He smiled, and the young soldier, who had been taught all his life to

regard him as the first of living men, bowed, overwhelmed, with tears of

pleasure in his eyes.

William gave him his hand and Joost van Keppel kissed it reverently,

then, at a delicate sign from Sunderland, retired, followed by the Lord

Keeper.

The King sat very quiet, looking into the fire. Portland came and stood

behind his chair.

"Will you go out to the war?" he asked.

"Yes," said William simply.

Sunderland darted a sideway look at Portland, who flushed.

"I am indeed glad of that," he said sternly.

"That is a gallant youngster," said the King. "I ever liked him. I

will keep him about me; he is a pleasant creature."

"He is," replied Portland; "a rakehelly good-for-nought, as every one

knows."

William smiled faintly; he was the most tolerant of men, and had no

interest in those faults that did not cross his designs.

"I have loved rakes before," he said, and looked at my Lord Romney.

The two Englishmen laughed a little, but Portland answered, with some

anger--

"He is a young prodigal with more debts than wits; you should not have

given him your hand."

The King did not resent his friend's brusque address, he answered

quietly, in his weak voice--

"It would give me pleasure to pay some of those debts."

Sunderland softly put in a remark.

"M. van Keppel is the most obliging, sweet-tempered gentleman in the

world, and one most devoted to Your Majesty."

"And a great friend of your lordship," said Portland, with a cold

haughtiness. He perceived, as he thought, a design on the part of

Sunderland and Somers, with perhaps Marlborough behind them, to put up a

rival to share with him the King's affections, which had been wholly his

for near their joint lives, and he could not contain his scorn and

resentment, nor was he assuaged by the obvious unconsciousness of the

King.

Romney made some attempt to shift the subject; he came forward in the

easy gracious way habitual to him.

"Your Majesty will be soon for Flanders, then?" he asked. "It is a noble

resolution."

William rose.

"I think it is my duty," he answered. He took up the plans of Greenwich

Palace from the window-sill. "I think it is all there is for me to do.

I thank you, my lords," he added, with dignity, "for having so long

borne with me."

He gave a little bow and left them to enter the inner room. As the door

closed on him Sunderland smiled at the other two.

"Have I not succeeded?" he demanded. "He is roused, he will go out to

the war, I even think that he will take Namur."

"You are very clever, my lord," admitted Romney, "and surely you have

done the King a great service."

Portland broke in hotly--

"You pulled the strings of your puppet very skilfully; you know how to

deal with the weaknesses of men, but those who are the King his friends

do not love to see him practised on for party purposes."

"I stand for more than party purposes," answered Sunderland, with sudden

haughtiness. "My cause is the King his cause--that is sufficient--and

for the rest, my deeds are not answerable at the tribunal of your

virtues, my lord."

Portland came a step nearer to him.

"You scarce believe in God--you are little better than an atheist--yet

all these terms are glib upon your tongue, and your tool, a shallow

popinjay, can prate very nicely of sacred things. You are not

sincere--you care for nothing--for no one."

Romney made a little movement as if he would have stepped between the

two earls, but Sunderland answered unmoved--

"I have my policy too much at heart to jeopardize it by expounding it

myself. I fear that my principles would suffer by my lack of

eloquence."

"Your principles!" cried Portland. "Your policy--what is it?"

"Too precious a thing for me to risk on a turn of the tongue, I repeat,

my lord. I speak in actions. Watch them and know my answer."

CHAPTER III

ATTAINMENT

It was the commencement of the campaign of 1695; as yet nothing had been

done either side. The men at Versailles who managed the war had

concentrated their forces in Flanders, and there the allies had gathered

to meet them; the Elector of Bavaria and other princes of the Empire

were encamped with the Germans guarding Brussels; the Brandenburghers

and Spanish lay at Huy; the Dutch and British under the command of the

King of England, at Ghent.

The French waited. Villeroy was not Luxembourg; he had no genius for

command, and he was hampered by the presence of the Duc de Maine, his

pupil and his superior, who showed no aptitude for war, not even common

courage. Boufflers watched the King of England, the meaning of whose

marches he could not fathom; his oblique moves might cover a design on

either Ypres or Dunkirk; for a month they continued, and neither

Villeroy nor Boufflers suspected an attempt on Namur.

But on June 28th, the King, the Elector, and the Brandenburghers

advanced with a swift concerted movement straight on Namur with such

suddenness and rapidity that M. de Boufflers had scarcely time to throw

himself into the fortress before the three divisions of the allied army

closed round the walls of the town.

The Prince de Vaudemont had been left in Flanders to watch Villeroy.

That general believed he could wipe out this force and then drive the

allies from Namur--he said as much in his dispatches to Versailles; but

M. de Vaudemont effected a masterly retreat into Ghent, and the easiness

of the French Court was disturbed, especially as it was whispered that

an action had been avoided owing to the poltroonery of M. de Maine.

M. de Kohorn, the principal engineer of the allies, had set his heart on

the capture of the fortress that he had seen taken by his great master

and rival, M. de Vauban. The Frenchman had since added considerably to

the fortifications, and rendered Namur the strongest fortress in the

world, and M. de Kohorn was spurred by professional pride into a

desperate attempt to make good his failure of three years ago.

A week after the trenches were opened the English foot guards gained the

outworks on the Brussels side; on the seventeenth the first counterscarp

of the town was captured; on the twentieth the Germans gained Vauban's

line of fortifications cut in the rock from the Sambre to the Meuse and

the great sluice or waterworks; on the twenty-third the Dutch and

English made conquest of the second counterscarp, and the town

capitulated, Boufflers and the garrison retiring into the citadel,

leaving behind them about fifteen hundred wounded men to be cared for by

the allies.

On the 6th of August the allies, led by the King of England, marched

into Namur by the St. Nicolas Gate, and prepared for the last and

terrible assault on the garrison.

Villeroy, who had meantime taken the petty towns of Dixmuyde and Deynse,

endeavoured to induce the King to raise the siege of Namur by menacing

Brussels, which he shelled and greatly damaged; but in vain, for William

was not to be lured into relinquishing his prey, and Villeroy, after two

days, marched on to Enghien, and, having collected the greater number of

the French troops in the Netherlands, amounting in all to over eighty

thousand men, advanced to the relief of Namur.

But the Prince de Vaudemont having now joined the allied forces it was

considered that they were strong enough to face Villeroy, and at the

same time continue the siege of the castle and hold the town.

On the fifteenth the French host fired a salute of ninety guns as a

haughty promise of relief to Boufflers; from then to the nineteenth the

two mighty armies faced each other, neither making any movement. Europe

held its breath, Paris and London, The Hague and Vienna, Brussels, still

half prostrate from French fires, Rome and Madrid waited in almost

unbearable suspense for the result of the promised and, it seemed,

inevitable combat between the two finest and largest armies that had

ever met on European soil.

Boufflers burnt fire signals every night on his watch-towers, which

urged haste to Villeroy, who still lay beyond the mighty ring of the

confederate army who incessantly stormed the citadel.

On the nineteenth the King rose at dawn, got his forces under arms, and

rode from post to post surveying his troops and watching the enemy; he

was in the saddle from four in the morning till nightfall, and tired out

three horses. When he returned to his tent that had been pitched in the

encampment on the west of the town near the Abbey of Salsines, there was

no portion of his vast army that he had not personally inspected.

He dined alone; the Elector of Bavaria and the other German princes

being in immediate command of the troops that were actually storming

Namur.

He expected that Villeroy would attack him as soon as it was light, and

his preparations were complete.

He had an interview with M. Dyckfelt, who was with the army as

representative of the States General, and was then alone, it being about

ten of the clock and a hot summer night.

All the light in the tent came from a silver lamp suspended from the

cross-poles, which gave an uncertain and wavering illumination. The

King sat in the shadows; on the little table beside him was his sword,

his pistols, and a map of Namur.

He was thinking of twenty-three years ago when, in his early youth, he

had first led an army against France; his entire force then had numbered

little more than the servants, footmen, and attendants in his retinue

now. All Europe had been against him, half his country in the hands of

the enemy, the home government in the control of the opposing factions.

The man of forty-four looked back at the achievements of the youth of

twenty-one with an extraordinary sense--almost of wonder.

He recalled with painful vividness how Buckingham and Arlington had come

to offer him the shameful terms of France and England, their scorn at

his rejection of the bitter bargain, and how even William Bentinck, gay

and thoughtless then, had despaired. Hopeless, indeed, it had seemed;

there had not been one to believe in him; but he had never doubted his

own destiny.

And now he was justified in what he had undertaken, at least that,

whatever sorrows, humiliations, and disappointments had darkened his way

the outward semblance was of great and steady success.

The Prince, who had been little better than a State prisoner and a pawn

in the politics of Europe, heir to a ruined family and leader of a

despairing nation, was now a King, directing half Europe, with one of

the mightiest armies the world had seen behind him. Of the monarchs who

had offered to silence his despised defiance with dishonourable terms

one was now dead, and he held his kingdoms; and the other, who then had

threatened to overrun the world, was now with difficulty holding his own

against a coalition that included all the principal countries of Europe.

Not without concession, infinite patience, endless trouble, and long

waiting had William got these allies together. For the support and the

millions of England he was paying a price none but himself could gauge

the bitterness of. To Scandinavia he had had to sacrifice some of his

cherished maritime privileges; Spain, the most provoking of the

confederates, had been kept by much expenditure of art and money; the

German princes had been held together by a title, a garter, a subsidy,

an honour, a promise of a prospective dignity. Now, before the walls of

Namur, the man whose genius and indomitable courage had, during twenty

years, toiled towards this end, might feel that he was beginning to

taste his reward.

He was facing France, equal to equal; he was feared and respected

throughout the world. The Protestant faith, threatened with extinction

by Louis, he had placed on a basis from which, as long as any faith

lasted, it could never be displaced. His country was free, and

prosperous, and foremost among nations again; the power of France was

already too crippled for there to be longer any fear of her upsetting

the balance of power.

The English fleet, useless since Elizabeth, again was mistress of the

seas. Russell passed unmolested between Spain and Italy, defied the

remnant of the French fleet imprisoned in Toulon port, and dared the

whole of the Mediterranean seaboard. Berkeley passed unmolested along

the French coast, burnt Granville, shelled Calais and Dunkirk, and kept

the English flag high and undisputed above the Channel.

The man who had been the boy who had once passionately resolved to do

these things found the realization of them different indeed to those

bright imaginings. Attainment of fame, honour, power, success could not

give more than a faint remembrance of the throb of exultation the

youthful Prince had felt when he, penniless, unsupported, hampered in

every possible way, had first flung his challenge to overwhelming odds.

Then there had been everything to do; but ardent courage and unspoilt

faith had gilded difficulties, and the heroic pride of youth had smiled

at obstacles; now the loss of a love the boy had never dreamt of had

made all things else appear small to the man.

Twenty years of toil, of acquaintance with treachery, deceit, smallness,

weakness, twenty years of misunderstood endeavour, of constant strain,

of constant fatigue had done their work. The fine spirit did not shrink

from its task, but never again could it recapture the early glow of

hope, the early ecstasy of labour, the early pride of achievement.

What was his achievement, after all. He might well think that the God

he had served so patiently had mocked him. He had loved but to lose his

love; he had bartered his personal ease, almost his liberty, almost his

pride for bitter honours held in exile; his health was utterly worn out,

his days were a continual weariness and pain; he was again as lonely as

he had been when he was the prisoner of the States; he had no heir, and

the main branch of his family died with him; if he could not finish

himself his task he must entrust it to strangers to complete. Surely

all was utter vanity and vexation. The cold consolations of a sombre

faith only supported him. He clung to those beliefs in which Mary had

died, and faced the few years that at best remained to him with the same

high courage with which she had met her fate.

He rose presently, in the perfect stillness, and went to the entrance of

his tent, lifted the flap, and looked out.

The French red flares on the towers of Namur were visible across the

great plain of the Sambre and Meuse; the starlight showed the huge

encampment stretching out of sight under the clear sky: near by a sentry

paced with his musket over his shoulder; it was very hot and not a blade

of grass stirred in the absolute arrested stillness.

Presently a surgeon passed through the tents carrying a lantern and

followed by a servant leading a mule laden with his chest. The light

flickered awhile amid the canvas then disappeared; a dog barked and a

man whistled to it; the silence fell again as intense as before.

The King went back and flung himself on his couch; he could not come

near sleep, but lay watching the long, pale beams of light the lamp cast

over the worn grass that formed the floor of the hastily constructed

tent.

