Marjorie Bowen

“I challenge all our histories to produce a Prince in all respects his equal; I call the differing humours, interests and religions of the world to witness whether they ever found a man to centre in, like him.…

“He might have raised his seat upon his native country’s liberty, his very enemies would have supported him in those pretences; but he affected no honours but what were freely offered him, there or elsewhere.…

“And his ambition, that was only useful, knew how to wear, as well as how to deserve them.”—William Fleetwood, Bishop of St. Asaph, Sermon.

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CHAPTER I
THE RETURN OF FLORENT VAN MANDER

Mr. Bromley was watering his flowers and feeding his pigeons, and singing to himself a snatch of an English song, as he moved to and fro in the pale spring sunshine that filled his little room in the Palace.

Being disturbed by the entry of a servant, he turned his watering-can in his hand and ceased his singing.

“Pardon, Mynheer, it is M. Bentinck’s secretary who hath arrived at the Palace, and, His Highness being abroad, he wishes to see you.”

Matthew Bromley reflected.

“M. Bentinck’s secretary, by name Florent Van Mander, is it not so?”

“Yes, Mynheer.”

“Then bring him here.”

Florent Van Mander, entering immediately, had a pleasant picture of the Englishman standing by the open window with a row of tulips and narcissi showing behind him on the sill, and the grey and white pigeons circling above the gaudy flowers.

Mr. Bromley was cordial.

“We have not forgotten each other, Mynheer!—but it is not so long——”

Van Mander closed the door.

“Three years. It is three years since I was last at the Hague,” he said jealously.

“And three years of big events,” conceded Mr. Bromley. “But where is M. Bentinck?”

“He fell ill at Hertogenbosch;” Florent spoke briefly. “And I left him there, in his cousin’s house—he sent me on to acquaint the Prince of this delay——”

Mr. Bromley emptied his can, threw the last handful of grain to the greedy pigeons and closed the window.

“His Highness will be disappointed,” he remarked. He looked cheerfully at Florent. “Are you glad to have left Berlin?”

“I am glad to return to the Hague.”

Mr. Bromley leant against the window frame and observed him.

He could find no change whatever in him. Florent Van Mander appeared, as formerly, an alert, reserved, grave young man—a dull fellow Mr. Bromley called him inwardly.

“The Prince was expecting M. Bentinck to-night,” he said.

“M. Bentinck is furious at the mischance that keeps him——”

“He was glad to be recalled?”

“Naturally—does it not show the altered position of the Prince that he can recall him?”

Mr. Bromley moved to the oak overmantel and took from it a blue pot of deep red tulips that he placed on the table by the window.

“M. de Witt is still Grand Pensionary,” he remarked, “and this country is still a Republic,—but, as you say, the Prince’s position has altered.”

“Since he obtained the seat in the Council of State?”

“That was two years ago.” Mr. Bromley was removing the dead flowers from among the vivid blooms. “He hath taken a good many steps since then.”

“The whole country shouts for him,” said Florent. “It seemed to me that in every village I passed through they execrated the name of M. de Witt. But will you obtain me an audience of His Highness? I bear him a letter from M. Bentinck.”

The Englishman raised his fair face from the flowers.

“The Prince will be back at any moment, I think,” and he glanced at the clock. “He hath gone to the ‘Huis ten bosch.’”

“M. Van Ghent is no longer governor here?” asked Florent suddenly.

Mr. Bromley smiled.

“The Prince so wearied him with marks of his dislike he petitioned to be released from his post; so, consulting their own dignity, Their High Mightinesses declared His Highness free from tutelage. I’m glad of it——”

“M. de Witt opposed it—of course.”

“Of course,” repeated Mr. Bromley, carrying the tulips back to the mantelshelf. “He opposed his election to the Council—he opposed his journey to England——”

“On what grounds?”

Mr. Bromley shrugged his shoulders in a good-humoured manner.

“Doubtless he feared King Charles would win the Prince over to his designs,—and certainly if flattery and gaiety, and the temptations of a gorgeous Court——”

“Did you accompany him?” interrupted Florent enviously.

