Portland made no answer; he knew that he could not have spoken to William with the quiet tact and insinuating boldness that Sunderland had, but he knew also that he had served and loved the King in a way Sunderland could probably not even understand, and his heart swelled at what he considered calculated tricks to goad the King into filling a position where he might be useful to my lord; in this Portland’s rigid honesty was unfair to Sunderland, who, though he was knavish sometimes in his means, was seldom knavish in his ends, and perhaps strove for as high an ideal as William Bentinck, though by different ways. Lord Romney spoke again. "After all, what doth it matter—if the King could be drawn out of his sloth?" Portland’s fair face was still dark and sombre; he rather despised the Englishman; he rather regretted the day when he had come to England to take up these perilous honours among a people who detested him. Romney glanced at him, gave a little shrug, and returned to the King’s room; his love for William was of a different quality, his code was easier; he was thankful that the King should, under any circumstances, recover his balance, and he, Henry Sidney, could see no great dishonour in the public actions of my Lord Sunderland, and regarded him from no such stern standpoint as did William Bentinck. He found the King had moved and now sat beside the bureau piled with the untouched correspondence. Sunderland was still at the window looking out at the inky line of the river between the white banks and the slow progress of a barge with dull yellow sails that struggled with a sluggish wind past Whitehall stairs. Romney went over to him. "You have done much, my lord," he whispered warmly; "we must all be grateful." Sunderland turned his faded, powdered face from the window. "He will finish the campaign yet, I think," he answered. The Lord Keeper and Lord Portland re-entered the room, and with them was a third gentleman, who went at once to Lord Sunderland, like one waiting for directions; that nobleman took him gently by the arm and drew him towards the King, who had not yet looked up. "Sire," he said, "Your Majesty knoweth M. van Keppel, who hath been some years in your service." The King raised his eyes and saw the splendid figure of a young Dutch officer standing before him with great humility and respect. "Yes, I remember you, Mynheer," he murmured, with a faint animation, and speaking his own language. Sunderland stepped back and the young soldier went on one knee. "Are you come from Flanders?" asked William. "Yes, sire." "From my Cousin Vaudemont’s force?" "Yes, sire." "What is your business with us?" asked the King faintly. Joost van Keppel rose. "My business is more than I dare broach," he said humbly. The King looked at him kindly. "I shall not be angry." He exerted himself to graciousness, and his glance seemed to rest with a wistful kind of pleasure on the youth.