sit down, and
repeated them till he obeyed. After she had received the sacrament she
sank rapidly, and uttered only a few broken words. Twice she tried to
take a last farewell of him whom she had loved so truly and entirely;
but she was unable to speak. He had a succession of fits so alarming
that his Privy Councillors, who were assembled in a neighbouring room,
were apprehensive for his reason and his life. The Duke of Leeds, at the
request of his colleagues, ventured to assume the friendly guardianship
of which minds deranged by sorrow stand in need. A few minutes before
the Queen expired, William was removed, almost insensible, from the sick
room.

Mary died in peace with Anne. Before the physicians had pronounced the
case hopeless, the Princess, who was then in very delicate health, had
sent a kind message; and Mary had returned a kind answer. The Princess
had then proposed to come herself; but William had, in very gracious
terms, declined the offer. The excitement of an interview, he said,
would be too much for both sisters. If a favourable turn took place, Her
Royal Highness should be most welcome to Kensington. A few hours later
all was over. [551]

The public sorrow was great and general. For Mary's blameless life, her
large charities and her winning manners had conquered the hearts of
her people. When the Commons next met they sate for a time in profound
silence. At length it was moved and resolved that an Address of
Condolence should be presented to the King; and then the House broke
up without proceeding to other business. The Dutch envoy informed the
States General that many of the members had handkerchiefs at their
eyes. The number of sad faces in the street struck every observer. The
mourning was more general than even the mourning for Charles the Second
had been. On the Sunday which followed the Queen's death her virtues
were celebrated in almost every parish church of the Capital, and in
almost every great meeting of nonconformists. [552]

The most estimable Jacobites respected the sorrow of William and the
memory of Mary. But to the fiercer zealots of the party neither the
house of mourning nor the grave was sacred. At Bristol the adherents of
Sir John Knight rang the bells as if for a victory. [553] It has often
been repeated, and is not at all improbable, that a nonjuring divine, in
the midst of the general lamentation, preached on the text, "Go; see
now this cursed woman and bury her; for she is a