The King meanwhile was sinking fast.  Albemarle had arrived at Kensington from the Hague, exhausted by rapid travelling.  His master kindly bade him go to rest for some hours, and then summoned him to make his report.  That report was in all respects satisfactory.  The States General were in the best temper; the troops, the provisions and the magazines were in the best order.  Every thing was in readiness 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 tune 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 to the bedside, bent down, and placed his ear close to the King’s mouth.  The lips of the dying man moved; but nothing could be heard.  The King took the hand of his earliest friend, and pressed it tenderly to his heart.  In that moment, no doubt, all that had cast a slight passing cloud over their long and pure friendship was forgotten.  It was now between seven and eight in the morning.  He closed his eyes, and gasped for breath.  The bishops knelt down and read the commendatory prayer.  When it ended William was no more.