His mind kept dwelling on his first campaign, his miserable army, his

own ignorance of all but book tactics, his lack of money, of

authority--yet that had been the first spark of that fire that now lit

Europe. He had formed and trained his own armies--Dutch,

Brandenburghers, Swedes, Germans, and lately the English--until they

were equal to those consummate French troops who had laughed at him in

'72; but they fought with no more devotion and courage than the handful

of Hollanders who had rallied round him then, now incorporated into the

famous Dutch Guards, the most beloved of all his beloved army.

He thought of these Guards marching against Villeroy now, feared and

honoured, and his heart fluttered faintly with a fleeting pleasure that

they should ever face the French on these terms.

He closed his eyes and instantly there spread before him a vision of the

great banqueting hall at Whitehall hung with black, and the banners and

armours of his family, while in the centre was a mighty catafalque of

black velvet which bore an open coffin, at the foot of which lay a royal

crown and sceptre. She who rested there was covered to the chin in gold

stuff, and round her head was twisted her dark, curling, auburn hair.

The King sprang up and walked up and down the uneven ground; he drew

from under his shirt and cravat a long, black ribbon, to which was

attached a gold wedding-ring and a long lock of that same rich hair that

he had seen in his vision.

He paused under the lamp and gazed at it; in that moment he prayed that

he might find his death in to-morrow's battle with as much passion as

any poor wretch ever prayed for hope of life. He was still standing so,

forgetful of time and place, when he heard voices without, and hastily

put the ribbon back over his heart.

The flap was raised and the figure of a young officer showed against the

paling sky.

"Is it M. van Keppel?" asked the King quietly.

"Yes, sire." The speaker entered. He had been sent with the King's

commands to the Elector of Bavaria.

"M. de Bavaria understands everything?" inquired William.

"He is quite ready, sire."

"So are we," said the King. "I should think M. de Villeroy would make

the attack in an hour or so--the dawn is breaking, is it not?"

"The sun was just rising, sire, above the river, as I rode from the camp

of His Highness."

"Yet the light is very faint here. Will you, Mynheer, light the other

lamp?" The King spoke gently, but he had quite regained that command of

himself which rendered his demeanour so stately and impressive.

M. van Keppel obeyed and was then retiring, but William, who was seated

by the table, asked him to stay.

"I may have another message for you," he added.

The officer bowed.

William rang the little hand-bell near him and a valet instantly

appeared from the curtained inner portion of the tent. The King lived

very simply when at the camp. He now asked for wine, and when it was

brought made M. van Keppel drink with him, which honour caused the young

soldier to redden with pleasure.

"I hear," said William, "that the garrisons of Dixmuyde and Deynse have

been sent prisoners to France. That breaketh the treaty we made for the

exchange of captives--treachery and insolence, it seemeth, are the only

methods of France."

"Treachery and insolence will not for ever prevail," answered Joost van

Keppel, in his sweet, ardent voice. "The fortunes of Your Majesty begin

to overleap the arrogance of France."

"There will be a great battle to-day," remarked the King quietly and

irrelevantly.

The powerful summer dawn, strengthening with every moment, penetrated

the tent and mingled with the beams of the two lamps. The King sat in

the crossed lights; his gentleman knelt before him, fastening the great

gilt spurs to his close riding-boots. He looked at Joost van Keppel

gravely and kindly; his face, pale in its proper complexion, was tanned

darkly by the Lowland sun; his eyes were extraordinarily bright and

flashing, but languid lidded and heavily shadowed beneath; his large,

mobile mouth was set firmly; his long, thick curls hung over his black

coat, across which showed the blue ribbon and star that he had not

removed since he had reviewed his forces yesterday.

"Mynheer," he said to M. van Keppel. "Lift the flap and look out----"

The young Dutchman obeyed and a full sunbeam struck across the dim

artificial light.

"A fine day," remarked William; he was ever fond of sun and warmth.

As M. van Keppel stood so, holding back the canvas and gazing over the

tents that spread across the plain of the Meuse, a gentleman, armed on

back and breast with a gold inlaid cuirass, wrapped in a black silk

mantle and carrying a hat covered with white plumes, rode up,

dismounted, and entered the King's tent without a word of ceremony.

M. van Keppel bowed very respectfully; it was the Earl of Portland.

On seeing the King alone with the young officer his face darkened; he

answered the King's greeting of unconscious affection with stern

brusqueness.

"There are letters from England--I met the messenger," he said, and laid

the packet on the table by the wine-glasses.

Joost van Keppel was quick to see the instant shock that William

quivered under, and to perceive the cause of it. When last the King had

been at the war not a post had arrived from London without a letter from

the Queen. The young man thought Portland had acted with some

harshness; he came forward and said impulsively--

"Letters from England, my lord, are not of such importance that they

cannot wait till after the battle."

This was to Portland incredible impertinence; he stared at the flushed,

generous face with bitterly angry eyes; but William seemed relieved.

"Yes, let the news wait," he said, and rose.

"If this was known in London what would they say?" broke out Portland.

"How can it be known in London when I have none here but friends?"

answered the King.

"I thank Your Majesty for including me with M. van Keppel as your

friend," flashed Portland.

The King looked at him sharply, then from one man to another.

"Mynheer van Keppel," he said, "you will return to M. de Bavaria and

tell him to be in readiness for a message from us."

The officer bowed with great deference and sweetness to his master and

the Earl, and instantly retired.

"Will you not read those letters?" asked Portland, in no way appeased.

William gave him a glance between reproach and wonder, broke the seals,

and looked over the letters.

"Nothing," he said, when he laid them down, "save that some sugar ships

from Barbadoes have been taken by the French, that there is great

uneasiness on the Stock Exchange."

"Nothing of M. de Leeds?" asked Portland.

"No," said the King; he was standing up and his gentleman buckled him

into his light cuirass; "but I will not have him touched--he is punished

enough." He added, with some contempt, "Is Leeds so much worse than the

herd that he should be hunted from it?"

"A corrupt man," answered Portland gloomily; "but you were always tender

with him."

William was silent. His obligation to Leeds consisted entirely of that

nobleman's devotion to the Queen; he thought that Portland knew this and

despised him for such sentiment in politics. Neither spoke any more on

the subject.

"M. Montague is a clever man," remarked the King, after a little;

"another pensioner of my Lord Dorset. How goeth the other, your

secretary?"

"Ah, Prior," replied the Earl, "well enough, but I think him an atheist.

His poetry is full of heathen gods, and when I probed him on the subject

he was not satisfactory in his answers, but well enough."

"Put my Lord Sarum on to converting him," said William drily; "but I

should not take much account of his poetry."

The King's gentleman went into the back part of the tent and Portland

instantly addressed his master with great heat.

"Sir, I must tell you that it is a source of great wonder to all that

you should so encourage, favour, and caress a worthless young rake like

M. van Keppel--a mere hanger-on to court favour; your dignity suffers by

it----"

The King interrupted.

"Are you jealous--you--of him?" he asked mournfully.

"I have enough to make me jealous," was the hot answer, "when I see the

creature of such as my Lord Sunderland creep into your affections."

The King answered in gentle, dignified tones, without a touch of anger

or resentment--

"You are indeed wrong. I like M. van Keppel for himself--I find him

sweet and intelligent, a willing servant--and I have not too many. But

you know, even while you speak, that nothing could come between me and

you."

"I think he hath come between us," said Portland sternly; "during the

whole campaign he hath hardly left your side. I believe you even consult

him as to your actions--he!--why, the whole camp knoweth his reputation.

I could tell some tales----"

The King broke in.

"I'll hear no scandals. You know that of me. If we are to listen to

tale-bearing there is not one of us safe. If I favoured any man do you

not think there would be tales against him? But I did not think to find

you leaning on gossip."

He still spoke with an utter calm; but Portland took his words heavily.

"If you choose to reprimand me----" he began.

"Forgive me," said the King instantly. "I thought you would understand.

Indeed, forgive me. I would do anything in the world not to vex you."

The return of the gentleman with William's gloves and cloak cut short

the conversation. The King fastened his sword-belt over his shoulder

and adjusted the weapon; as he took up his hat with the long black

feathers a magnificent Brandenburgher officer entered, followed by M.

Dyckfelt.

"Your Majesty," said the Dutchman quietly, "M. de Villeroy hath

retreated in the night--leaving M. de Boufflers to his fate."

The Brandenburgher went on one knee and handed William a dispatch from

the commander of the scouts, who had seen the last vanishing rearguard

of the French.

The King showed no emotion of any kind.

"Count," he said to the officer, "you will go to M. de Bavaria and

request him to make an immediate assault on Namur."

When the officer had withdrawn, with profound obeisance, William turned

to Portland.

"I will ask you to go to M. de Boufflers and demand a surrender. Tell

him that there is no further hope for him from M. de Villeroy, and that

if he wisheth to spare his garrison he must capitulate to-day."

Portland bowed gravely and turned away. William looked after him

keenly, then took up his perspective glass, his gloves, and his baton,

and left the tent.

CHAPTER IV

A MAN'S STRENGTH

M. de Boufflers refused to surrender; he was a Marechal de France, he

had still many thousand men, including M. Megrigny, the engineer

esteemed second only to M. de Vauban, and the castle was deemed

impregnable. The assault was fixed for one in the afternoon. The King

of England, the Elector of Bavaria, the Landgrave of Hesse, other German

potentates and the officers of their staff gathered on the rocky

promontory immediately below the ramparts of the citadel; before them

rose the castle ringed with walls, batteries, palisades, fosses, dykes,

and traverses, and set back two miles or more in elaborate ramparts and

outworks.

The allies had formed a complete circumvallation round the huge

fortress, and had opened their trenches at the very foot of the rock

which M. de Vauban had fortified with such deadly skill.

The day was extraordinarily hot and cloudless; the sun, being now just

overhead, blazed with equal light on the ruined town, the lofty castle,

on counterscarp, glacis, and half-moon, on the trenches, the defences of

wattled sticks lined with sandbags, on the distant spreading encampment

of the allies, on the still more distant sparkle of the Meuse, which

glittered across the great plain and on the walls of the Abbey of

Salsines.

It shone, too, on a thousand flags, a thousand squads of men moving with

bayonets and matchlocks set to the attack, and gleamed in the armour of

the little group of gentlemen who were directing the operations, and

sometimes sent a long ray of burning light from their perspective

glasses as they turned them on the castle or the approaching regiments

of their own troop as they defiled through the town.

It had been arranged that the assault was to be made in four places at

once, by the Dutch, Brandenburghers, Bavarians, and English severally;

the first three were tried and veteran troops, the fourth, however,

consisted of recruits who were seeing their first campaign and had never

been under fire before; the best English troops had marched to encounter

Villeroy, and had not been summoned to the attack.

The King turned his glasses on the trenches where these regiments

waited; they were under the command of John Cutts, as brave and gallant

an officer as ever breathed.

William put down his glasses and looked up at the grim citadel.

"This is a severe test for them," he remarked.

The Electoral Prince was taking a bet from the exultant Kohorn that they

would enter Namur by the 31st of August. William laughed.

"I am sorry that Your Highness should put money on our failure," he

said. "I hear that the betting in London is greatly in our favour."

"This is a matter of dates, Your Majesty," answered M. de Bavaria. "I

say 'No' only to August the 31st."

"I am glad M. de Kohorn is so confident," said William graciously to the

great engineer.

M. de Hesse, who wore on his finger a watch in a great ring of

brilliants, remarked that the time was near ten minutes to one; M. de

Bavaria bowed profoundly and galloped off to direct his own men in

person; the King looked keenly round to see that none of his servants

were lurking in the line of fire. Interference was almost as unendurable

to him as cowardice; more than once during the siege he had been

exasperated into horsewhipping some daring footmen or valet out of the

trenches. During the assault of July the 27th he had been considerably

vexed to see M. Godfrey, one of the directors of the new Bank of

England, among his officers, and had severely reprimanded him for his

presence in so dangerous a position.

"But I run no more risk than you, sire," M. Godfrey had protested.

The King's answer and the sequel were long remembered.

"I, sir," he replied, "may safely trust to God, since I am doing my duty

in being here, while you----"

The sentence remained unfinished, for a French cannon shot laid M.

Godfrey dead at the King's side. William had hoped that this would

prove a lesson to useless meddlers, but even since he had been provoked

by various people who had business at the camp, and who strayed into the

trenches to get a view of real fighting, often with no conception of the

danger of the slow dropping bombs and bullets.

But this afternoon the King's eagle eyes were satisfied that the works

were clear of sightseers; it had been fairly well spread abroad that

this assault would be, beyond experience, terrible, and those whose duty

did not take them to the front were well in the rear.

