Soon inaction became intolerable; he rose, nearly struck the bell to summon M. Zulestein or M. Auverquerque, hesitated, did not, left the cabinet and his own apartments, and came out into the sunny quiet galleries of the palace. Deep in thought, he walked slowly, with bent head and his hands clasped behind him under the full skirts of his brocade coat, when a sudden sound of voices caused him to look up. He was in the empty antechamber leading to the King’s gallery, the door of which was half open; it was from behind it that the voices came; one of them, very clear, serene, and beautiful in tone, was speaking as the King paused; the words came very levelly and distinctly— "He actually asked it as a favour, you say? And of course they will refuse. I should have thought that the little upstart would have known by now that we ain’t to be lorded by foreigners." The King stepped back with an instinctive shock, as if he had put his foot on a sword. He knew the voice to be that of the man whom he most despised and loathed—John Churchill, my Lord of Marlborough. Though he was very well aware how he was traduced, lampooned, slandered, and abused behind his back, he had never heard himself referred to in these cool terms of contempt; though he knew these things were said, he had never actually figured what it would be to overhear them. The blood rushed to his heart and lay there like a weight. He was of a family that had given an Emperor to the West five hundred years ago, and John Churchill was scarce of gentle blood and had climbed on infamy. The King’s right hand crossed over to his sword hilt. The beautiful, insolent voice began again. William instantly pushed open the door and entered the long gallery. At once silence fell. There were two men, Marlborough and Torrington, near the first window, and a small, weary, anxious-eyed and forlorn-looking child seated near them on a purple stool, making paper boats. Torrington went scarlet at sight of the King, but Marlborough swept a graceful bow, without the least change in his composure. William looked at him steadily. He could have sent him to the block—not once, but many times, yet he had spared him even the humiliation of a pardon in affecting to ignore his treasons. It was curious to him to look at this man—young, splendid in towering strength and opulent beauty, rich, prosperous, advancing from power to power, infamous, heartless, conscienceless, the man who would be ruling England very shortly now, and in whose hands would rest the completion or the ruin of the task to which he, the King, had given his life. Torrington, fearful lest William had overheard, made some stumbling remark about their presence. The King seated himself on the window-seat and coughed.