"There was some little exchange of gallantries, sire, no more. My lady is close friends with Mr. Sidney, and would commission him for horses, plants, candles, and such things as can be bought with advantage at The Hague." "And did she write to the Lady Mary?" Sunderland smiled. "She had that honour once—the subject was a recipe for treacle water." "Well, well," said the King, in a relieved tone of half apology, "I am so hedged about I begin to distrust my best servants. I must be short with M. Barillon; he maketh too much of my friendship with His Majesty." "That is the jealousy of France, sire, that ever desireth a hand in your affairs." James answered testily. "Let them take care. M. Barillon said my envoys abroad had sent me warning of what my nephew designed—that is not true, my lord?" "I have received no such letters, sire, and Your Majesty’s foreign correspondence toucheth no hands but mine." The King rose and struck the bell on the black lacquer cabinet; his exceedingly ill-humour was beginning, as always, to be softened by the influence of Lord Sunderland, who had more command over him than even the Jesuit, Father Petre, who was commonly supposed to be his most intimate counsellor. When the summons was answered the King called for candles, and went over to the window again. The dusk was stained with the glow of a hundred bonfires, lit by good Protestants in honour of the acquittal of the seven bishops charged with treason for offering His Majesty a petition against the reading of the Declaration of Indulgence from the pulpits of the Anglican churches; the verdict and the demonstration were alike hateful to the King, and he could scarce restrain his furious chagrin as he saw the triumphant rockets leap into the deep azure sky. He thought bitterly of the murmuring army on Hounslow Heath; had they been steadfastly loyal he would hardly have restrained from setting them on to the defiant capital which they had been gathered together to overawe. The candles were brought, and lit the rich little chamber with a ruddy light that showed the glitter of glass and gilt, lacquer and silver, the moody face of the King, and the calm countenance of his minister. "My nephew would never dare," muttered His Majesty at last, "nor would Mary be so forgetful of her duty——" He turned into the room again. "I think you are right, my lord; he hath too much to do at home. But I am glad I did recall Mr. Sidney—a Republican at heart—who is like his brother." "Of what designs doth Your Majesty suspect the Prince?" asked Sunderland quietly. The King answered hastily. "Nothing—nothing." "Doth M. de Barillon," asked the Earl, "think His Highness might do what Monmouth did?" At this mention of that other unhappy nephew of his who had paid for his brief rebellion on Tower Hill, the King’s face cleared of its look of doubt.