M. de Hesse and the other Germans having galloped off to their posts,

the King remained alone with his staff, midway between the ramparts that

were to be attacked and the English trenches, full in the cross-line of

fire, and motionless and conspicuous as a target on the little jutting

shelf of rock; his officers were a little way behind, and his figure was

completely outlined against the blue gap of sun-filled air behind the

rock slope.

He rode a huge grey Flemish horse, dark as basalt and as smooth--very

lightly trapped with red leather linked with silver gilt--that he

managed as well as a man can. He had always been renowned for his

consummate horsemanship, and this great beast, that had taken two

footmen to hold in before he mounted, he held delicately with one hand

on the reins with such a perfect control, that the creature was utterly

motionless on the narrow ledge of slippery rock.

The hot air was full of different distant and subdued sounds--the rattle

of the guns, the clink of the matchlocks striking the cobbles of the

town below, the tramp of feet, the neighing of horses, and,

occasionally, the crowing of a cock on some farm outside Namur.

The King sat with his reins loose, holding in his right hand his baton

that he rested against his hip. He was intently watching the English

trenches.

The clocks of the churches in Namur struck one; instantly a loud report

and a jet of flame came from the trenches below; two barrels of

gunpowder had been blown up as a signal for the attack.

Before the smoke had cleared, all the minor sounds were silenced by the

steady beat of drums and kettledrums, and the King perceived the

Grenadiers marching from behind their defences and earthworks steadily

towards the ramparts of Namur--these were the men of Cutt's own

regiment. They were immediately followed by the four new battalions.

They came on steadily, in good order, with their bright, unspoilt

colours in their midst, their colonels riding before them. The King

could discern the slender figure of John Cutts marching on foot before

the Grenadiers with his drawn sword in his hand.

There was no sign from the castle. The English leapt, man after man,

the last deep trench of their own earthworks, and suddenly, at a word

from their leader, whose voice came faintly to the King's ears, broke

into a run and dashed up the slope at the foot of the rock, and full at

the first wall of the French fortifications.

Instantly the batteries of the garrison opened a terrible fire, and a

confused echo to their thunder told that the other three divisions of

the confederates were meeting a like reception.

The English kept on; the little body of the Grenadiers, with the four

battalions supporting them and at the head of all John Cutts, climbed

the face of the rock with no sign of disorder.

The King wheeled his horse round to face them, and his brilliant eyes

never left their ranks.

The French commenced fire from the guns behind their first palisade,

which swept the ranks of the advancing English with deadly effect.

Almost every officer of the Grenadiers fell on the hot, bare rock. The

drums began to give a disconnected sound, the colours wavered, but the

men pressed on, with Cutts still running before them and the recruits

doggedly behind them.

The King sent one of his officers with orders for the English batteries

to open fire as soon as the breach had been made.

There was, in the space of a few seconds, hardly an officer left among

the English, the colonels, captains, and lieutenants, who had dashed

forward to encourage their men, were lying scattered about the

hill-side--patches of scarlet and steel--with their riderless horses

running frantically back towards the camp.

Still Cutts came on. The smoke was thick about him, but the King could

see him clearly as he came every moment nearer. The Grenadiers had

gained a firm footing on the ledge of rock beneath the palisade, and

were about to hurl themselves against it. The cannonade was now

supplemented by a storm of bullets. Cutts gave a shout, raised his

sword, and pitched to the ground, shot through the head, while the

thinned ranks of the Grenadiers rolled backwards down the rocks.

The King uttered a passionate exclamation; a bomb, cast from the castle,

burst near him, and his horse reared frantically at the explosion. When

he had quieted the animal and the smoke had cleared, he saw two of the

Grenadiers coming towards him supporting John Cutts between them. As

they reached a deep, natural gully that cleft the rock, one fell and

rolled down the precipice; the other caught his officer by the arm and

swung him across the chasm; the King galloped up to them.

"Is my lord slain?" he asked.

The wounded man lifted his brown eyes and laughed. Blood blotched the

left side of his face and ran through the bright brown English locks.

"Why, no, sir," he answered.

"I am glad of that," said the King. "But your men are being

repulsed----"

"God help me--not for long!" cried my lord, and dashed the blood out of

his eyes, and with that movement fainted.

"Call up my surgeon," commanded William to one of his officers. Lord

Cutts was carried out of the firing line, and the King again directed

his attention to the English, who, leaderless, were nevertheless dashing

forward, though without order or method, sheer against the French fire.

"It is too much for them," muttered William.

This wild charge was suddenly checked by a deep precipice blown in the

rock by underground powder magazines; the raw soldiers stood helpless,

baffled. The air was of a continuous redness; the half-naked French

gunners could be seen, running in and out of their vaulted galleries and

crouching, behind the black shape of the guns; flying fragments of

shell, masonry, and rock fell among the leaderless English, who

hesitated, gave way, and retreated down the bloody slope they had

gained, each rank falling back on the other in confusion, while a shout

of triumph rose from the fiery ramparts of Namur.

The King urged his beautiful horse up the zigzag path. The bullets

flattened themselves on the rocks about him with a dull, pattering

sound; the horse laid back its ears and showed the scarlet of its

nostrils; the King, with infinite skill and gentleness, brought it to a

higher ridge where he could better survey the heights. The English,

rolling back beneath him, looked up and saw him though the smoke, the

sun darting broken rays off the star on his breast. He took off his hat

covered with black plumes and waved it to them to encourage them to come

on. A ragged cheer broke from them; they plunged forward again, but a

terrific fire swept them back with half their number fallen. At this

moment the King saw Lord Cutts, hatless and with a bandaged head,

running up towards the glacis.

William rode up to him. The red fire was about them as if it had been

the colour of the atmosphere.

"My lord," said the King, reining up his horse, "they cannot do it."

A young man in a splendid uniform came riding through the strong

smelling smoke.

"Sire," he said, saluting, "the Bavarians are giving way--their general

hath fallen----"

William spoke swiftly to the Englishman.

"Can you rally your men to the assistance of the Bavarians, my lord?

'Tis hopeless to attempt to make a breach here."

John Cutts smiled up at his master; he had to shout to make his voice

heard through the rattle of the cannonade--

"'Tis done, Your Majesty!"

His gallant figure slipped, like a hound from the leash, into the smoke,

towards where the English Footguards were retreating, and William,

pointing with his baton to where he rode that his officers might follow

him, swept round the ramparts to where the Bavarians wavered before the

fire of the French. Regiment after regiment had hurled in vain against

the palisades, the ditches and clefts were choked with corpses, and in

every squad of men a great lane was torn every time the French gunners

fired their pieces, while the Dragoons stood on the glacis, sword in

hand, ready to cut down whoever should touch the palisade.

"They are very determined," remarked William calmly, glancing up at the

red-hot line of fire bursting from the French batteries; "but so am I."

As he spoke a bullet passed through his hair so close to his cheek that

he felt the warm whizz of it; and another, almost simultaneously, tore

through the ends of his scarf.

"For God's sake, sire," cried the officer near him, "this is certain

death."

But the King took no heed of him; his sparkling eyes were fastened on

the faltering ranks of Bavaria, who were being borne, steadily but

surely, down the slopes, leaving dead behind them, their commander, and

most of their officers.

At the very moment when it seemed that they had hopelessly lost ground,

John Cutts came running up with the colours of the Grenadiers in one

hand and his sword in the other, behind him two hundred of the English

recruits whom he had rallied from the retreat.

The Bavarians, encouraged by this help, took heart and came forward

again and began climbing up the rock; but Cutts and his English dashed

ahead of them right into the cannon fire, forced their way through the

palisade, and engaged in a hand to hand fight with the gunners and

Dragoons, who were driven back from their defences and hurled over their

own ramparts on to the bayonets of the Bavarians below. In a few

moments the English had captured the battery, swung the guns round and

directed them at the Castle. With a shout the Bavarians dashed through

the breach in the wall and, climbing over corpses of men and horses,

poured into the enemy's lines.

The King watched them as they scaled ditches and trenches and palisade,

then made a detour round the fire-swept face of the rock to the point

the Dutch had been ordered to attack. Splendid soldiers, splendidly

commanded, they had already gained the position and with very little

loss; the French gunners lay in torn and mangled heaps behind their

pieces, which the Dutch were engaged in turning on the garrison.

William now gave orders that his batteries were to be brought in play

from every available position, both on the ramparts gained and from

every rock and out-work in the possession of the allies. He himself

rode through the broken wall and took up his position inside the French

palisades, where his horse could scarcely find a footfall for the dead

and dying. The air was so full of powder smoke that the walls and

turrets of the castle appeared to hang as in a great fog with no visible

foundations; the crack of musketry was incessant, and little threads of

flame ran across the dark heavy vapour; fragments of rock and wall

rolled continually down the slope--dislodged by bombs bursting or the

explosion of barrels of gunpowder. But this was as nothing to the

cannonade. When the combined batteries of the allies opened on Namur,

the oldest soldier could remember no such fire--it was a bombardment

such as had never been known in war. The French gunners dropped one

after another before they could put their fuses to their pieces, and

were obliged to take refuge in their underground galleries; the roar was

unceasing, and the continual flames lit up the rocks, the chasms, the

bastions with as steady and awful a glare as if the world was on fire.

A body of Dragoons made a gallant sally out on to the glacis, but were

swept down to a man before they had advanced a hundred yards. The

Dutch, under cover of the French palisades, picked off with musket shot

every Frenchman who appeared within range, portions of the walls and

curtains began to fall in, the sacking and wattles, put up to catch the

bullets, caught fire and flared up through the smoke.

The King could scarcely see his own staff-officers for the glare and

harsh blinding vapour. His ears were filled with the lamentations of

the mangled and delirious wretches who lay scattered about the glacis,

and the sharp screams of the wounded, riderless horses who galloped in

their death agony across the ramparts and hurled themselves from the

precipices beneath. The King caressed his own animal; the insensibility

of his profession had not overcome his love of horses. He never could

look with ease at the sufferings of these gallant creatures; for the

rest, he was utterly unmoved. He turned his face towards the fires that

made many a veteran wince, and there was not the slightest change in his

composure save that he was more than ordinarily cheerful, and showed,

perhaps, more animation than he had done since the death of his wife.

Having satisfied himself that the Dutch had silenced all the French

batteries at this point, he rode to the demi-bastion where the

Brandenburghers fought the Dragoons in a terrible battle which was

resulting in the French being driven back on to the fire of their own

guns. Here he drew up his horse on the edge of a fosse that had a

cuvette in the middle of it with a covered way along it, from which the

French were still firing from platoons and muskets.

The King thrust his baton through the folds of his scarf and laid his

hand on the tasseled pistol in his holster; he guided his horse commonly

and by choice with his left hand, for his right arm had been shot

through twice, at St. Neff and the Boyne, and was less easily fatigued

with the sword than the reins. He now looked about him and perceived

that his way to the Brandenburghers was completely barred by some

traverses to intercept fire, besides by the fosse from the gazons of

which the soldiers were firing, and, on the glacis which slopes before

it, several gunners were hauling a battery into place; not far behind

them a fierce fire was being maintained from a projecting javelin.

The French, lurking in the cuvette, saw the King, and, recognising him

by his great star, proceeded to take deliberate aim. He looked round

for his staff, whom his impetuous advance had completely out-distanced,

then galloped his horse right along the counter-scarp in full range of

the enemy's fire. A dozen muskets were aimed at him; he seemed not to

notice them, but set his horse at a little fosse that crossed his path,

and leapt over the dead French and bloody gazons that filled it. The

ground on the other side was so cut, dissected, and strewn with boulders

and fragments of rock, that the quivering horse paused, frightened by

the shower of bullets, and, not perceiving a foothold, the King slipped

out of the saddle without leaving go of the reins, ran along by the

horse's head, guiding him through the debris, and mounted again without

touching the saddle, a well-known feat of the riding school. He was now

almost up to the Brandenburghers, who raised a great shout as they saw

him galloping up through the smoke. He rode along the front of their

ranks and glanced up at the French crouching on their earth-works

waiting for the assault.

The King drew his sword.

"We must get nearer than this," he said to the officer in command. He

set spurs to his horse, and, wheeling round, charged straight at the

lines of France, the Brandenburghers after him with an irresistible

rush.

An officer of Dragoons rose up from his comrades and struck up with his

sword at the figure on the huge grey charger. The King leant out of the

saddle, parried the thrust with his weapon. The Frenchman, hit by a

bullet in the lungs, rolled over with his face towards the citadel; the

last thing he saw on earth was the King of England high on the distant

heights of Namur with the column of Brandenburghers behind him and

before him, through the glare the tattered banner of the Bourbons waving

from the keep.