“Yes. We were fÊted for three months, but the King and the courtiers did not take to the Prince, he was too austere—he was the idol of the people though,” added Mr. Bromley, who had a light, indifferent, and vague way of referring to political matters. But he saw that Van Mander was interested deeply in what had occurred during his three years’ absence from the Hague—so it was right he should be—and so Bromley strove, honestly, and with some difficulty to himself, to satisfy his curiosity.

“M. de Witt thought the Prince would be dazzled,” he explained, thrusting his hands into his pockets,—“so there was bad feeling over that; and then there was the seat in the Council of State, and His Highness’ salary—and the affairs abroad——”

“Do you think there will be war?” again Florent broke in.

“The French are in Lorraine already,—M. de Witt hath passed the war budget and is striving for an increase of the Army,—yes, every one says that there will be war.”

Florent coloured.

“France provokes it wantonly, on the thinnest pretexts,” he said hotly.

“Umph!” Mr. Bromley slightly grimaced. “England is in it too; you heard, of course, of the treaty of Dover?—the counter stroke to the Triple Alliance——”

“Sir William Temple, I hear, hath been recalled——”

“And de Pomponne—Downing is the English Ambassador now.”

Florent rose.

“What does the Prince think of all this?”

“The Prince is striving for the Captain Generalship.”

“Will he get it?”

“I cannot tell. M. de Witt opposes it with all his power—he sees in it the first step towards the restoration of the Stadtholdership; yet nothing less will content the Army and the people.”

Florent was silent. He did not like Mr. Bromley, shallow he thought him—he was, too, a foreigner.

His own eager reflections lay too deep for any expression. He saw the terrible shadow of France falling over his country, distracted by the agony of internal conflict.…

Nothing could save them … they would be subjects of Louis. John de Witt had no more power to prevent it.… Well, the Prince would get what price he could from France once he was Captain General, and he, Florent Van Mander, must follow the example. He had served the Prince in the person of M. Bentinck, faithfully, for three years—it would be remembered to his credit.

Out of the certain ruin facing his country those who followed the Prince alone could make easy terms with France.…

He was startled from his sombre reverie by a message from His Highness.

The Prince had returned, and would see the messenger from M. Bentinck immediately.

Mr. Bromley, still busy with his flowers, nodded carelessly and pleasantly, and Florent was led to the apartment where the Prince awaited him.

It was with an unreasonable sense of agitation that he came into William’s presence, with an unnamable feeling of excitement that he looked across the chamber.

It was in this same room he had taken leave of the Prince three years ago. It seemed in every detail unchanged.

Florent recalled the precise and sombre furniture, the dark walls, the portrait of Mary Stewart, Princess of Orange, above the mantelshelf, the table between the windows covered with books and papers, the shining brass fireirons and the blue-tiled hearth.

To-day the room was filled with the hazy February sunshine, and on the black lacquer cabinet inside the door stood, unexpectedly, a bowl of white and yellow narcissi.

The Prince was standing in the far window embrasure, with his back towards the door.

He wore a velvet suit of a colour he affected, a clear violet. He held his riding-whip behind his back, and the sunlight picked out bright threads in the long hair that fell between his shoulders.

Florent closed the door.

Slowly the Prince turned and shot him a keen glance.

“Ah, the messenger from M. Bentinck.”

He held out his hand for the letter, and by his manner it seemed that he had forgotten he had ever seen Van Mander before.

“M. Bentinck is ill at Hertogenbosch, Highness, otherwise he would be here in person.”

William took the letter and broke it open. M. Bentinck’s secretary stood with his hat in his hand, eagerly observing the master whom he admired blindly and did not understand.

His first impression was that William had changed considerably. He was of the same stature, having come early to his full height, but of a more robust appearance, though his face still retained a look of delicacy. His air of assured self-containment, his expression of calm gravity had deepened. He had always been sure of himself, now he wore the air of a man sure no less of others, sure of his own influence to sway whom he would to his will.

He had lost some of his repression, it seemed; was no longer equally on his guard as to what he said or how he looked.

As he stood quietly reading his letter he conveyed a personality startlingly masterful and daring. Florent felt as if some one touched him, gripped him, so strong was the influence of the slim and silent figure.

William at length looked up.

