of Monmouth then in Holland, and suffering
from the king's displeasure; and besought him to extend his kindness
towards the Duchesses of Portsmouth and Cleveland; "and do not," said
he, "let poor Nelly starve." Whilst these commands were addressed him,
the duke had flung himself on his knees by the bedside, and, bursting
into tears, kissed his brother's hand.

The queen, who had scarce left his majesty since the beginning of his
illness, was at this time absent, her love and grief not permitting her
to endure this afflicting scene. He spoke most tenderly of her; and
when presently she sent a message praying he would pardon her absence in
regard to her excessive grief, and forgive her withal if at any time she
had offended him, he replied, "Alas, poor woman! She beg my pardon?--I
beg hers, with all my heart." He next summoned his children to him, one
by one, and addressing them with words of advice, embraced them heartily
and blessed them fervently. And he being the Lord's anointed, the
bishops present besought he would give them his benediction likewise,
and all that were present, and in them the whole body of his subjects;
in compliance with which request he, with some difficulty, raised
himself, and all falling on their knees, he blessed them fervently. Then
they arose and departed.

Silence fell upon the palace; night wore slowly away. Charles tossed
upon his bed racked with pain, but no complaint escaped his lips. Those
who watched him in the semi-darkened room heard him ask God to accept
his sufferings in atonement for his sins. Then, speaking aloud, he
declared himself weary of life, and hoped soon to reach a better
world. Courteous to the last, he begged pardon for the trouble he gave,
inasmuch as he was long in dying. And anon he slumbered, and quickly
woke again in agony and prayed with zeal. Never had time moved with
slower passage for him; not hours, but weeks, seemed to elapse between
each stroke of the clock; and yet around him was darkness and tardy
night. But after much weary waiting, morning was at hand, the time-piece
struck six. "Draw the curtains," said the dying man, "that I may once
more see day." The grey light of a February dawn, scarce brightened
to eastward a cheerless sky; but he hailed this herald of sunrise with
infinite relief and terrible regret; relief that he had lived to see
another day; regret that no more morns should break for him.

His soul tore itself from his body with fierce st