CHAPTER V

A LEADER OF NATIONS

When the late evening fell it was obvious that nothing could save Namur,

the allies had advanced a mile on the outworks of the castle. M. de

Boufflers sent to request a two days' truce that he might bury the dead

who filled fosse and ditch. The King granted it. Before the time

expired the Marechal offered to surrender if he was not relieved in ten

days. William at once refused. His terms were instant surrender or

instant attack. M. de Boufflers capitulated, terms were speedily agreed

upon, the garrison was to go free, the citadel, stores, and arms to be

left in possession of the allies.

On the 6th September, under a blazing sun, a marechal de France, for the

first time since France had been a kingdom, delivered up a powerful

castle to the enemy. It was the first obvious sign of that tide of

fortune that had been steadily setting against France since '88. It

meant more even than the conquest of the strongest fortress in the

world--it meant that the arms of Louis were no longer invincible.

The garrison, reduced to five thousand, less than half their original

number, marched out through the breach made by the guns of the

confederate army, which was drawn up in lines of foot and horse that

reached to the banks of the glittering Meuse.

The French came with full honours, with the beat of drums and the

ensigns erect, but their spirits were heavy with a bitter humiliation.

Their reverse was as unexpected as it was tremendous.

M. de Boufflers and his staff came last of the garrison, the Marechal

decked with all the pomp of war, gold encrusted cuirass, silk scarf,

orders, a splendid white horse trapped in gilt and crimson, and a blue

saddle cloth _seme_ with lilies.

He held his bare sword erect and his face was set sternly. He was

exceedingly troubled by the ceremony in which he was about to take part.

He would not, and could not, as a subject of King Louis, acknowledge the

Prince of Orange as King of England, but it was difficult to treat a

victorious general (and certainly a King _de facto_) with less than

respect and retain his own dignity, especially as the astute Frenchman

was perfectly well aware that William was King of England and would

never be shaken from his throne now in favour of the old man who was

wearing Louis' patience thin with his complaints and demands. Moreover

Portland had insinuated that the allies would take any slight to William

very ill indeed; so, between mortification at his position, his duty to

his master, his desire to avoid the ridiculous and not offend the

conventions of martial courtesy, the Marechal was in a perturbed temper

indeed. But as he neared the spot where the allied sovereign awaited

him, even his dilemma was forgotten in his curiosity to see the man who

filled so tremendous a part in the world, who for twenty years had

withstood France, who had risen to absolute power in his own country,

who had gained two kingdoms by diplomacy and a third by conquest, who

was the soul of a huge coalition and one of the greatest soldiers in

Europe, the man who was always spoken of in Paris with hatred and some

fear, as an upstart, a usurper, a heretic, one who had broken through

sacred family ties for the sake of personal ambition, and stirred Europe

into a turmoil to obtain a crown.

This feeling was shared by every officer behind him. They were all

eager to see the Prince whom they had learnt from King James to regard

as a pitiless, cold self-seeker, and from Louis as a royal adventurer

unscrupulous and impudent.

Not far from the castle the commanders of the allied forces were drawn

up, the German Princes, the representatives of Spain and the Northern

States and the United Provinces on horseback, and near them, in a

calash, or light open travelling coach, the King of England.

M. de Boufflers reined up his horse a few paces away; a handsome young

gentleman with a very proud carriage, wearing a scarlet cloak, was the

foremost of the group. M. de Boufflers knew him for Maximilien of

Bavaria.

The garrison came on slowly past the four black coach horses held by

footmen wearing the livery of England, until the Marechal found himself

face to face with the occupant of the coach and the Elector who sat his

horse immediately beside the door.

There was a pause of silence; M. de Boufflers went pale under the eyes,

and looked with the irresistible attraction of great curiosity at the

man in the coach, who was surrounded by these brilliant and immovable

escorts of princely horsemen.

He had heard the person of this Prince often described, and common

report had drawn a picture of him familiar to the minds of men, but he

found the original totally different, though there were the salient

characteristics, the frail stature, the strongly marked features, the

brilliant eyes, so well known throughout Europe.

But the swift and general impression he made was entirely other to what

the Frenchman had expected. He saw a gentleman with an extraordinary

air of stillness and repose, dressed richly and rather heavily in black

and gold, wearing the George and the Ribbon of the Garter, but no other

decoration, and a hat with black feathers cocked back from his face; he

wore a long neck-cloth of Flanders lace, the ends of which were drawn

through the buttonholes of his brocade waistcoat, after the English

fashion. He sat leaning a little towards M. de Bavaria, and held in his

right hand a cane with a gold top.

There was something in his expression, his bearing, wholly unlooked for

by M. de Boufflers, who could put no name to it, but thought, in a

confused way, that he had never seen a man whose principal occupation

was war appear less of a soldier.

The King, without moving, fixed his dark, flashing eyes on the

Frenchman, and smiled, almost imperceptibly.

M. de Boufflers performed the salute of the sword; he lowered his

weapon, not directly at the King, but it was too high an honour for the

Elector, and William alone bent his head in acknowledgment.

The silence was profound as the gleaming weapon was returned to its

sheath. M. de Boufflers drew his breath unsteadily. He would go no

further; he spoke to the Prince to avoid the royal terms of address.

"Your Highness, I must congratulate you upon your good fortune though it

is my own ill luck--but I must console myself that I have held even

Namur three months against such an army and such generals."

The Elector uncovered and, turning to the King, repeated with profound

respect what the Marechal had said.

William touched his hat in a formal salute silently. M. de Boufflers

coloured with vexation. The deference of the Elector, so much his own

superior, made his own attitude, he thought, appear ridiculous, but he

haughtily maintained it.

"I surrender to Your Highness the keys of the Castle of Namur," he said,

and handed them with a bow to the Elector, who at once presented them to

the King.

"Sire," said M. de Bavaria, very lowly, "M. de Boufflers has the honour

to request me to present to Your Majesty the keys of Namur."

William took them and again saluted.

"I, with Your Majesty's permission, will inform M. de Boufflers that

Your Majesty is satisfied that the terms of the capitulation are

fulfilled?"

"Yes, Highness," answered William gravely, but still (as M. de Boufflers

was supremely conscious), with that slight smile.

"His Majesty," said the Elector, "is pleased to compliment you,

monsieur, upon your gallant defence of the citadel."

"I thank Your Highness," answered the Marechal, colouring deeply.

Neither he nor his officers could altogether conceal their astonishment

and vexation at seeing the proudest Princes of Germany treat William of

Orange with as great a deference as his meanest courtiers used to their

own master.

"We need not detain you, monsieur," said the Electoral Prince.

M. de Boufflers bowed over his saddle and passed on, his staff officers

behind him, all riding at the salute as they passed the allied

Sovereigns.

When the last had gone, William, who had never taken his eyes from the

cavalcade, spoke to M. Dyckfelt who rode close to the carriage.

"Mynheer," he said, "you will inform M. de Boufflers that he is our

prisoner until the garrisons of Dixmuyde and Deynse are released."

M. Dyckfelt departed with a body of Dutch cavalry, and, as the King

drove off, he could hear the indignant exclamations of the French

officers as the Marechal was asked to deliver up his sword. The King

drove to his tent across the town of Namur, which was like a barracks

and a battlefield for soldiers and wounded. His bodyguard of princes

raised a fine cloud of white dust from the dry roads, the air was still

foul with the smell of powder and burning buildings, the sun burnt in

the acrid heavens with a sheer cloudless heat that seemed to draw all

freshness and moisture out of the earth, even the two great rivers had a

hard, molten look in the glare as if they were lead, not water.

The commanders of the confederacy dined with the King; the tent was hot,

but shaded from the intolerable glare by three poor scorched chestnut

trees that cast a meagre shadow over the canvas.

The Electoral Prince sat at the King's right, the Earl of Portland at

his left, and, for the first time, Joost van Keppel was at the King's

table, an honour that was not grudged by any of the potentates, for the

young soldier was exceedingly popular, being amiable, generous, sweet

tempered, and deferential, but Portland marked it with a bitter heart.

William, seated in a vermeil armchair, wearing his hat, and treated by

the others as if they were no more than his subjects, gave the

toast--"The allied army"--in a whisper to the Elector, who passed it

round the table. It was drunk in silence, and the long meal, served on

gold and crystal, began.

The King spoke hardly at all, save to utter a few sentences to Portland,

who received them coldly, and the others were, out of deference, silent,

all being, indeed, too elated with their recent great success (the

greatest they had achieved during the war), and too occupied in their

own thoughts with what this would mean to their several interests, to

care for speech.

When the meal was nearly over, M. Dyckfelt came to say that M. de

Boufflers, after protesting violently, had delivered up his sword and

returned to Namur as a prisoner of the allies.

"We will send him to Huy until we receive the two garrisons," said

William languidly, "though I doubt that we put too high a price on M. de

Boufflers."

"His Master," remarked M. de Vaudemont, "must redeem him even at a

higher rate."

"Ah, cousin," answered the King, "His Majesty will return the men for

pride's sake."

"And there is the English post in," said M. Dyckfelt, "all in a reek

from skirting Villeroy's forces."

"Why must you remind me of England?" asked William.

Portland interposed quickly--

"Surely you will return almost immediately? Is this not a good juncture

to call a parliament?"

"This is not a good season to discuss politics." The King administered

his reproof in the gentlest manner, but Portland, with a curt bow,

instantly set down his glass, rose, and left the tent. William flushed,

and a kind of tremor ran through the company. They thought that the

King would not take this even from Portland.

But, after a second, he turned to the Prince de Vaudemont.

"My cousin," he said quietly, "will you go after my lord and persuade

him that he is unreasonable?"

The princes glanced at each other covertly as M. de Vaudemont obeyed.

M. van Keppel coloured violently; he knew perfectly well who Portland's

wrath was directed against, but his anger was not personal but for his

master thus openly slighted.

The King sat silent, drinking slowly and looking down at the damask

cloth. In a few moments M. de Vaudemont returned alone.

It seemed almost incredible that Portland should refuse to return when

sent for by the King and by such a messenger; William looked up.

"Sire," said M. de Vaudemont, "M. de Portland asks your Majesty to

excuse his attendance."

The King made no answer; he was outwardly composed, but the Elector,

glancing at his face, guessed that his triumph was as nothing to him

compared to the coldness of his friend. M. de Hesse broke the silence.

"M. de Kohorn lost his bet after all!" he remarked; "until this moment I

had forgotten it."

"I am a hundred pistoles the richer," answered the Elector, glad of the

discussion, "and yet I thought to lose--it was the victory of a few

hours only."

William suddenly laughed.

"Gentlemen," he said, slightly raising his glass, "I give you the loser

of that wager and the man who took Namur--Baron Menno Kohorn."

CHAPTER VI

THE KING'S AGENT

In a fine dark room of a mansion in London, three men sat in attitudes

of bewildered trouble and despair, and a fourth, standing by a table of

highly polished walnut wood, looked at them with a white, bitter face.

It was August of 1696, and exactly a year since the fall of Namur had

induced France to consent to open negotiations for a peace. A Congress

sat now at Ryswick, but with at present little hope of immediate

success. The King was again with the troops in Flanders, and England

was face to face with the most momentous crisis in her history. There

was, literally, not enough money to carry on the Government.

When the King had returned from the last campaign, he had supported

Somers and Montague in the recoinage scheme, by which the mutilated and

clipped money of the realm was to be reminted; the plan was so daring as

to frighten most of the King's advisers, but Montague, having secured a

certain Isaac Newton as master of the Mint, proceeded to put his plans

into execution with skill and address. He was also largely responsible

for the scheme of the Bank of England, which, after paying a million and

a half for its charter, had enjoyed the confidence of the Government

until Robert Harley and Foley revived Chamberlayne's wild project of a

Land Bank. The King, anxious for money to commence the campaign and

carry on the government during his absence, had passed an Act before he

prorogued Parliament, establishing the Land Bank, which was to advance

him two and a half millions at seven per cent.

The Tories declared that their scheme would soon ruin the earlier bank;

Charles Montague thought so too, though he and most other thoughtful

observers were certain that the Land Bank was an unpractical conception,

a mere delusion. But the country was not with them; the country

gentlemen, Whig and Tory, believed they saw an infallible way of

obtaining riches, the King wanted the money too much to inquire into the

means that produced it, and the Land Bank appeared to flourish while the

Bank of England tottered and showed every sign of ultimate failure.

The Directors found it impossible to redeem the paper money that they

had put in circulation, and that malice or necessity demanded the

payment of. There was scarcely any money to be had; the mint worked day

and night to turn out the new milled coin, but the moment it appeared it

was hoarded by the panic-stricken public. The paper money fluctuated in

value so as to be almost useless, stock jobbers caused constant scares

on the Exchange, credit was paralysed, and the country was only held

together by Montague's device of exchequer bills bearing a small rate of

interest.