His face had slightly altered. He was not so pale, the curved lips were set firmly in an expression of half scorn that seemed habitual, his brilliant eyes were controlled to an unfathomable austerity, and the peculiar cleft in his chin was more noticeable.

He wore slight moustaches in the French style that added to his age, and was dressed for riding even more simply than Florent.

“M. Bentinck is not seriously ill?” he asked.

“No, Highness, a chill—a slight fever——”

“When will he be able to come to the Hague?”

“In a day or so, I think, Highness.”

William looked again at the letter.

Florent did not know how to face the disappointment of the Prince’s total forgetfulness of himself; his three years’ exile were ill repaid by this.…

Again the Prince raised his eyes.

“Are you pleased to return to the Hague, Mynheer Van Mander?”

A hot flush swept across Florent’s face.

“I thought Your Highness did not recall me.”

“I recall you very well, Mynheer—M. Bentinck speaks highly of you; if you choose to remain in my service, it is open to you—here.”

Florent found himself foolishly unable to frame an answer. He had felt himself slighted, and now he was over-rewarded; shame silenced him.

“I imagine you will care to stay,” said William, eyeing him.

“It has been my ambition, Highness.”

The Prince put the letter away in his pocket.

“You will see M. Renswoude, who is now head of my household; I need another secretary. I will speak with you again. Meanwhile, Mynheer, I thank you for your fidelity to M. Bentinck.”

Florent, quivering with pleasure, bowed low.

The Prince turned to the table between the windows.

“First I will request you to return to Hertogenbosch, Mynheer, with a letter for M. Bentinck.”

He sat down, wrote hastily, in a large, flowing hand, a few lines, and sealed them in a cover with the signet on his thumb.

As he rose again the door was opened.

“Highness, the Grand Pensionary is below and requests an immediate interview.”

It seemed to Florent’s acute observation that a malicious and triumphant expression flashed for an instant in William’s eyes, but he answered quietly—

“I will see him here.”

As the servant withdrew, William seated himself before his papers again, handing Florent the packet for M. Bentinck.

“Return as soon as you may and—an easy journey,” he said.

Florent bowed himself out as he would have done from a king’s presence, flushed, with a high beating heart, and well repaid for those tedious three years in Berlin.

William watched the door close, then leant back in his chair.

Papers, drawings, plans and maps were scattered before him. Some of the drawers of the cabinet were pulled open, and the long, fuchsia-shaped, brass handles glittered, where the sun caught them, in stars of gold.

Several books, on mathematics and geometry, were piled together, and upon them was placed a vase in the shape of a Chinese monster holding a single crimson tulip.

The sun, slanting in through the long window, caught this flower and picked it out, like a bell of blood against the dusky background, then fell full on the thoughtful figure of the Prince, outlining it in a misty radiance.

The rest of the room was golden dark, for the heavy curtains were half across the windows, and the light filtered through them in a subdued hue, so that M. de Witt, entering the chamber, had his attention fixed at once by the Prince and the tulip, the objects upon which all the sunshine fell.

With every day now de Witt and this young man he gazed on drifted farther apart. They had not met privately for months.

William turned slowly in his chair and rose.

“I am grateful for this, Mynheer,” he said, and it was the manner of a king with a subject, “for I wished to speak to you.”

The Grand Pensionary advanced into the room. He was splendidly dressed, for he had been attending the second reception of Sir George Downing by the States General, and, though still in mourning for his wife, his black was put aside on this occasion. He wore a crimson mantle embroidered in gold, and a coat laced and beribboned.

“There is much to say, on both sides, Highness,” he answered gravely.

The Prince remained erect, with his hand on the back of his chair.

“Will you be seated, M. de Witt?”

The Grand Pensionary came slowly down the room, holding his velvet mantle across his breast. His demeanour was stately to haughtiness, his lips unsmiling and his eyes severe.

“It is a long time since you and I have spoken together,” he said.

“You have been much occupied, Mynheer,” replied the Prince.

He continued to stand. Mynheer de Witt seated himself in a deep, Spanish leather chair facing the window, but enveloped in the hazy, golden, dusky shadows.

“It is not preoccupation hath kept me away,” said the Grand Pensionary, “but distaste to broach with you matters on which we cannot agree. Since we cannot meet as friends, Highness, it is painful to me that we must meet at all.”

