When he saw the still, disordered coverlet, the shadowed face, the white hand on which the wedding-ring glowed ghastly bright, he put his hand to his breast, and stood for a full minute so, gazing at her; then his senses reeled back to oblivion and he fainted again, falling at the feet of the Archbishop, as that clergyman rose from his knees. As he lay along the floor they marked how slight and frail he was, and, when they lifted him, how light his weight, and how reluctantly and slowly the heart that had beaten so high stirred in his bosom. PART III THE KING "Man is God’s masterpiece." FRANCIS QUARLES. CHAPTER I VITA SINE AMOR MORS EST Henry Sidney, Lord Romney, and the Earl of Portland were walking up and down the cloisters of Westminster Abbey. It was the end of April—a bitter spring following a severe winter; constant clouds blotted out the sun, and sudden falls of snow had left the square of grass in the centre of the cloisters wet and white. The Earl, muffled to the chin in a red mantle, and carrying a great muff of brown fur, was talking earnestly to Lord Romney, who, though a feather-head and useless in politics, was more loved by the King than any Englishman, and of unimpeachable loyalty to the throne. "This," said Portland, with energy, "is death or madness—nay, worse than either, for he is but a figure of himself that deceiveth us into thinking we have a King." "God knoweth," returned Romney, who looked old and worn, sad and dejected, "never have we so needed his wisdom and his courage. Whom can we trust since the death of Her Majesty? Not even my Lord Nottingham." "Sunderland," said the Earl, "is creeping back to favour—the knave of two reigns, who would get a third King in his clutches—and the Lord Keeper is very active in the House. Now I have done what I can to transact necessary business since the Queen’s death—but I cannot do much, for the malice against foreigners is incredible——" "No one but the King can do anything!" broke out Romney. "I at least can do no more," admitted Portland. "And certainly my heart misgiveth me that this is going to be the end—in miserable failure." "Why—not failure," protested the Englishman. Portland paused by the clustered pillars which divided the open windows; a few ghastly flakes of snow were falling from a disturbed sky against the worn, crumbling, and grey masonry. "Miserable failure," repeated the Earl; his fine fair face was pale and stern in the colourless shadows of the heavy arches. "Parliament needeth a leader, the Republic needeth her magistrate, the allies their commander—there is very much to do—with every day, more—and the man who should do it is as useless as a sick girl." "I think," said Romney, with some gentleness, "that his heart is broken."