Sir John obeyed. His face was hard, his lips set into a curious smile. He glanced again at the man by the fire and his eyes wore an unpleasant expression.
There was silence till the entry of the usher, then William turned in his chair.
“You will find there,” he said to him, in French, “letters to Heinsius and Waldeck—see that they are sent to-night.”
Again a pause. A somber servant entered and lit the candles, drew the curtains; the little room grew golden from end to end. By the table stood the Master of Stair, motionless; he had drawn a paper from his pocket and held it down by his side, his handsome face now its usual pallor and the strange drag about the mouth, a distortion that gave a certain terror to his expression.
William leaned back in his chair, his profile, with the high nose, arched brows and sunken cheek, was clearly revealed in the candle-light; his hands showed startlingly white against his black dress, and a diamond on his first finger glittered with many colors.
The usher took up the papers and left, the door closed softly behind him.
Sir John Dalrymple turned slowly to the King.
“I have a paper here for your Majesty’s signature,” he said quietly. “Of no importance—merely a letter to the Commander of the Forces in Scotland, relative to the preserving of the peace.”
“And is that all the business you ’ave for me?”
“It is, your Majesty,” Sir John spoke with lowered lids.