Instead of answering his accusers he fled to the Continent, where he remained in voluntary exile until news reached him of Anne’s last illness. He landed at Dover on the day of her death. The new king, George the First, restored him to his command and his honours; but two years later he had a paralytic stroke, followed by another. His great physical strength, hardly tried by the fatigues of his many campaigns, and his brilliant intellect, broken down by the stress and anxieties of his labours and responsibilities, began to give way. He spent his declining days in riding, playing with his grandchildren, and keeping minute accounts of his most trifling expenditure. Even when old and infirm, it was said that he walked in order to save sixpence for a chair. He died on June 16, 1722, and was buried with great splendour in Westminster Abbey. So passes Marlborough. He leaves a stained memory, it is true, but let us not dwell upon his vices and failings. Let us rather remember how— “Calm and serene, he drives the furious blast; And pleased th’ Almighty’s orders to perform, Rides in the whirlwind, and directs the storm.” [Illustration] [Illustration: =The British Assault on the Village of Blenheim.= (_From the picture by Allan Stewart, specially painted for this book._)] Brigadier Rose led the British infantry to the assault under a shower of grape and musketry, and ordered them not to fire a shot until he struck his sword against the palisades. While the flower of the French troops were thus “held up” in the village, Marlborough broke the center with the allied cavalry. [Illustration] Chapter XVI. BONNIE PRINCE CHARLIE. “_Come weal, come woe, we’ll gather and go,_ _And live and die for Charlie._”