And beyond, beyond it all, lay London.
What was happening there?
The question startled the King.
Engrossed in his own thoughts, absorbed by his own emotions, he had entirely forgotten the crisis.
Was everything still proceeding in accordance with plan? Why had he not heard from the Duke? Had not the Duke said that he would be communicating with him?
A sudden impatience with, a new contempt for, himself, swept over the King.
What right had he to be sitting there, in peace and quietness, when there was uproar and tumult, perhaps, when great events were shaping themselves, perhaps, over there, beyond the wooded skyline?
The Duke had urged him to leave the palace. The Duke had urged him to seek a retreat, an asylum, out of the way of possible trouble.
All that was true.
And yet, here again, by his own act, had he not placed himself—in an utterly false position?