The Grand Pensionary returned to his seat and hid his face in his hands, telling himself that he had the fever; he tried to think and argue with himself, but it was a useless effort, and he fell presently into a little sleep—or swoon—from which he only roused when he felt a touch on his shoulder, and started up to find the room dark and his secretary standing with a candle and a packet in his hand. "From England?" murmured M. Heinsius. "Yes, Mynheer." The Grand Pensionary took the letter eagerly, hoping to see the writing of the King; but it was addressed in the hand of my Lord Albemarle. "I have been exhausted unto sleep," he said. "Light me the candles—I will read this and go home." The candles, in their pale brass sticks, illumined the dark, simple room, the black shining desk, the pale worn face of M. Heinsius, as he opened the letter from England. It was dated at Kensington House, and this was what the Grand Pensionary read:— "I have to offer you the saddest and most unwelcome news in the world, which indeed I am not yet able to write plainly. "My beloved master died yesterday between seven and eight of the evening, which is a loss that we and indeed all Europe cannot be too sensible of. "He died with the greatest courage and serenity, speaking not at all during his last days, save to thank us graciously for our services. He had no words even for the priests who came about him, which may cause some scandal here. "I believe his thoughts to have been always on the Republic, from some short ejaculations he made, even while the prayers for the dying were being read. I think that even at the very last his sole concern was the United Provinces. "He asked for my lord of Portland, who came; but His Majesty was past speech, yet he took my lord’s hand very tenderly, and carried it up to his heart, which was then at the last beat, and died in that attitude, after but a short struggle with his breath. "They found a locket of the late Queen’s hair fastened by a black ribbon to his sword-arm. "As he was spared nothing during his life, neither was he at his death; for the doctors say now that he must have been in great and perpetual agony, for his broken collar-bone had pierced his lungs—yet not a single murmur escaped him. His courage was of the most resplendent any man may have—for it was tried in every way. "I cannot write a fuller account, for I am struck beyond expression by this event. You will, of course, hear of it from others. "There is very little grief here. They talk of a statue—but when shall we see it raised? They are busy praising Queen Anne, who is the silliest creature I know—a strange people, these English; I am out of humour with them, and you will see me at The Hague very soon.