Again William was silent. His attitude was one of utter exhaustion; he continually coughed and shivered.
“You cannot stand the occupation of war,” said William Bentinck. “If you would not kill yourself you must make peace, Highness.”
The Prince roused himself and sat up.
“Will you wait on the English, Bentinck, presently, and tell them I will receive them here as soon as they wish?”
M. Bentinck understood his dismissal in this and felt offended.
Once more he proved the uselessness of any attempt on his part to offer advice to his master.
He put out the needless candles, for the small room was filled with the glitter of the sun, and left without further speech.
William sat quite still, gazing at the homely tiles with their little rural scenes in blue on a yellow ground—a cow, a milkmaid, a windmill, a barge, a dog, a man and a woman skating.
The languor of fatigue and pain made him sit heavily and droopingly, his head supported in his right hand.
The childhood he had scarcely left behind rose in his memory, one incident after another, back to the early years when his mother had taught him he was of the proudest blood in the world.…