Dr. Burnet was returning from his diocese of Sarum to Kensington Palace, where he had been called by the grave reports of the Queen’s sickness. On Christmas Day she had been something better, but towards the evening notably worse; on Wednesday prayers were offered in all the churches, and the new primate, Dr. Tenison, was summoned to join the other prelates in attendance at Kensington. The Bishop of Sarum was joined in London by M. Zulestein, for whom he had a peculiar friendship, and who came to urge haste. The Master of the Robes hoped that the Bishop’s presence might have some effect upon the astonishing and immoderate agitation of the King; he confessed he had been glad to escape from the atmosphere of anxiety and grief at Kensington. Soldier and priest made a melancholy journey in M. Zulestein’s coach. The Capital was very silent and awed. There could be no doubt now that the Queen was beloved. "If she goes," said M. Zulestein bluntly, "he can never hold the throne. His very title to it would be questioned. Without her where are we all?" Dr. Burnet answered unsteadily; he was deeply attached to Mary. "Do not speak like that, sir. She must live—even if it be smallpox, is she not young and strong? Did not the King recover?" "He had it but slightly," answered M. Zulestein. "He was back at the army in twenty days. They say it was his own resolution not to die and the services of M. Portland that saved him, but I do not think this lady hath any such will to live." "God bless us," cried the Bishop, "who would have thought a man of the King’s feeble constitution would have survived the Queen!" He shook his head sorrowfully. "She was our principal hope, our support—a prince of an extraordinary goodness." "If she dieth she hath the better part," answered the Dutchman. "I know not how the King will well bear it—he hath hardly slept since her illness—for fear of his cough disturbing her he will not lie in her chamber, but hath his camp-bed in the anteroom—yet he is never on it—he hath himself nursed her—day and night with such devotion and care as moveth the heart." He paused, and added, with great emotion, "Had you seen him as I have, in all manner of dangers and fatigues and troubles, always master of himself, and of such an heroical courage that he inflamed those about him, you would find it, sir, terrible to see him as he is now." "When I last saw him he was struck beyond expression," answered Dr. Burnet. "But I never thought his temper would bear an open display of emotion." "You know him as well as any Englishman—yet you do not know him," said M. Zulestein. The pompous self-love of the Bishop was rather hit at this, but he let it pass (as he would not have done at any other time), and neither spoke again before they reached Kensington House.