemarle sobered instantly. The King ceased laughing and let go my lord's arm, holding himself upright by aid of the table edge.