“Why not as friends, Mynheer?” asked William quietly.

John de Witt looked at him steadily and mournfully.

“Because there is no friendship in your heart for me, Prince.”

“I can assure you that you mistake me—I am capable of separating the man and his office, Mynheer.”

“I am one with my office,” answered the Grand Pensionary proudly. “What I say publicly I do not abate one jot in private. Whilst this Republic chooses me as its representative I shall serve openly, and with all my power, the liberty and independence of the United Provinces—both against foreign tyranny and native ambition.”

“Is this a threat?” asked William.

“I do not use those weapons, Prince.… I have come here because I have had rumour of many things thrust upon me.… I wish to hear from your own lips what you intend to do.”

“What have you heard of me from others?” questioned William. He looked down at the floor.

John de Witt raised his head a little.

“M. Fagel, M. Beverningh, M. Asperon are your friends or followers, their party is powerful in the Assembly; at this time, when we should be most united, they harass and thwart the Government at every turn——”

William glanced up, the sunlight full across his face.

“You can easily silence this faction in the State, Mynheer.”

“Only by concession, Highness.”

The Prince’s fair hand moved slightly on the carved back of his chair.

“You have come to accuse me of causing sedition in the Assembly,” he said calmly. “You always regarded me as troublesome,” he smiled faintly. “However … what I have to say to you touches this same subject, Mynheer.”

“The welfare of the State, Highness?”

“Yes.”

“What has Your Highness to say to me?”

“You know, Mynheer, what question it is that agitates the Assembly—I put it to you three years ago and you refused——”

“Then I refuse it now,” answered John de Witt.

“The times have changed,” remarked William laconically.

“But I have not,” replied the Grand Pensionary gravely.

“Still, I will again ask you, Mynheer, to consent to my appointment to the Captain Generalship.”

The Prince picked up his whip from among the papers and looked at it as he spoke.

The angry colour rushed into John de Witt’s worn face.

“My answer is no,” he replied sternly; “and I am surprised at these presumptuous pretensions.”

The whip shook a little in William’s hands.

“Why?” he asked, speaking slowly by reason of the control he was exercising. He kept his eyes still on the whip.

“Because it hath been decreed by law—a law that I have sworn to—that all discussion even of your election to this office be deferred till you are twenty-two.”

“Are you going to stand to that, Mynheer? I am twenty-one.”

“I hold,” answered John de Witt, “to the letter of the law.”

William raised his wonderful eyes.

“And yet you speak of friendship.… You have always opposed me … always,” he pressed his handkerchief to his lips and coughed. “You opposed my election to the Council of State.”

“I should again oppose the election of a Prince of eighteen to the Assembly of the Republic.”

“You opposed my journey to England,” continued the Prince, “because you thought my uncle would seduce me into furthering his designs.” He drew a quick breath and looked away from M. de Witt,—“Is it because you still have such suspicions of me that you withhold the Captain Generalship?”

There was an instant’s pause before the Grand Pensionary answered—

“No—no!” Some agitation showed in his voice. “I would not dishonour myself with such unworthy thoughts, but there is too much at stake.”

“There is everything at stake,” said the Prince. “The very existence of the United Provinces is at stake.”

“You are too young to have this tremendous responsibility—too inexperienced——”

“The Stadtholder Maurice was only eighteen when he took command of the Army,” flashed the Prince.

“You quote an unhappy example, Highness. Prince Maurice took advantage of his position to become the tyrant of the people.”

William looked at him under lowered lids.

“You speak as the admirer of John Van Olden Barnenveldt,” he said slowly.

It was a bold and dangerous allusion, since the Grand Pensionary Barnenveldt had perished on the scaffold for his opposition to the power of the Stadtholder Maurice.

“I do.” John de Witt’s voice was cold.

“And as an enemy of my House.”

“As an enemy of sovereign power in your House, Prince.”

William laid down the whip.

“You, Mynheer, will urge the Assembly to refuse me the Captain Generalship?”

“With all my power.”

The Prince bit his lip, and his lids drooped farther over his brilliant eyes.

“To whom does the Assembly intend to entrust the Army?”

