s for an early campaign.
William received the intelligence with the calmness of a man whose
work was done. He was under no illusion as to his danger. "I am fast
drawing," he said, "to my end." His end was worthy of his life. His
intellect was not for a moment clouded. His fortitude was the more
admirable because he was not willing to die. He had very lately said to
one of those whom he most loved: "You know that I never feared death;
there have been times when I should have wished it; but, now that this
great new prospect is opening before me, I do wish to stay here a little
longer." Yet no weakness, no querulousness, disgraced the noble close
of that noble career. To the physicians the King returned his thanks
graciously and gently. "I know that you have done all that skill
and learning could do for me; but the case is beyond your art; and I
submit." From the words which escaped him he seemed to be frequently
engaged in mental prayer. Burnet and Tenison remained many hours in
the sick room. He professed to them his firm belief in the truth of the
Christian religion, and received the sacrament from their hands with
great seriousness. The antechambers were crowded all night with lords
and privy councillors. He ordered several of them to be called in,
and exerted himself to take leave of them with a few kind and cheerful
words. Among the English who were admitted to his bedside were
Devonshire and Ormond. But there were in the crowd those who felt as no
Englishman could feel, friends of his youth who had been true to him,
and to whom he had been true, through all vicissitudes of fortune; who
had served him with unalterable fidelity when his Secretaries of State,
his Treasury and his Admiralty had betrayed him; who had never on any
field of battle, or in an atmosphere tainted with loathsome and deadly
disease, shrunk from placing their own lives in jeopardy to save his,
and whose truth he had at the cost of his own popularity rewarded
with bounteous munificence. He strained his feeble voice to thank
Auverquerque for the affectionate and loyal services of thirty years.
To Albemarle he gave the keys of his closet, and of his private drawers.
"You know," he said, "what to do with them." By this time he could
scarcely respire. "Can this," he said to the physicians, "last long?" He
was told that the end was approaching. He swallowed a cordial, and asked
for Bentinck. Those were his last articulate words. Bentinck instantly
came