Then his content was disturbed—and for the strangest reason. He should have been pleased if anything—at least indifferent, but he was surprised to find he was not.

A messenger arrived from Hanover with news that his wife Sophia Dorothea had died in her prison at Ahlden after thirty

two years of that captivity to which her husband had condemned her.

George shut himself in his apartment. Why should he care?

She deserved it, he said. She betrayed me with Konigsmarck.

And for some strange reason the past became clear again; he remembered the quarrels when she had accused him of infidelity. Ermengarda had been the cause of the quarrel, and she was still with him, his dear Duchess of Kendal.

Then Sophia Dorothea had taken her lover, been discovered, her lover mysteriously murdered, herself made a prisoner for life ... the prisoner of her husband.

How she must have hated him, living out her lonely life in Ahlden, calling herself Queen of England, a country she would never see—for he had condemned her to life imprisonment!

She had died cursing him. He did not want to know more. It was better not.

He made up his mind there should be a brief announcement —that was all. And life should go on as though nothing had happened.

Nor had it. She had been nothing to him for years. And now she was dead.

"My mother is dead," said George Augustus.

Caroline thought of Sophia Dorothea of whom she had heard so much during her first years in Hanover, although she had never seen her. She remembered the shadow which had seemed to hang over the old Leine Schloss; she recalled vividly the spot where it was said Konigsmarck, creeping from his mistress's rooms, had been set upon and murdered.

Poor Sophia Dorothea, the victim of the King's vindictive-ness even as she was!

"The Court must go into mourning," she said.

The King came into her apartment, his eyes bulging, his jaw trembling. Never before had she seen him moved in this way.

**What is this I hear?" he demanded. "The Court in mourn-ingl Why?"

"For the death of the Prince's mother."

"She is... nothing. There will be no mourning. Do you hear me. I said no mourning."

"If it is Your Majesty's command "

"It is an order. No mourning, I say. No mourning." She bowed her head. "There shall be no mourning." He left her. No, certainly she had never seen him so disturbed.

He looked ten years older than he had before the news had come.

That night the King went to the theatre, with more pomp than usual. On one side of him was the Duchess of Kendal, on the other the Duchess of Darlington.

He gave an impression of enjoying the show more than usual.

Caroline, who had been ordered to go to the tlieatre with the Prince at the same time, watched him more than the play.

He is too eager, she thought. And he has aged. Can it really be that he suffers remorse, or is it :hat he is more afraid of the dead than of the living?

George could not shut himself away from rumour. Sophia Dorothea had cursed him when she was dying. Those who had been at her bedside had heard it distinctly. She had been half conscious but she had talked of him. He would not survive her a year, she had prophesied; he would be called to face her at the judgement seat when he would have to answer for what he had done to her.

The King heard the prophecies and laughed at them. Anne Brett had become his mistress after he had given her fine apartments in St. James's Palace and a good pension, but she wanted a title too.

He had explained that that was a matter which took some time to arrange but it should be hers in due course.

The young woman strutted about the Court giving herself airs as none of the other mistresses had dared do. The Duchess of Kendal was annoyed that another woman should take up so much of the King's time, and some said that to placate her the King married her—but there was no proof of this. However, in spite of his infatuation for Anne Brett, he still did not waver in his devotion to Ermengarda. Perhaps when they were alone together they talked of those early days when his devotion to her had called forth the protests of his wife—for that had been the beginning of the trouble. Ermengarda had had no hand in the condemnation of Sophia Dorothea but because she was in some way involved he found even greater comfort in her company.

But this, of course, he would not admit. Sophia Dorothea was dead—and that was the end of an episode which over the years had become insignificant.

And the time came for him to pay another visit to Hanover. He was going to remonstrate with his daughter, the Queen of Prussia, because she had ordered the deepest mourning at her court for her mother. If she wanted the double marriage this was not the way to get it.

He must go to Hanover; he must show the world—and perhaps himself—that he cared nothing for the death-bed prophecies of the woman whose life he had ruined when he had condemned her to life imprisonment.

It was on a June day, about seven months after the death of Sophia Dorothea, that he set out on his journey.

The crossing was a bad one and Ermengarda always had suffered from sea sickeness.

'*You must rest for a day or so at the Hague,'* said the King. **You can follow me when you have recovered."

She agreed that she must do this and he went on alone with his escort, which included Lord Townsend, and on the borders of Holland and Germany stopped at the mansion of a Count Twittle who was waiting to receive the royal party. Supper

was waiting for them, a meal which the King thoroughly enjoyed.

The Count said that his mansion was at the King's disposal for as long as he should need it and Townsend suggested that they should rest there at Delden for a few days which would enable the King to recover from the journey and the Duchess of Kendal to join them.

But the King would not wait; he would not even stay the night. The horses must be saddled, he said, and they would continue their journey to Osnabriick where his brother would be waiting to welcome liim.

As the King stepped into his coach he saw a letter lying on the seat. He picked it up; he did not know the handwriting and yet there was something familiar about it.

"Ride on," he ordered; and as his coach rattled out of Delden he read the letter.

His hands began to shake so that he could scarcely hold the letter. As soon as he began to read it he knew why the handwriting had seemed familiar. He had not seen it for years because it was hers.

She was ill, she wrote; she would soon die. But he need not think that he would live much longer than she had. He had ruined her life; he had condemned her to lonely exile. What life did he think she had had ... she who should have shared the throne of England, she who was the true Queen? But his time would come. He should not live long to survive her. As soon as he heard of her death ... he should prepare for his own.

The King lay back in his seat; his heart was beating so fast that it shocked him; a red mist swam before his eyes.

Townsend beside him spoke but the King could not hear his voice clearly.

"Your Majesty ..."

"Drive to Osnabriick," he whispered. "I must get to Osna-bruck."

"Your Majesty is ill. We will drive back to Delden "

"To Osnabriick," said the King.

"I am afraid for His Majesty..." began Townsend. "We need doctors..."

"To Osnabruck ..." muttered George.

"You had better do as the King commands," said Townsend. "Drive with all speed to Osnabruck."

George lay back in the coach. His eyes were glazed; but his lips moved now and then. "To Osnabruck. To Osnabruck," he whispered.