"Release you?" the King said smiling. "That does not follow. For consider, my lord, you are not the only one in the world who pursues perforce a path for which he has little taste. To be King of England has a higher sound than to be Stadtholder of Holland. But to be a King and no King; to see your way clearly and be thwarted by those who see no fool of the field; to have France by the throat and be baffled for the lack of ten thousand men or a million guilders; above all, to be served by men who have made use of you--who have one foot on either shore, and having betrayed their old Master to gain their ends, would now betray you to save their necks. This, too, forms no bed of roses! But I lie on it! I lie on it!" he concluded phlegmatically; and as he spoke he took a pinch of snuff. "In fine, my lord," he continued, "to be high, or what the world calls high, is to be unhappy." The Duke sighed. "You, sir, have those qualities which fit you for your part," he said sadly. "I have not." "Have I?" The King said no more, but the gesture with which he held out his hands, as if he bade the other mark his feebleness, his short breath, his hacking cough, his pallor, had more meaning than many words. "No, my lord," he continued after a pause, "I cannot release you. I cannot afford to release you, because I cannot afford to release the one man who does not day by day betray me, and who never has betrayed me!" "I would to heaven that you could say that!" the Duke cried, much moved. "I can, my friend," the King answered, with a gesture of kindness. "It was nothing, and it is forgotten. I have long ceased to think of it. But, _c'est vrai!_ I remember when I say I can trust no one else. I do my good Somers an injustice. He is a dry man, however, like myself, and poor company, and does not count for much." My lord, contending with his feelings, did not answer, and the King who, while speaking, had seated himself in a high-backed chair, in which he looked frailer and more feeble than when on his legs, let a minute elapse before he resumed in a different and brisker tone, "And now tell me what has troubled our good Secretary to-day?" "The Duke of Berwick, sir, is in London." To my astonishment, and I have no doubt to the Duke's, the King merely nodded. "Ah!" he said. "Is he in this pretty plot, then?" "I think not," the Duke answered. "But I should suppose---- "That he is here to take advantage of it," the King said. "Well, he is his uncle's own nephew. I suppose Ferguson sold him--as he has sold every one all his life?" "Yes, sir. But not, I think, with the intention that I should carry out the bargain." "Eh?" "It is a long tale, sir," the Duke said rather wearily. "And having given your Majesty the information----"