s, canvassed actively on the Whig side.

[Here the revised part ends.--EDITOR.]

Meanwhile reports about the state of the King's health were constantly
becoming more and more alarming. His medical advisers, both English and
Dutch, were at the end of their resources. He had consulted by letter
all the most eminent physicians of Europe; and, as he was apprehensive
that they might return flattering answers if they knew who he was, he
had written under feigned names. To Fagon he had described himself as a
parish priest. Fagon replied, somewhat bluntly, that such symptoms could
have only one meaning, and that the only advice which he had to give
to the sick man was to prepare himself for death. Having obtained
this plain answer, William consulted Fagon again without disguise, and
obtained some prescriptions which were thought to have a little retarded
the approach of the inevitable hour. But the great King's days were
numbered. Headaches and shivering fits returned on him almost daily. He
still rode and even hunted; [26] but he had no longer that firm seat or
that perfect command of the bridle for which he had once been renowned.
Still all his care was for the future. The filial respect and tenderness
of Albemarle had been almost a necessary of life to him. But it was of
importance that Heinsius should be fully informed both as to the whole
plan of the next campaign and as to the state of the preparations.
Albemarle was in full possession of the King's views on these subjects.
He was therefore sent to the Hague. Heinsius was at that time suffering
from indisposition, which was indeed a trifle when compared with the
maladies under which William was sinking. But in the nature of William
there was none of that selfishness which is the too common vice of
invalids. On the twentieth of February he sent to Heinsius a letter in
which he did not even allude to his own sufferings and infirmities. "I
am," he said, "infinitely concerned to learn that your health is not yet
quite reestablished. May God be pleased to grant you a speedy recovery.
I am unalterably your good friend, William." Those were the last lines
of that long correspondence.

On the twentieth of February William was ambling on a favourite horse,
named Sorrel, through the park of Hampton Court. He urged his horse to
strike into a gallop just at the spot where a mole had been at work.
Sorrel stumbled on the mole-hill, and went down on his knees. The King
fell off, a