The discovery of the assassination plot and the Jacobite schemes of

invasion had strengthened the King's position at home and made him as

popular as he had been in '88, but it had resulted in the recall of the

fleet from the Mediterranean, the renewed supremacy of the French in

those waters, and the instant defection of the Duke of Savoy, thus

causing the first rift in the coalition that William's unwearied skill

had maintained against the arts of Louis for seven years.

He was now powerless to bribe or threaten. Early in the war Kohorn and

Athlone had burnt the huge stores that Louis had built with vast expense

at Givet, and France had staggered under the blow, but William was

helpless to take advantage of it. The treachery of the Duke of Savoy,

the state of the English finances, the general exhaustion of the allies,

caused M. de Caillieres, the French representative at Ryswick, to change

his tone, go back from the pledge he had given that William should be

recognised by Louis, and propound arrogant terms.

Meanwhile the letters from the King became desperate; only his personal

influence kept the army, which was literally starving, together. He had

pledged his private fortune and strained his private credit in the

United Provinces as far as he could.

And the subscription list of the Land Bank at Exeter 'Change remained

blank; only a few hundreds had been added to the five thousand

contributed by the King as an example.

William even authorized the summoning of Parliament during his absence;

but the ministers dare not risk this expedient. He then sent Portland

to London to represent to the Council of Regency that something must be

devised to raise money, or, in his own words to Shrewsbury, "All is

lost, and I must go to the Indies."

It was Portland who now faced the three ministers in Shrewsbury's rich

withdrawing-room.

These three were the Lord Keeper, Godolphin, the one Tory in the

Council, and First Commissioner of the Treasury, and Shrewsbury himself,

now again Secretary of State, and as devoted to the Government as if he

had never, in an hour of weakness, tampered with St. Germains; he was,

perhaps, of the seven Lords Justices now governing England, the one most

liked and trusted by the King.

Portland's usual slowness of speech and manner had given way to an

animated vigour.

"The King must have money," he said, "at any cost--from anywhere; those

were my last instructions, and, gentlemen, there is more than even the

army at stake; it is the whole reputation, the whole credit, nay, the

whole existence of England."

Even the lofty-minded Somers, whose courage had dared the Recoinage

Bill, was silenced; his lined, haggard, and bloodless face was frowning

with anxiety.

Godolphin, even at this crisis contained and self-effacing, though

looking downcast and sombre, fixed his eyes on Portland blankly.

Shrewsbury, emotional, overstrung, and harassed, broke into speech,

flushing painfully from red to white as he spoke, the Colberteen lace on

his bosom rising and falling with his unsteady breath.

"We can only obtain forty thousand pounds from the Land Bank

subscriptions, and then under pressure and on hard terms," he cried.

All the company knew this, but my lord was apt to waste words. Portland

looked at him in some disgust.

"Forty pence would be as useful," he said dryly. "Come, my lords, this

Land Bank scheme has ended in failure; but is there no alternative to

declaring England bankrupt?"

"By Heaven, I can see nothing else to do," returned Shrewsbury; "but,

since anything is better than lying down under misfortune, I have put

some hopes on to these negotiations with the Bank of England."

But it might be read from his tone that these hopes of succour from that

almost defunct institution were faint indeed.

Portland began walking up and down the room; he was resolved, if it was

within the bounds of possibility, to obtain this money; he had spent

many weary hours trying to screw out of Harley and Foley even half the

sum they had talked of raising, and it had been so much waste time. The

commission had expired a week ago, the offices in Exeter 'Change were

closed, and Portland was no nearer the object of his journey. There

remained now only the Bank of England, which had only been saved from

bankruptcy by a call of twenty per cent. on its shareholders, and

Portland could see no bright prospects from an institution, half ruined,

whose directors were in an ill humour against the Government, and barely

able to hold their own in the present crisis.

He stopped at last before Shrewsbury, and clasped the back of the chair

beside him; his fair face was set, his blue eyes hard and bright.

Perhaps he was the more resolute to do the King this service since he

was deeply offended with him personally on account of Joost van Keppel's

rise to favour, and their long and deep friendship had reached a crisis

that could scarcely end in anything but a final severance of their

affection.

"I will not return to Flanders without the money," he declared sombrely;

"it must be found; if this Bank faileth Parliament must be called."

Shrewsbury answered in desperate peevishness--

"I have done all I could--I have been almost on my knees to the

dictators--I am baited out of my life! By God, I would sooner be a

hangman or a butcher than a statesman!"

A silence of despair fell over the little company. Godolphin wiped his

lips, and looked out of the window at the sun-baked street; he was

wondering, with a sick sense of personal failure, what would happen to

him if king, government, and country crashed on ruin. Somers was

equally silent, but his thoughts were far different; he would have made

any sacrifice in his power to save the kingdom from disaster.

They were interrupted by an usher announcing, "Mr. Charles Montague." A

little movement of interest animated them all. Portland turned wide,

expectant eyes on the new-comer; his plain common sense was quick to

discern genius; he had recognized it of late in the Chancellor of the

Exchequer, as he had recognized it years ago in his master.

Mr. Montague advanced slowly, and seemed to enjoy the stir his coming

made; it was obvious that he considered the brilliant success of his

career entirely due to his own gifts--an opinion his colleagues

considered as unamiable as it was correct.

He was a little man, and walked with a strutting air; his clothes were

of the utmost extravagance of fashion, and glistened with gold and

silver thread; his peruke was curled and powdered elaborately; and in

the hat he held in his hand was a small flashing mirror among the

feathers--the last whim of the mode; but there was a pride and

containment in his sharp features, a power and purpose in his keen eyes,

that overshadowed any fopperies of dress.

He began speaking at once, and abruptly, but with much grace in the

delivery.

"My lords, I am just come from the directors of the Bank. I have been

closeted with them all day, and they have promised me they will do what

they can. I asked for two hundred thousand pounds. I told them it was

the very least there was any use in offering to His Majesty. And I told

them it must be in gold or silver"--he waved his hand--"no paper, I

said, for Flanders."

He seated himself, with another flourishing gesture, on the chair near

Portland. Under all his affectations was noticeable a deep pride and

satisfaction; the Bank on which everything now depended was his scheme;

that of his rival, Harley, had ended in dismal failure. He felt that

his brilliant career would be more brilliant still if his project saved

the Government now.

"Two hundred thousand!" said Shrewsbury forlornly. The Land Bank had

promised two and a half million, and the King's last entreaty had been

for eight hundred thousand; but Portland caught even at this.

"It would be something," he said; "it would cover His Majesty's most

pressing wants----"

"It is all," answered Mr. Montague, "that I dare ask for--in hard

money--at such a time."

"We are fortunate if we obtain it," remarked Somers. "Is it promised?"

"No, Sir John," admitted the Chancellor; "for they cannot do it without

another call of twenty per cent. on their subscribers, and they may not

decide that themselves, but must submit it to the vote in a general

court----"

"Why," interrupted the Duke, "there must be six hundred with a right to

vote at such a meeting!"

"About that number, I think, your Grace," said Mr. Montague.

"Why, good-bye then to our hopes of even this beggarly sum!" cried

Shrewsbury. "Are six hundred likely to agree to lending even sixpence

to the Government?"

"Beggarly sum!" repeated Mr. Montague. "My Lord Portland here can tell

you what long debate and diplomacy it took to secure even the promise of

that amount----"

"Yes, I know, Mr. Montague," answered the Earl grimly; "and I think the

sum worth any sacrifice. We _must_ have it. Could you have seen His

Majesty, gentlemen, as I left him at Attere, surrounded by starving

troops on the verge of mutiny, sending off agents to endeavour to raise

a few thousands on his word in Amsterdam, you would not consider two

hundred thousand paltry."

He spoke with a personal emotion that surprised the Englishmen, who

believed that his relations with the King were painfully strained. They

respected him for his loyalty, though none of them had ever liked him,

and Somers at least gave him a quiet look of sympathy.

Shrewsbury broke out into half-hysterical petulance.

"Why are we doing it all? What use is there in any of it? We might as

well give it up now as afterwards. I confess that I have not the health

or spirit to endure more of it."

Mr. Montague smiled; he knew perfectly well the motive behind every

action he undertook, and what was the object of his labours. The

younger son of a younger son, and ten years ago a Poor Scholar at

Cambridge, he was now one of the greatest men in the Three Kingdoms, and

able to confer benefits on the Crown.

"There is no living in the world on any other terms than endurance," he

remarked complacently, "and a financier, your Grace, must learn to face

a crisis."

"The good God knoweth I am not one," returned the Duke gloomily.

"When is the general court to be held?" asked Portland; his one thought

to get the money from these men somehow, and return with it to the

desperate King.

"On the fifteenth," said the Chancellor, "and I have sufficient faith in

the patriotism of the shareholders to believe they will stand by His

Majesty."

Godolphin, who had been so silent hitherto that his presence was

scarcely noticed, spoke now from the window-seat.

"You have done us a great service, Mr. Montague. I think we should all

be very grateful."

This came gracefully from a member of that Tory party that had supported

Harley's bank. Mr. Montague bowed, very gratified; my lord had that

soft way of conciliating possible enemies with outspoken courtesy.

Portland made no such speeches; he considered it only the bare duty of

the English to adequately support the King, whose life, ever since his

accession, had been one struggle to obtain money from the English

Parliament.

He took up his hat and saluted the company.

"I must endure with what patience I may till the fifteenth," he said,

and left them gravely.

He went out into the sunny streets of London, and turned towards the

Mall. There was no coach waiting for him; he was frugal in his habits

to a fault, and uninterested in any kind of display. No one would have

taken him for anything but a soldier home from Flanders, tanned at the

wars--an obvious foreigner with a stiff military carriage.

The town was very empty. The state of anxiety, suspense, and danger the

country was passing through was not to be guessed at from the well-kept

houses, the few leisurely passers-by, and the prosperous shops with

their wares displayed behind neat diamond panes.

Portland, passing the pillared facade of Northumberland House and the

bronze statue of Charles I. on horseback, came into the Mall, past the

tennis-court and archery butts, where several people were practising, to

the pond covered with wild fowl and overshaded with elm and chestnut

that gave a thick green colour to the water. To his right was a row of

handsome houses looking on to the avenue of trees in the Mall, and at

most of the windows people were seated; for it was near the turn of the

afternoon, and a pleasant coolness began to temper the heat of the day.

Portland looked at these people: fashionably dressed women, with lap

dogs or embroidery, drinking tea or talking; easy-looking men smoking or

reading one of the new sheets which had flooded the country since the

lapse of the censorship of the press--all comfortable, well-to-do,

self-satisfied, and rather insolent in their enjoyment of the sunshine,

and the shadow of the trees, and their own comfortable homes.

William Bentinck seated himself on a bench under one of the great elms;

he felt bitter towards these people--towards England; he came near to

hating the country even as they hated him; he had a swift impression

that these lazy, prosperous citizens were the real masters, and he, and

his friends, and the King, little better than slaves.

He looked at the women and recalled the poor Queen, who had had scarce

half an hour's ease since she had set foot on the quay by the Tower; who

had toiled and kept a brave face and a high heart, and done everything

that duty demanded of her--and for what reward?--to be reviled, abused,

slighted and, finally, to die of one of the hideous diseases the great

city engendered, and be forgotten in the changeable factions that

continued their quarrels even before she was in her grave.

He looked at the men, and thought of the last letter from the King he

carried in his pocket; he saw some of the lines in it as if the paper

was spread before him--"I am in greater distress for money than can well

be imagined. I hope God will help instead of abandoning me; but indeed

it is hard not to lose all courage." It seemed to Portland that

Shrewsbury was right. What was the use of any of it?--what goad kept

them all at their tasks? What was the aim of all this incredible

labour, endeavour, fatigue, courage, and patience?

Did the King endure what he was enduring that these people might make

knots, and drink tea, and sun themselves on the Mall in peace?

Did he, William Bentinck, who was fond of gardening, and a quiet life,

and his own country, spend his life between war and exile, conflict and

distasteful company, that the boys in the tennis-courts might play their

games and laugh and shout as much as they wished?

If it were so, the objects seemed miserable compared to the labour.

But there was something more behind it all; Portland could not put a

name to it; he supposed that one day God would explain.

CHAPTER VII

THE BANK OF ENGLAND

The Lord Justices who formed the Council of Regency were, with the

exception of my Lord of Canterbury, waiting, on this momentous 15th of

August, in the long gallery leading out of the Council Chamber in

Whitehall.

