It was my Lord Chamberlain, fast feeling himself falling before the wolves of faction, who urged the King to sacrifice even this to those great designs to which he had given his life—it was Sunderland who put the needs of Republic before him as he had after the Queen’s death; and William had again responded, even out of the depths of agony. But as the day approached for the departure of those Guards who had been with him since he had first marched out of The Hague against the French, whom he had led again and again in battle, who kept watch every night while he slept, who were devoted to him—not as the King of England, but as William of Orange—as the time drew near for him to say farewell to his friend de Ginckle and Monsieur de Schomberg, as he received daily the petitions of the poor French who had fought for him loyally, and to whom he had promised his protection, his spirit gave way. He made the last sacrifice of his pride, and he who had dealt haughtily with kings wrote a request in his own hand humbly asking the Parliament, as a personal favour to himself, to allow him to retain the Dutch Guards. He sent the message down to the House by Lord Ranelagh, his Master of the Horse; and now, in his little cabinet at Kensington that had seen so many vigils of toil and sorrow, awaited the answer of the Commons. Before him lay the draft of the message he had sent— "His Majesty is pleased to let the House know that the necessary preparations are made for transporting the Guards who came with him into England, unless, out of consideration to him, the House is disposed to find some way of continuing them longer in his service, which His Majesty would take very kindly." To this humility had William of Orange stooped; beneath this paper was another, half hidden by it—the farewell speech he had drawn up. His own words flashed up at him in his own impetuous handwriting: "Feeling that you have so little regard to my advice, that you take no manner of care of your own security, and that you expose yourselves to evident ruin by divesting yourselves of the only means of defence, it would not be just or reasonable that I should be witness of your ruin." If he could but go down to the House and cast that at them—leave England, and die peacefully in Holland! But Sunderland was right; he must endure even this for the sake of the Republic—and surely, even such as Harley could not refuse his personal appeal. In his agitation and impatience he began pacing up and down the narrow room. He was in wretched health; night after night he could not sleep for grief and mortification; his headaches, his fainting-fits were frequent and terrible; even this gentle walking to and fro soon exhausted him; he sank into the window-seat coughing and holding his side, where his heart was beating with a dragging pain.