The Master of Stair caught his breath in an effort at self-control; he had served the King at infinite labor and some risk; he had gathered all the threads of this conspiracy into his hands at the price of two men’s lives, and it had been for nothing. If he could not crush the Jacobites he wanted at least the glory of sparing them; and he had neither the satisfaction of one nor the other; his wrath rose against the King, he did not comprehend his motives. His own impulse was to sweep the country clear of Jacobites by fire and sword or, if it must be mercy, to confront them with proofs of their guilt and then forgive them grandly before all the world. His passion at this dismal end to his intrigues grew beyond bearing; he looked up with lowering brows. “I say it to your face, sir,” he said thickly, “that you play a foolish—and a dangerous game.” William of Orange rose and came round to the other side of the bureau, where he leaned and looked at the Master of Stair. “Whatever game I play,” he said, “it is not that of being your puppet, Sir John. I ’ave my own motive’—if you cannot understan’ them—very will—it make’ no difference.” His green eyes narrowed a little as he watched the furious face opposite; he picked up the riding-whip from the table and flicked it gently to and fro across his high boots. “I think I am the master,” he said, and his tone brought the hot blood into Sir John’s face. “You are the King,” he answered in a constrained voice. “But I am not one of those who believe, sir, that the King can do no wrong.” “No,” said William quietly, “you think the King can be pull’ by strings—per’aps if you ’ave a Stuart or a Bourbon—but I—I ’ave rule’ before I am King—I do not need your title. I am Nassau. I will not be question’—you understan’?” Sir John put his hand to his cravat and dragged at it; he was face to face with a character that he could not understand, and a spirit every whit as masterful as his own. Rage at his own inferior position, the fret of the lost chance of glorification, the bitterness of being overruled, put him into a passion that flushed his face and made his voice shake. “Sir—if your generosity to your friends equaled the generosity you show your enemies, I should have had at least some thanks for my service—you are as ungrateful, sire, as you—” Abruptly the King interrupted: “I’ll take no more, Sir John,” he cried; he eyes half-shut in a sinister manner and the whip tapped faster on his boot. “You ’ave forgotten you are not in your Parliament ’ouse.” The Master of Stair felt he had gone far enough; he acknowledged himself over-matched, though with no good grace; he turned under the hard gaze of the King and muttered some words of apology, but only as if William’s cold glance forced him to them against his will; in his heart he hated the man who overbore him. Suddenly the King laughed. “You ’ave not a courteous temperament,” he said. “You are too stiff, Sir John, and too fiery.”