“Your Highness knows—Major General Wurtz, the Prince of Tarentum, the Viscount de Montbas.”

“Those are your men?”

“They are the tried and experienced soldiers to whom I am prepared to entrust our defences—if God refuse us the peace which I still hope for.”

William half turned towards him.

“Peace! You still hope for peace—after the treaty of Dover, after the invasion of Lorraine, of Munster and Cologne; after Downing’s audience of the States, his insolent demands, his frivolous complaints. Peace! You should open the campaign to-morrow, Mynheer.”

John de Witt replied firmly—

“Still do I hope to avert the war——”

“You have been hoping that these last two years, Mynheer.”

“Almighty God helping me I shall succeed in it yet.”

The Prince’s eyes flashed impatiently.

“I would sooner pray Almighty God to help me drive out the French.”

“That is the talk of selfish ambition,” answered the Grand Pensionary. “If once we embark on a war with France and England only a miracle can save us—” he gave a half sigh, and repeated—“can save us.”

“To that end—the end of peace—you make concessions.”

“I have been forced to. I have conceded the supremacy of the seas to England, Downing had his answer to-day——”

William coloured swiftly.

“That acknowledges this country subject to the King of England,” he remarked quickly.

“It gives us, Prince, some chance.”

“Our deliverance lies in the sword,” said William shortly.

“Untried enthusiasm speaks there,” answered John de Witt not unkindly. “We are a people whose prosperity depends on peace. Our commerce is our glory and our wealth. We have shed enough blood in the past to defend it.… Now we are prosperous, rich, free, and powerful … to twenty-five years of peace we owe this.… A war would be disastrous … disastrous.”

“It is, I think, inevitable,” struck in the other.

John de Witt half smiled sadly.

“Does Your Highness question my statesmanship?”

William was silent a moment, evidently considering how he should shape his reply.

The sun had moved, so that it fell across the centre of the floor in a heavy beam of gold, leaving the Prince in shadow.

“I think that, the war budget having been passed a year ago, the country should be in a better condition to resist invasion,” he said at length. “The people are taxed almost beyond endurance; two forced loans have been raised, and both the land and sea forces are wretchedly inadequate. I do not know who is responsible for these things, Mynheer.”

He coughed, and looked sideways at the red tulip.

“You take something on yourself, Highness,” returned John de Witt, “to say this to my face; it is an indictment.”

“I am not in a position to criticise you, Mynheer,” answered the Prince, and the scornful curve to his mouth was now noticeable beyond mistake. “Since I have no share in the government, these things are no affair of mine—but M. Fagel brought me your book——”

M. de Witt was betrayed into hot speech—

“Gaspard Fagel fawns on you.…”

“I think he wishes to serve me,” returned William quietly. “You taught me finance—and some other things—and I have applied your lessons to your practice—for my own instruction, Mynheer.”

John de Witt looked at him curiously.

“I do not quite understand Your Highness.”

“No? There is little need—as you say. What have I to do with the government of the United Provinces?—I asked your influence in the matter of the Captain Generalship——”

The Grand Pensionary interrupted haughtily—

“Prince, I can no longer discuss that subject; under no conditions will I be party to giving you this position. You must serve before you can command; know something of war before you can be put over men like Wurtz and Prince John Maurice, Montbas and the Prince of Tarentum.”

William answered, keeping his glance upon the papers scattered over his desk—

“I know enough to tell you, Mynheer, that if you do not strengthen the frontier the French will cross the Rhine—and once the Rhine is crossed, Utrecht falls … and half the Republic is lost.”

“You speak as if judging me remiss in my duty to the State.”

“I speak from my conviction, Mynheer.”

“It hath not been wholly in my hands,” answered John de Witt, with a stately control. “What hath been done hath been done by much reflection and varied advice. How would Your Highness have it different?”

“It were very idle to talk of what I cannot perform,” said William. “Put me in command of the Army and I will show you what I will do.”

The Grand Pensionary rose with a glimmer of red and gold.

“Never!” he said firmly, “never.…”

The Prince was still standing, his hand resting on the back of his chair and his eyes cast down. His very quiet conveyed a passion and a determination that John de Witt felt meeting his own firm resolve, iron striking iron, the unyielding strength of two opposed natures brought into contest.

