"Come to the river—I had a mind to see the river." Sunderland, standing uncovered, answered with energy and decision— "Sire, if you have no regard for your own health, consider mine. This weather is death." William took his arm. "No, Robert, ’tis the fireside that is death to me—to sit and doze like a sick woman in shawls; but come into the great Hall, where we may be undisturbed. Dr. Burnet is in my apartments with a packet of sermons." He paused to cough, and then added: "As for your news—you are going to offer me your resignation." "That," said Sunderland, "and something else." "Important?" "Of the greatest importance." They turned back across the courtyard, came to a dark archway, and mounted a few steps to the left of it that led straight into the great banqueting hall of Cardinal Wolsey, that, all dismantled and unfurnished as it was, had the air of a vast, deserted church. It was even colder than the outer air, and only an obscure light filtered through the tall stained-glass windows. But William liked the place for its very sombreness. He led the way to the room beyond, that was hung with old arras and suits of armour, and lit by an oriel window, brilliant, even now, with coats and emblazonments. A circular seat ran round this window, and in front of it was a table. Here the King and his minister seated themselves. William leant back against the stained-glass, he was wrapped in his cloak to the chin, and his face was quite colourless; only his eyes fixed Sunderland with a look clear, vivid, and penetrating as ever. "So even you are leaving me?" he said. My lord laid his hat on the table and began to pull off his gloves. "As to that," he answered, "I am assured that there are a hundred and sixty voices in the House for my impeachment. My friends could not face that. And I am too old, sire, and too tired to brave what I once would have braved." William nodded. "I would not ask it of you." Sunderland detached the Lord Chamberlain’s gold key from his crimson waistcoat and placed it on the pale oak table. "I shall be always at your service—just the same," he said; "but I shall never climb again." He smiled. "This is the sum of it, sire—I have no title that I was not born to, I shall have an impaired estate, a detested memory—but I have lived my life, and I have no regrets—none." "You take with you my deep thanks and gratitude," responded William, with animation. "I could never have done what I have done but for you. You will remain my friend, if not my minister. What is your other news?" "Of far greater importance, sire. Of terrible meaning to Your Majesty." William’s eyes flashed. He leant forward. "To do—with France?" he breathed. "Yes, sire. The courier from Paris will be here to-night, but the news is all abroad in London now." The King’s hollow cheek flushed. "Tell me," he commanded.