The first sitting of King Charles III.’s council was not a long one. The decision at which Charlie and Tom had already arrived was, of course, adopted. Sandy Gordon was offered, but modestly declined, the honour of knighthood; and Father M‘Fillan was commissioned to inform the Princess that the king did not deem it expedient for the present to take any public steps to assert his authority beyond the loyal precincts of Balquhalloch. The Princess, who for nights had been dreaming of rebellion, was grievously disappointed, and sought to bend her nephew’s determination. After dinner, when for a short time she was alone with him, she talked the matter over. ‘Well, my dear aunt,’ said the king at last, ‘I need not tell you that if we organise a rising, I must put myself at the head of it. And if I put myself at the head of it, I must of necessity risk my life. At present, as you know, I am not married. I am the last male of our house. Ought I not, before facing the danger, to look to the interests of my race, and indeed of the country? If I had a son, or even a daughter, I could go forth with a lighter heart to battle; for in that case my death would not mean the inevitable extinction of all our hopes. You, it is true, would succeed me, but only for a few short burdensome years; and with you the line would pass out of existence.’ ‘True,’ assented the Princess; ‘you certainly ought to marry, and to marry quickly. But whom can you marry? Who is worthy of you? Your royal grandmother was a Tudor, a worthy spouse for my father of sacred memory. But there are no Tudors now; and besides, you ought not to marry a cousin. I fear that you must seek an alliance on the continent, among the Bourbons or the Hapsburgs.’ ‘Why not among the English Plantagenets?’ asked the king. ‘Would that some remained,’ ejaculated the Princess. ‘But one does remain,’ said Charlie. ‘The fact is that I have had the good fortune to make the acquaintance of one whom I have determined to wed; and, my dear aunt, she is a Plantagenet. Mr Checkstone, who has the honour of her acquaintance, will tell you about her.’ ‘Indeed!’ exclaimed the Princess. ‘This news greatly rejoices me. Let Mr Checkstone write to her at once in my name and ask her to come and visit me. I will judge of her worthiness.’ ‘You had better write,’ suggested the king. ‘Why not write informally, as my aunt. You must remember that we cannot yet afford to risk anything by publicly hinting at my pretensions, much less by boldly proclaiming to the country and the powers that be that I intend to seize the crown.’ The Princess reflected; but she gave way, and, for once in her life, signed herself simply Henrietta Maria Stuart.