Several other great men were there also; Sunderland, Romney, Wharton,

the Duke of Leeds--still, by the King's clemency, nominally Lord

President, though he had, since his disgrace over the East India

scandal, none of the honours or powers of that position, and was indeed

no more than a cipher where he had once been

all-powerful--Marlborough--who, since the Queen's death, vigorously

supported Government, while he waited with serene patience for the death

of William and the accession of the Princess his mistress--Admiral

Russell, and Portland, all filled by that anxiety that so nearly touched

every one of them--would the Bank of England raise the money to carry on

the government until Parliament met on the King's return?

There were two women present--Lady Sunderland, who was talking to Lord

Romney, and Elizabeth Villiers, now Lady Orkney, conversing with much

animation with Lord Sunderland. Portland observed her with very strong

dislike. Though she was his first wife's sister he had never been in

the least intimate with her; he could not forgive her the influence she

had gained and exerted over William, who had taken her advice and

consulted her opinion often enough when she had first come with Mary to

The Hague. The usual tale-bearing, back-biting, mischief-making, and

scandal had stopped this friendship, but not before her wit and

intelligence had proved of great service to the Stadtholder, who, as

Portland knew, had continued to employ her in delicate negotiations,

even after he became King; and though she and William had scarcely seen

each other for many years, Portland believed that she still used an

oblique influence through Sunderland, with whom she had formed a close

friendship, which Portland considered very typical of Elizabeth

Villiers.

He suspected her of being in some deep intrigue to supplant him by Joost

van Keppel, towards whom his feelings were now near hatred. He knew

that she had never liked him, and she was quite well aware that he had

again and again told the King it was undignified to employ a woman in

his affairs, and had even opposed the title and estates given to her

husband on her marriage. Portland heard the tales this gave rise to if

the King did not; Portland was vexed by the revival of old scandals if

Lady Villiers was not; he loathed the woman and resented her presence

here to-day.

As he continued to stare at her across the splendid gallery, she

suddenly looked round at him, gave Sunderland a quick sentence, and to

Portland's equal surprise and vexation crossed over to him.

"It is a long time since we have met," she said, and gave one of her

straight smiles.

She was dressed in violet and silver, and wore a great Indian scarf

about her shoulders as if it were cold, instead of August.

"I have been too employed to wait on your ladyship," answered Portland.

She took no notice of that, but said abruptly--

"How did you leave the King?"

"As much at ease as a man in his position could be," said the Earl

grimly.

Lady Orkney did not look at Portland, but rather absently down the room.

"He must be fairly weary of it all," she replied. "Do you think," she

added rather sharply, "he hath recovered from the death of the Queen?"

"No, madam, nor will he ever," said my lord sternly.

"How you dislike me!" cried Lady Orkney softly. "And I would have been

a good friend to you if you would have let me--believe me"--she looked

at him full now--"I would never do an ill turn to one of the King's

friends."

"What is this, madam?" he asked haughtily.

"Oh, you understand," she answered. "You know that M. van Keppel is a

friend of mine, and you have tried to do him ill offices--I tell you

that you have no cause--Joost van Keppel will harm nobody. Let him be."

Portland was silent in sheer disdain. Elizabeth Villiers fixed him with

her queer eyes; her pronounced cast was very noticeable.

"You should not dislike me," she said, "because I sometimes help the

King--Joost van Keppel will help him too, even in such follies as

courtesy and an obliging temper--a sweet reverence might mean much to a

broken man--consider that, my lord."

He answered brusquely.

"I consider that Joost van Keppel is a worthless young rake-hell, and

that those who push him into His Majesty's favour can have only mean

motives."

"You certainly do not understand," she said quietly.

A sudden thought flashed to Portland.

"Was it you, my lady," he asked, "who put Sunderland to bring van Keppel

forward with his tale of Namur when the King was sick?"

"Have you only just guessed it?" she answered.

"I might have known it was a woman's trick," he said bitterly. "What

made you think of such a device?"

She smiled and made no answer.

"And why did you employ M. van Keppel?" added Portland.

"Because," said Lady Orkney, "he was of the age the King's son might

have been."

Portland stared.

"A woman's trick, you see." She smiled. "Women think of these

things--do not consider me as a vulgar intriguer, even if you cannot

understand, and let M. van Keppel be--I think he will console the King a

little."

"I, at least, am above your devices and those of my Lord Sunderland," he

answered roughly.

Lady Orkney replied, still smiling, but with infinite sadness--

"Could you see into my heart you would know that I am not so happy but

that you might spare me."

She gave a little courtsey and left him. He watched her return to the

window and look out at the alleys and parterres of the privy garden.

He had been a little confused, but in no way appeased by her

conversation. She had confessed that she and Sunderland were behind van

Keppel, towards whom his thoughts turned with added dislike; then he

tried to banish consideration of all three of them, and to fix his mind

on the money he must obtain for the King.

Devonshire (the Lord Steward), Pembroke (Keeper of the Privy Seal), and

Dorset (the Lord Chamberlain), were talking apart, and Portland joined

them.

Pembroke informed him that Montague had gone down to the General Meeting

of the Bank of England and had promised to return immediately with the

news of the result of the Directors' proposition to the Company.

"If these hopes vanish," said Devonshire gloomily, "what are we to turn

to next?"

"A Parliament and taxes," answered Dorset concisely.

"Oh, my lord," cried Pembroke, "Mr. Locke will tell you that is bad

finance."

"Mr. Locke is a philosopher," remarked Dorset good-humouredly.

"Good God, we get choked with 'em," remarked the magnificent Devonshire.

"Now Montague hath brought Mr. Newton into the Mint and Somers is always

deep with Mr. Locke----"

"And my Lord Portland," cried Dorset, with the irrepressible levity of

his class and nation, "deep with a poet for his secretary."

"As for that same poet," said Portland gravely, "I tell you, my lord,

that he now goeth to Church, and will not write profane verses on a

Sabbath."

"A triumph indeed for the godliness of your lordship," said Devonshire

demurely.

"Is this poor Matt Prior?" asked Dorset. "His verses on the taking of

Namur were very neat."

"I did not read them," answered Portland dryly. "I never could endure

poetry or play-acting--the King is plagued with enough to paper London."

"I remember in The Hague," smiled Devonshire, "when His Majesty was

expecting a promise of money from Amsterdam by every post, and I took in

a letter which I thought was it--but which proved to be a copy of verses

on his safe crossing from England, with a fresh heathen god in every

line--His Majesty's curses were powerful for a Christian Prince--and he

declared it had given him a distaste for the very sight of poetry."

Dorset laughed; he remembered the occasion also as the only one on which

he had heard violent language from the austere King. Portland was

disgusted that they could amuse themselves with these recollections

during such anxious moments; it was only another proof, he thought, of

the shallowness of the English politicians. And even these anecdotes

turned on the King's lack of money; it must be six years since

Devonshire was at The Hague, and William was still in the same straits.

Portland wondered if the time would ever come when he would be free of

these burdens, and doubted it.

The Chancellor of the Exchequer entered the gallery, and instantly

everybody formed a little group about him, including the two ladies, to

whom he gave a flourishing and gallant greeting.

"I must tell you," he said, in a voice and with a manner that strove to

be indifferent, yet with a face flushed with pride, "that the money hath

been subscribed to His Majesty."

Portland drew a great breath of relief.

"Promised," continued Montague, "in gold and silver, which will be ready

to be packed up and taken to Flanders to-morrow."

"How was this accomplished?" asked Devonshire. "I hardly thought, this

cruel year, they could do it."

"Thank God they have," murmured Shrewsbury; "for if this had failed I

know not what we should have done."

"Your Grace," answered Mr. Montague, "when I lent my support to this

Bank I did not think it was likely to be a failure. Yet I must confess

that I had some misgivings to-day when I entered the General

Court--there was my Lord Mayor in the chair, looking as gloomy as need

be, and six hundred or more of the company, all thrifty merchants. Sir

John got up and read the speech composed by the Directors and sat down

again in none too easy a frame of mind, it seemed, and a great hum went

up from the subscribers, and you might see them turning to each other

and whispering, but making no kind of public response; then up sprang

Sir John again, and implored them stand by the King--at which one rose

and said, 'We desire nothing more than to oblige His Majesty, but it is

a hard thing to ask for gold these times, and our notes of hand should

be good enough.' 'Nothing but gold is any use to His Majesty in

Flanders,' declared Sir John. 'I am asking you for this sacrifice for

nothing less than the preservation of the kingdoms, otherwise I could

not in conscience do it.' At last, after some murmuring, it was put to

the vote, and all held up their hands for sending the money, and Sir

John came to me all in a tremble, and hoped I would remember that the

Bank had saved the Government--he said it had been as anxious an hour as

he was ever like to have in his life. At hearing the resolution of the

Bank, several gentlemen, who had been waiting without, came in to buy

shares, and several thousand pounds' worth were subscribed before I

left."

At the conclusion of this speech Mr. Montague looked round his company

with an air of conscious satisfaction. Portland had gone to write this

news off to the King, caring indeed for nothing but the sheer fact that

he could return to Attere immediately with the money, but the others,

including even the feeble, disgraced Leeds, had listened with eager

interest.

"Well done," cried Lady Orkney. "Mr. Montague, you are a miracle of

wit--and I am going to follow the example of these same gentlemen and

purchase stock in this Bank of yours."

"So am I," declared Devonshire. "I will send my agent down there

to-night, sir, the service it hath done cannot be overestimated."

In a breath every Minister in the room had promised to show the same

instance of attachment to the institution that had saved the Government,

and when the energetic young Chancellor left Whitehall the

congratulations of the whole Council of Regency were ringing in his

ears.

He entered his smart coach and drove straight to the Mint, where men

were working day and night at the milled money which he and his friend

Mr. Newton were turning out at the rate of a hundred and twenty thousand

a week. Fifteen thousand was the highest amount the former master of

the Mint had declared it was possible to produce in that time, but Mr.

Newton had done the incredible in reforming the Mint. It was to his

apartments Charles Montague went now, twirling his cane and fluttering

his laces.

The Warden of His Majesty's Mint and Exchanges and Professor of

Mathematics at Cambridge was a gentleman a little past middle life, of a

very refined aristocratic appearance, with an air of extraordinary calm

and stillness.

He wore a murrey-coloured coat, a small grey peruke, and a little brooch

of rubies in a plain lace cravat. When Mr. Montague entered he was

seated at a table covered with a multitude of papers. He looked up

instantly; his delicate features expressed a very winning composed

dignity.

"I wished to speak to you about the new Mint at Chester, Mr. Newton,"

said the Chancellor; his manner was totally different from that he had

used to the Ministers at Whitehall.

"Another Mint, yes, Mr. Montague," answered the Warden, in the same

grave tone. "Those at York and Norwich have been very popular, but I

fear we have not enough trained men to spare yet--though I am having

them taught as fast as may be."

"I want more than will suffice for Chester," said the Chancellor

briskly. "I thought of York and Exeter as likely stations."

He seated himself by the window and looked out on the pleasant prospect

of the sunny river and glistening roofs.

"The people take it very well," he added. "One could not have hoped to

pass through the crisis better; there is a good temper and a good sense

shown very gratifying."

"Why, yes," said Mr. Newton; "but one may always look for both from the

English."

A servant entered with a letter, which he glanced at and laid down with

a gentle little sound of displeasure.

"What is that?" asked Mr. Montague.

"Oh, 'tis from Flamsteed; he is ever dunning me to go see his

observatory at Greenwich--he cannot believe that there is anything in

the world more important than stars, nor that I do not love to be teased

with mathematical things when I am about the King's business."

Mr. Montague glanced at the astronomer's sealed letter.

"Speaking of the King's business," he remarked, "the Bank of England

hath promised to advance the two hundred thousand for the troops in

Flanders."

Mr. Newton looked up quickly.

"Why, I am glad of that. Sir, this is a great thing--it will greatly

raise the credit of the Bank."

"I think," replied the young Chancellor, "without vanity, that the Bank

of England is an institution that will live."

CHAPTER VIII

THE BREAKING FRIENDSHIP

Two men were riding side by side through the forest of Soignies; before

and behind them was a great army. It was a May night, with the moon

full overhead and casting long shadows from the tall, dark, motionless

trees. News had been received at the camp the evening before that the

French were threatening Brussels, and the confederate army was marching

to save the Capital.

These two men who rode in the centre were alone, though part of such an

immense force; for the Dutch guards, who marched before and behind them

were several yards distant; they were both wrapped in long military

cloaks. One, who was the King-Stadtholder, the commander of the allies,

was mounted on a white horse; the other, William Bentinck, Earl of

Portland, rode a great brown steed. The King was speaking very

earnestly, in a lowered voice suited to the hush of the warm night and

the solemnity of the long denies they traversed.

