The only one of the company who had the courage to approach him was a new-comer, my Lord Sunderland; pale, quiet, elegantly dressed, he stood between the King and the wall, and gazed down on his master with an extraordinary expression of resolution and consideration. Portland went up to him, not without a sense of jealousy for the King’s dignity, that was so shattered before these foreigners and a man like Sunderland. "Sire," he said firmly. "Sire!" William did not even look up; he was twisting his hands together and staring at the floor, breaking out into the bitter protests of a mind deranged. Sunderland looked sharply at Portland. "What do you want of him, my lord?" he asked, "I would recall him to himself that he may take farewell of the Queen," answered Portland sternly. "But he, it seemeth, is no longer William of Nassau." Sunderland made no answer to this; he laid his hand lightly on the King’s shoulder. "Your Highness!" he said. The ancient title struck some chord of memory. The King raised his head; Sunderland was certainly startled at his face. "Who spoke to me?" asked William thickly. "The Prince of Orange," answered the Earl, "cannot fail before anything—the King of England must not——" "Fail?" muttered the King. "Fail? Have I failed? They put too much upon me. Did they tell you of the Queen? My enemies may be satisfied now, for I shall never lift my head again——" "The Queen," said Sunderland, "will not depart in peace unless she leaveth you calm. Sire, for her sake will you not recall your ancient courage?" The King shook his head in a faint, exhausted fashion. "You would not have thought that she would die so young," he murmured, "would you—she was gay, too—there was to have been a ball to-night—and she cannot live till morning——" Lady Temple came from the Queen’s room and whispered something to Lord Portland, who instantly addressed the King. "Sire, the Queen is awake." William rose; his cravat and waistcoat were undone over his shirt, his eyes bloodshot and dim, his hair dishevelled and damp on his forehead; he seemed to be making a tremendous effort for control; he noticed his disordered clothes. "I would not frighten her"—it was Sunderland and not Portland to whom he spoke. The Dutchman drew back a pace. It was ironical that at such a moment the King should turn to such a man; but William had first roused at Sunderland’s address, and seemed to look to him for guidance as he had looked, almost unconsciously, to him for support fifteen years ago, in the bitter days before his marriage. The proud, stern, lonely, and scorned young Prince had then opened his heart to the dishonest, worldly, and cynical minister, and the bond of sympathy that must have been between them then showed now, when the King, fainting with mental agony, clung blindly to Sunderland’s unmoved, gentle strength.