"M. le Marquis," he said, "you will do me one more service—you will write to His Majesty that his suspicions are quite unfounded, that my preparations, you are assured, are against Denmark, and that no credit is to be given to the tales of M. Skelton and M. D’Avaux about M. de Sunderland." The Ambassador’s face became absolutely blanched; he moistened his lips, and murmured, "I dare not—I dare not," between dry breaths. "You dare not refuse," answered William. "I could so expose you that not a court in Europe would employ you. Besides, it is enough that I command you. Sit down and write." M. D’Albeville came slowly nearer the table. "I would do anything to serve Your Highness, but not this—it is too late—it has gone too far——" "Write," said the Stadtholder briefly. "I pay well, you know that." M. D’Albeville sat down in the chair opposite the paper and standish. "But His Majesty will learn from others, and I shall be recalled and" ... he complained miserably ... "death ... treason is death. Oh, my God, I cannot do——" "M. le Marquis," interrupted William, "His Majesty is simple enough to trust you, and for the rest I protect those whom I use." M. D’Albeville shivered and took up the pen. He had, and knew it, no chance with the Prince, whose potent personality always completely mastered his. He dared not, from some sheer unnameable fear, refuse or resist, but the damp stood on his brow and his heart was cramped at the thought of the possible vengeance of the master whom he was betraying. "You know what to write," said William. "Put it in your own hand and your own style—you do not, I think, use cipher——" Tears of terror, rage, and mortification stood in the Irishman’s eyes. He had come to excuse himself from a service that had become too dangerous, and found himself overpowered into going still greater lengths. He could not bring himself to write the letter which would eventually cut him off from all hope of pardon from England. "He shall write," said the Prince, in a low tone, to M. de Hesse, "if I have to hold a pistol to his head the while." And he came softly round behind the Ambassador’s chair. "Gentlemen," complained M. D’Albeville, "is this a way to treat the representative of His Britannic Majesty?" The Landgrave and M. de Lunenburgh closed nearer round him. M. D’Albeville looked up at the grave faces bent on him, and began to write. "Make haste," said the Prince, drawing a round filigree watch from his pocket and glancing at the time. The Ambassador groaned and drove his pen the faster; in a few moments the sheet of paper was covered, sanded, and signed. "There is my ruin, Highness," said M. D’Albeville dramatically, handing it with shaking fingers. "Men like you are never ruined," returned the Prince. He glanced over the letter, ill spelt, ill expressed, but all that Sunderland would need to quiet the fears of his master. The Prince folded it across, and M. D’Albeville held out his hand.