"I must tell you of the dispatch I received from my Lord Devonshire. I

had scarcely received it before we broke camp, or I had told you before.

This John Fenwick, the Jacobite, hath made a cunning confession,

designed to put the Government into a confusion. He accuseth Godolphin,

Shrewsbury, Marlborough, and Russell of being deep with St. Germains."

Portland made no answer.

"It was," continued the King, "no news to me, as you know."

"What have you done?" asked the Earl.

"I have done nothing yet. I shall write to Devonshire ordering the

trial of this Fenwick to proceed."

"And for these lords?"

"I shall affect to disbelieve this evidence," answered William. "And

Shrewsbury, at least, I shall assure of my trust."

"And so traitors flourish!"

There was silence for awhile, only broken by the jingle of the harness,

the fall of the horses' feet, and the tramp of the army before and

behind. The faces of the two men were hidden from each other; they

could only discern outline of horse and figure as the moonlight fell

between the elms and oaks.

The King spoke again.

"I have learnt to be tolerant of treason. These men serve me--even

Marlborough--instruments all of them! And Shrewsbury I ever liked. I

will not have him put out for this."

"You will even let them remain in office?"

"Surely," answered the King, "it would be beneath me to stoop to

vengeance? And what else would this be? Both policy and kindness

dictate to me this course."

Portland's voice came heavily out of the morning shadows.

"You are too lenient to every sort of fault. These men do not even know

you spare them--they think you are fooled. Marlborough will laugh at

you."

"What doth that matter if he serveth my turn? He is a villain, but a

great man--he should be useful to England."

The King spoke in strained, weary accents, and with, it seemed, but

little interest.

"Besides," he added, "I do not believe half of what Fenwick saith."

Portland retorted sharply.

"You did not believe the assassination plot itself until I produced

Prendergrass, who had heard them discuss who was to fire the bullet on

Turnham Green."

The King answered simply--

"One becometh so well used to these attempts, I should have been dead

ten times if assassins could have done it. That was not the way

ordained."

"I hope," said Portland dryly, "that your clemency will be rewarded. I,

for one, could well wish to see these traitors come to their

punishment--yea, and such men as Sunderland----"

William interrupted.

"I hope they will leave me Sunderland--I could ill do without him. But

I hear he is likely to be pressed hard in the Commons."

"I cannot wonder," returned Portland, "but only at you who continue to

employ such a man."

The King did not answer at once. The moon was sinking and taking on a

yellow colour, the shadows were fainter and blended one with another,

the trunks, branches, and clustering leaves of the great trees began to

show dimly against a paling sky; there was a deep stir of freshness in

the still air, the perfume of grass, bracken, and late violets. The

steady, unbroken tramp of the great army seemed to grow louder with the

first lifting of the night; the men, in ranks of not more than four,

could be seen defiling through the yet dark forest.

The King spoke, looking ahead of him.

"Of late I can do nothing to please you," he said in a whisper. "It is

not pleasant to me to have this growing coldness."

"Your Majesty hath other friends," answered Portland bitterly.

"You are unreasonable," said the King, in the same sad, broken voice.

"I cannot withdraw my favour from M. van Keppel--justice and dignity

forbid it. You should understand that, William. I also might have my

complaints; it is not easy for me to keep the peace between you and M.

van Keppel. Your constant quarrels make my household in a perpetual

tumult--and, I must say it, it is not M. van Keppel who is generally the

aggressor."

"His presence is an offence," declared Portland hotly; "a creature of my

Lord Sunderland, a flattering, smooth-tongued boy--a dissolute rake who

hath done nothing for your service!"

The King turned his face towards his friend.

"It cuts me to the heart," he said, with great emotion, "that you should

dream--for one second--that he could make me ever forget or undervalue

all the services I owe to you. Nothing could alter my affection for you;

it is my great grief that you should not feel that as I do."

"You have changed," was all Portland said.

The King lifted his eyes to the sky showing between the trees they rode

past, his haggard face was faintly visible in the increasing light.

"Yes, I have changed," he said slowly. "Perhaps even you cannot guess

how much. I could not convey to you how utterly indifferent all the

world is to me save only my hope to a little more complete the task God

put upon me. Your friendship is all that is left to me. Nothing hath

been real since--she--died. I only act and think and go through my days

because I believe she would have wished it. I only do this and that

because I think--she would have done it. I only keep on because she

wished that, even at the last. I only endure to live because I dare to

hope she may be somewhere--waiting----"

His voice sank so low as to be almost incoherent; Portland could

scarcely catch the words. They came to a little hollow beside the path

that was filled with spring flowers opening to the dawn, daisies and

lilies and tufts of fresh green.

The King spoke again.

"For the rest, all is dead--here," he lightly touched his heart. "You

alone have the power to hurt me, and you should use it tenderly."

Portland had meant to resign his position in the King's household, so

intolerable had it become to him, but now restrained himself.

"I will serve you till death," he said, with his air of cold, high

breeding. "Your Majesty must believe that of me."

William gave a little sigh.

"What of this Congress at Ryswick?" added Portland, "and your suggestion

that I should see M. de Boufflers?"

He thought that it would be something of a compromise if he could still

continue to serve the King yet get away from the odious van Keppel.

"They will never do anything at Ryswick," answered the King wearily.

"They fill their time with ceremonies and vexations, and this time a

hundred years might find them still arguing there. And I am resolute

for peace now as all my life I have been resolute for war. No need to

explain my policy to you. We shall never get better terms than France

offereth now, and they must not be lost through the intolerable

impertinences of Spain, who hath contributed nothing but rigmaroles to

the coalition from the first."

"I think," said Portland, "I could get some satisfaction from M. de

Boufflers."

The French Marechal had formed a friendship with Portland when he had

been his prisoner at Huy, after the fall of Namur, and it had recently

occurred to William to use this friendship to open negotiations between

England and France, regardless of the formal mummeries of the Congress,

which seemed to be likely to be as protracted as that held at Nymwegen

in '79.

It was William's object to discover if Louis was in earnest. The

listlessness of Spain, the ambition of the Emperor must bow if once

France, England, and Holland came to terms. What he proposed was daring

and unconstitutional. He had not informed a single English politician

of his plan, and Portland, whom he thought to employ, was not even an

Englishman, but William was never stopped by any fear of responsibility.

If he could accomplish an honourable peace (the very best he could

obtain he knew would be only a breathing space, for there was the

tremendous question of the Spanish Succession ahead), he cared nothing

for the temper of the English parliament or the complaints of the

allies, and in the United Provinces he was practically absolute. He had

before suggested to Portland that he should write and open negotiations

with Boufflers, and had mentioned Hal, midway between Brussels and Mons,

as a likely place for an interview. He now, on Portland's words,

reverted to this and discussed the details of the scheme that was to

give peace to Europe in his weary, low, and strained voice, broken by

constant coughs.

The forest of Soignies began to break; the trees became thinner and were

scattered to right and left like echelons of soldiers, the whole heaven

was clear of cloud, and the sun, just rising above the plains of

Brabant, filled the air with a steady colour of pearl-blue.

A little wind touched the trees, then was silent; the constant noise of

birds accompanied the tramp of the heavy infantry and the distant,

unequal rumble of the gun carriages and baggage waggons.

The King loosened his cloak, cast it over his holster, and looked back

at the army following him through the wood.

"If we sign peace this year this will be my last campaign," he remarked.

Portland looked at him quickly.

"The Spanish question--there will be war there--and before long."

"But I have so few years to live," answered the King simply; "for with

this peace my work would be done. No, I think I shall never lead an

army across the Netherlands again."

They rode clear of the trees now, and saw before them the beautiful

valley soft and veiled in the mists of morning.

The King fixed his eyes on the spot where Brussels lay. If Villeroy had

outmarched him and was bombarding the capital as he had bombarded it

last year, the allies had been checkmated and there would be little hope

for the prospects of peace.

Scouts were sent out to ascertain the movements of the enemy; no sign of

their fires could be discerned. William thought that his activity had

saved Brussels and that there were no fears from Villeroy. He pushed

on, and, by ten in the morning, after having ridden fifteen hours,

reached the still unmolested ramparts of the capital from which the

Spanish flag was yet flying.

He instantly took up his position before the walls and proceeded to

strongly entrench himself on the very spot from which Villeroy had

dropped his shells into Brussels near a year ago when the allies were

before Namur.

It appeared that he had saved the magnificent city by a few hours;

before midday the French came up, but, finding the confederate army

already so strongly fortified, fell back across Brabant without firing a

shot.

The King, as he rode about surveying the encampment, sent for Portland.

The Earl came, and the two men looked at each other steadily; the hasty

earthworks, the rising canvas, the sights and sounds of the camp were

about them, overhead the blazing blue faintly hazed with clouds of heat.

William held out his thin, bare right hand.

"Since I think you are resolute to leave me," he said, "I would have you

go to Hal to meet M. de Boufflers." He added with great sweetness, "I

put the fate of Europe in your hands, and could put it in none more

worthy."

CHAPTER IX

PEACE

The Earl of Sunderiand was again as great as he had been when he held

James Stewart infatuate in his power, and as well hated throughout the

country as then. The King had long consulted him in private, and now he

was recognized as principal adviser to the Crown, and carried the gold

key that was the symbol of the office of Lord Chamberlain.

He had no rival. Halifax was dead; Leeds a mere shadow; his intrigues

had brought about the resignation of Godolphin, who had been implicated

in the disclosures of Sir John Fenwick; Shrewsbury, stricken with

remorse at his own treachery and the King's generosity, was but a figure

in the background; and the other ministers, even such as Romney, who was

William's personal friend, had little influence; Portland's power was

not what it had been, and his rival, M. van Keppel, largely owed his

fortunes to Sunderiand. The Lord Chamberlain was supreme in this year

1697, the year of the peace framed by Portland and Boufflers in the

orchard at Huy and signed by the Congress at the King's palace of

Ryswick.

This peace was an honourable close to an honourable conflict. Louis

recognised William as King of England, and granted most of the terms

desired by the allies, not one of whom complained that they had been

forgotten or slighted by the King in the framing of the articles. The

delay of Spain and the Emperor to sign, despite William's entreaties,

had resulted in the fall of Barcelona and Louis' consequent rise of

terms, the principal of which was the retention of Strassburg--a severe

blow to Austria. But, on the whole, the peace was favourable to the

coalition, and in England and Holland at least was received with

unbounded rejoicing. William's return from the Continent was the signal

for a display of loyalty as enthusiastic as that which had greeted the

exiled Charles in '66.

William, to whose diplomacy the peace was owing, as the war had been

owing to his indomitable energy, was at the very zenith of his

reputation at home and abroad. He avoided the pageants, processions,

triumphal arches, and general laudations, both from a natural modesty

and a cynical perception of their hollowness, which was but too well

justified, for the first act of the Parliament was to inflict cruel

mortification on him by disbanding, at the instance of the Tory

agitator, Robert Harley, the army which had done such magnificent

service. Sunderland's utmost arts could only retain ten thousand men,

including the King's beloved Dutch Guards.

This action was, to William, the worst of policy, besides a personal

slight that he could not but feel that he had ill deserved. The peace

was to him but an armed truce before the inevitable struggle for the

Spanish possessions, and the part that he was to play in that struggle

was considerably weakened by the disbanding of the troops which made

England, save for her Navy, powerless again in Europe.

The English Parliament, profoundly ignorant of continental affairs, and

not in the least understanding the spacious policy of the King, thought

only of the power a standing army put in the hands of the Crown, and

were not to be moved from their resolve.

William, driven back, as he had so often been, on his own innate

statesmanship, endeavoured to accomplish by wit what he was now

powerless to accomplish by arms, and secretly framed with Louis the

Partition Treaty, by which the vast dominions of the imbecile and dying

King of Spain were to be divided between Louis' grandson Phillippe

d'Anjou, and William's candidate, the infant son of the Elector of

Bavaria, who derived his claim through his dead mother, Maria Antonia.

The King had disdained to consult the English ministers until he had

completed this treaty, and then only curtly demanded the necessary

signatures; from the nation it was a profound secret.

Sunderland disapproved of this daring policy of the King's. He thought

that many of the domestic troubles of the reign might have been avoided

if William had been less resolute to keep foreign affairs entirely in

his own hands, but the King's well-founded distrust of the levity,

treachery, and ignorance of the English, and their personal malice

towards him as a foreigner, could not be moved by the most specious of

Sunderland's arguments. William refused to put any faith in the crowds

who shouted after his coach, in the ringing and the toasts, in the bales

of loyal addresses that were laid daily at his feet. He knew perfectly

well that at bottom he was neither understood nor liked, and that all

this rejoicing was not for the King, but because a peace, pleasing to

English pride, had been signed; because bank stock had risen from sixty

to ninety, paper money to par, the guinea from eighteen shillings to

twenty-one; because the new milled coins were in every hand and an era

of prosperity was following the crisis of '96.

