Disaster and defeat awaited it. Its shattered remnant crept back
in disgrace to England, and the Duke found himself more detested
by the people than he had been already--which is saying much. He
went off to seek comfort at the hands of the two persons who
really loved him--his doting King and his splendid wife.
But the defeat had neither lessened his resolve nor chastened his
insolence. He prepared a second expedition in the very teeth of a
long-suffering nation's hostility, indifferent to the mutinies
and mutterings about him. What signified to him the will of a
nation? He desired to win to the woman whom he loved, and to
accomplish that he nothing recked that he should set Europe in a
blaze, nothing recked what blood should be poured out, what
treasure dissipated.
Hatred of him by now was so widespread and vocal, that his
friends, fearing that soon it would pass from words to deeds,
urged him to take precautions, advised the wearing of a shirt of
mail for greater safety.
But he laughed sneeringly, ever arrogant and scornful.
"It needs not. There are no Roman spirits left," was his
contemptuous answer.
He was mistaken. One morning after breakfast, as he was leaving
the house in the High Street, Portsmouth, where he lodged whilst
superintending the final preparations for that unpopular
expedition, John Felton, a self-appointed instrument of national
vengeance, drove a knife to the hilt into the Duke's breast.
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