Sunderland watched all these things with some misgiving. Under all his

honours and greatness was a lurking uneasiness. He began to lose his

courage at being so hated; hints of impeachment had risen in the House

more than once; he could scarcely show his face abroad without a burst

of popular fury. In the opinion of the people he should not have been

intrusted with one of the highest offices under the Crown, but have been

starving in exile, or dead, long since in the Tower, as his colleague

under James--Lord Jefferies. The ministers, too, could ill disguise

their dislike of him. He had befriended the Whigs, and they owed him a

cold allegiance, but he had no real supporter save the King, whose will

alone kept him where he was; and he had more enemies than he could

count, including Portland, who hated him exceedingly.

When the King had created Joost van Keppel Earl of Albemarle, Portland

had offered to resign his post and retire, and only by the intercession

of M. de Vaudemont and the passionate entreaties of his one flatterer,

the King, had he been induced to stay another year, which was employed

in the gorgeous embassy to France from which he had just returned, to

find Sunderland all-powerful and Albemarle in full possession of the

King's confidence.

Sunderland saw that his temper was strained to the utmost, and that

affairs in the King's household must soon reach a crisis. Although he

used Albemarle as a balance against a man who hated him, Sunderland had

no ill-will towards Portland, and wished to spare the King the agony he

knew he would feel on the earl's retirement. He would have wished

Shrewsbury to stay too--the King liked the young duke--but here, as in

Portland's case, Sunderland felt matters had gone too far.

He was waiting now, in the King's gallery at Kensington, to intercept

and argue with Shrewsbury, whom he knew was about to have an interview

with William, and with the object, he suspected, of insisting on his

often refused resignation.

He came at last, after his time and slowly, with a languid carriage and

an unsteady step that expressed great wretchedness. Sunderland moved out

of the embrasure of the window; Shrewsbury paused; and the two noblemen,

alike only in birth and country, so totally different in character,

intellect, and aim, yet both in the same service, faced one another.

Shrewsbury looked ill, miserable, even slightly dishevelled, his dark

clothes were careless and plain, the beauty that had once made him

famous as "The King of Hearts" was scarcely to be traced in his strained

features, though he was not yet past his first youth. In contrast,

Sunderland, though worn and frail, looked less than his years, and was

habited very fashionably and gorgeously in black tissue of gold with

diamond buttons, his peruke was frizzled and powdered, and he wore a bow

of black velvet beneath his chin; his handsome, delicate features wore

that expression of watchful, smiling repose which was so seldom from his

face that it had come to be one with it, as the faint chiselling on an

alabaster bust.

Shrewsbury showed some agitated emotion as the Lord Chamberlain stepped

before him.

"I am due with His Majesty," he said.

"I know," answered the earl; "and I think I guess your business with the

King."

Shrewsbury paled and said nothing; a defiant look hardened his eyes.

"You," continued the Lord Chamberlain, "are going, my lord, to force

your resignation on His Majesty."

"Well--if I am?" Shrewsbury moistened his lips desperately.

"It is, your Grace, a most ill-advised thing to do."

"I have heard many people say that, my lord," answered the young duke,

"and I have allowed myself to be too long persuaded. I cannot and I

will not stay at Court."

Sunderland gazed at him steadily out of his long, clear eyes.

"You only give colour to the disclosures of Sir John Fenwick, which

every one disbelieved. And no one more strongly than His Majesty."

"I bear the taint--the imputation," muttered Shrewsbury. "I cannot and

will not endure it. My position is insupportable."

"Marlborough and Russell are in the same position, and find it easy

enough to bear," said Sunderland quietly.

The Duke answered with some pride--

"I am not such as they. They act from their standards--I from mine."

He thought, and might have added, that he was not such as the man to

whom he spoke. Sunderland was stained with treacheries, disloyalties,

corrupt practices, and shameless false-dealing, the very least of which

were more than the one lapse that was wearing Shrewsbury to misery with

remorse.

The Earl took another tone.

"Think of the King. You call yourself friend to him; he is as harrassed

now as he ever was before the war. He hath not too many men to help

him--the Tories grow in strength every day. You have been of great

service to His Majesty--the greatest in '88. Will you forsake him

now--when he needeth you most?"

Shrewsbury put out a trembling hand.

"I have heard these arguments before. Lady Orkney hath been soliciting

me to change my resolution--for the same reason that you bring forth.

But I am a broken man; I am ill; I must get to the country; I cannot

serve His Majesty----"

So speaking, in rapid, disconnected sentences, he gave a wild glance at

the Earl's passive face, the fine lines of which had taken on an almost

imperceptible expression of contempt and disgust, and passed on to the

King's cabinet, which he entered abruptly.

The King was, as usual, at his desk, which was placed between the tall

windows which looked on to the beautiful park, now grey and desolate

under the afternoon sky of mid-November.

A great fire burnt on the hearth, and the glancing light from it threw

into relief the furnishing of the room, every article of which bore

evidence to the exile's wistful love of his own country. On the

mantelshelf were the tall yellow, white, and blue vases from Delft; the

brass fire-irons were Dutch, as were the painted tiles, the black,

heavily polished chairs and tables; the exquisite paintings of peaches,

carnations, grapes, and butterflies on the wall; and the elaborate china

calendar above the King's desk. William was always consistently loyal to

the products of his own land; his full cravat, shirt, and wrist-ruffles

were now, as generally, of the fine Frisian lawn embroidery, and the

buttons of his black silk coat were of the wonderful filigree gold-work

for which the States were famous.

He looked up sharply as Shrewsbury entered, and seemed a little

disappointed, as if he had been expecting some one else; but instantly

commanded himself, and greeted the Duke affectionately.

Shrewsbury looked at him wretchedly, crossed to the hearth irresolutely,

then burst out impetuously--

"Sire--I must resign--I can take your wage no longer----"

The King's full bright eyes swept over him in a quick glance of

understanding.

"I have told you," he said, with a gentleness that had a note of pity in

it, "that I hold you innocent of those scandalous slanders that villain

Fenwick flung. I have assured you, my lord, of my affection, of my need

and wish for your service."

Shrewsbury bit his lower lip, and stared blindly into the scarlet heart

of the fire.

"My health will not permit me----" he began.

"Ah, tush!" interrupted the King, with a little smile. "Your health is

good enough."

Compared to his own, it was indeed. Shrewsbury could not, for very

shame, argue that plea.

"I think you have another reason, your Grace," added William, kindly and

a little sadly. "And I am an old enough friend for you to confide in

me----"

Still the Duke could not speak, but trembled and looked into the fire.

"You are a man of honour," said the King. "I have and do trust you. I

shall never forget the services you rendered me, when such services were

vital indeed; I believe I do not lack gratitude; I should never--I

_could_ never--desert a friend."

He exerted himself to speak with courtesy and animation, and there was

real feeling behind his words; gratitude was indeed almost a fault with

him. Cold as he appeared to outsiders, nothing could turn him when he

had once given his affection; he had often, at the expense of his own

interests and popularity, defended and upheld his friends.

Shrewsbury clasped the edge of the chimneypiece and tried to speak, but

made only some incoherent sound.

"Let me hear no more of resignation, my lord," said William.

The Duke turned and looked at him desperately, then suddenly and utterly

broke down.

"I am guilty, sire!" he cried. "I betrayed you, and you know it!"

He fell into the chair beside him, and covered his white face with his

quivering hands.

"Your generosity is more than I can endure," he gasped. "I have been a

villain, and I have a bitter punishment!"

The King rose and looked at his minister. A heavy silence hung in the

brilliantly firelit little chamber. The Duke was sobbing wretchedly.

William went slightly pale.

"Fenwick spoke the truth," cried Shrewsbury; "I have tampered with St.

Germains----"

The King crossed over to the young man, and laid his thin, beautiful

hand on the bowed shoulders.

"You are my friend," he said simply. "I trust you and wish to keep you

with me. Nothing else, my dear lord, is of any matter."

Shrewsbury's answer came hoarsely.

"It is of great matter to me that I have lost my honour----"

The King answered gently.

"While you say that, my lord Duke, you can have lost nothing----"

Shrewsbury would not speak or look up. William returned to his seat at

the desk, and began turning over the papers before him. After a few

minutes he said, with his eyes still on his letters--

"I have heard nothing--I know nothing--I trust you to continue in my

service, my dear lord----"

The Duke sprang up and stood with his back to the fire.

"I cannot--I am not fit," he said desperately, yet with resolution.

William flashed a glance over his shoulder.

"Will you not serve England, then?" he cried, with a deep note in his

voice, and waited for the answer, gazing brilliantly at the haggard

young man.

"No--no," muttered Shrewsbury. "I am broken--I am not fit----"

There was a little silence. It was the King who spoke first.

"I can say no more," he said quietly. "You have decided. I trust that

you will justify your resolution to yourself."

The Duke came heavily to the desk, laid the seals that were the symbol

of his office on the desk, and was turning silently away, when the King

held out his hand impulsively.

"My lord," he said, with much warmth and kindness, "even if I should

never see you again--I should never forget '88."

Shrewsbury seized the frail hand, kissed it with tears, and went

violently from the room.

William gave a little sigh, pushed back his chair, and put his hand to

his head, coughing.

He was not long alone. Sunderland entered the little cabinet with his

cautious light step and an expression that had a little lost its usual

composure.

"The little Duke hath resigned," said the King laconically.

A rare ejaculation of impatience and contempt broke from the Lord

Chamberlain. "Every one falleth away!" he exclaimed. "There goeth the

last link with the Whigs!"

William gave a short laugh.

"I suppose that you will be the next, my lord?" he said shrewdly.

The Earl went rather pale.

"I will hold office as long as I can, Your Majesty," he answered. "But

it is a hard thing to maintain my position in the face of all England.

But whether I am in office or no, I shall, sir, always serve you."

The King lifted his dark eyes.

"I believe you will, my lord," he said simply; "we are old allies now.

Well--we have not either of us much more to do--the people have their

peace, and we have our positions, and may grow roses, and build villas,

and wait for death."

CHAPTER X

THE BROKEN FRIENDSHIP

The Earl of Portland, newly returned from his gorgeous embassy to

France, sat in his apartments at Kensington reading and re-reading a

letter.

It was written in a large and flowing hand, unequal in parts, as if the

writer had been greatly agitated. The contents, which the Earl had now

almost by heart, were strange and sad.

"KENSINGTON, _April_ 1699.

"Since I cannot dispute with you, I will say nothing to you on the

subject of your retirement; but I cannot refrain from telling you of my

extreme sorrow, which is far deeper than you can ever imagine, and

assures me that if you felt even the half you would very quickly change

your resolution--which may it please the good God to inspire you to do

for your own good and my repose. At least I hope that you will not

refuse to keep the key of office, for I am content that it should not

oblige you to anything, and, besides, I entreat you to let me see you as

often as you can, which would be a great consolation to me in the

affliction which you have caused me, which cannot prevent me from loving

you ever tenderly."

It was written in French and signed with the letter 'G,' which had

always been affixed to this long, intimate correspondence which had

continued now for thirty-three years--since they had been

children--continued through war and peace, trouble, disaster, illness,

bereavement, disappointment without cloud or shadow--and this was the

end.

William Bentinck had resolved to resign the King's service.

This was the end--in miserable, trivial jealousy. The friendship that

had lasted so long, keen and pure, so devoted, had strained and broken.

Portland sat, with this sad appeal in his hand, and knew that it was

over.

He did not acknowledge that he was unreasonable; he had served William

faithfully and devotedly, both as friend and servant, and he had been

greatly rewarded; he was one of the wealthiest subjects in Europe; he

had an English earldom, and the Garter that foreign kings envied; he was

Gentleman of the Bedchamber, Privy Councillor, Groom of the Stole, and

Keeper of the King's Gardens; the King had supported him again and again

against the Commons, taken his advice, flattered him by an open display

of his friendship, entrusted him with the important embassy to France,

enriched his son, and, when the breach began to grow, spared nothing to

heal it. Few kings could have ever entreated a subject as William had

entreated Bentinck.

But he would not dismiss Albemarle; he listened to Sunderland; and

everything was nothing to Portland compared to the fact that he should

have to share the King's confidence with this young, untried,

light-hearted young man.

When he returned from Paris he had found Albemarle in possession of

rooms in the Palace that he considered belonged to him in virtue of one

of his offices, and the little incident had confirmed his resolution of

quitting the Court. He would be second to no one, least of all to a man

whom he considered as the tool of a faction that he loathed and

despised.