“Mynheer,” said William, “there are those desirous of obtaining me this appointment—I have, as you say, some friends in the Assembly——”

Between them fell the gold bar of sunshine, dancing with a million motes. Each saw the other beyond it, in a haze of dusky shadow.

“You intend to push the matter to extremes?” asked John de Witt.

Their eyes met.

“Have you come to request me not to?” returned William, with meaning.

John de Witt coloured at the tone.

“No, Highness,” he answered proudly. “I will request of you nothing.”

“Their High Mightinesses will decide between us,” said William, with a stress of mockery on the title. “I am sorry that you will not help me——”

“And I, Prince, am sorry that you should have asked it of me,” replied the Grand Pensionary with a mournful dignity; “it makes weightier my almost intolerable burdens, my almost crushing duties more difficult, that you, and at this crisis, should distract the State with your pretensions and adopt this position towards me.”

William again lowered his eyes; he seemed to be considering. After a second he smiled.

“I also grieve that you should refuse me, Mynheer.”

His eyes flashed an upward glance.

“Perhaps it is not wise!”

“It is right,” answered M. de Witt. “Your friendship would mean much to me—but I cannot purchase it at any such price——”

“We are both too obstinate,” said William, almost insolently; “there is no need for more talk on the matter.”

M. de Witt gathered up his mantle.

“Good even to Your Highness.”

“Good even, Mynheer.”

The Grand Pensionary regarded him with a touch of wistfulness and hesitated a moment; but William stood motionless, obviously waiting for him to leave, and John de Witt turned away.

Again it was the manner of a sovereign with the subject; the Prince seated himself before the Grand Pensionary had closed the door.

The smile still lingered on his lips, he took a letter from the pocket of his coat and slowly unfolded it.

It was from Fagel.

William re-read the last sentences—

“Your Highness’ affair goes well in the Assembly. M. de Witt hath but little influence now. In a few days you will be Captain General, since both General Wurtz and Prince Charles have promised to refuse should the office be offered to them, and since the clamour of the people is no longer to be withstood.…”

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CHAPTER II
AGNETA DE WITT

“Did you see the Prince to-day, my father?”

Agneta de Witt dropped her fine sewing into her lap and looked at the Grand Pensionary.

They were together in the garden, under the new golden foliage of the wych elms and limes. The air was filled with a soft and melancholy sunshine; the trees cast faint and moving shadows over the black-clad figure of John de Witt, who leant back in the rustic seat and, his face resting on his hand, gazed at his daughter.

“I saw him this afternoon, Agneta.”

“I thought, sir, that you had.”

“And why?” The Grand Pensionary smiled.

Agneta fixed her pale blue eyes on him anxiously; her colourless, gentle face looked pure and grave as an infant’s in the precise white cap.

“Forgive me, sir—but it is because you have seemed sad.”

“I am tired,” answered John de Witt quietly. “Very tired, Agneta.”

His daughter turned her face away.

Across the close grass came a couple of pigeons, white on the green, and the two on the seat were so still that the birds strutted to their feet.

“You are always tired now, sir.”

“I can expect nothing else, my dearest.”

She picked up her sewing.

“And you are so seldom here … you have not sat like this with me … for so long, sir.”

“The house is too sombre for you,” answered John de Witt tenderly. “You must return to Dordt——”

“No,” breathed Agneta quickly, looking up into his face. “Oh no! let me stay here, sir.”

“My dearest!”

He laid his fine hand lightly on her shoulder.

“If I could help you …” she said in a low voice.

“There is no help for us save in God,” answered the Grand Pensionary gravely, “and surely He will not forsake us.”

Agneta bowed her head low over her sewing. The white pigeons brushed her long grey skirts with their wings, and the sunshine flickering through the lime leaves caught the pale yellow locks on her smooth brow.

“You are always sad when you have seen the Prince, father. I think he is an ungodly young man.”

John de Witt smiled mournfully.

“You must not dwell on politics, Agneta.”

“I cannot help it.” She kept her lids down that her father should not see her eyes were filled with tears. “I … I hear such horrible things, I see you so occupied, so weary.…”

He answered her with a grave tenderness—

“We are in troublous and bitter times, dearest. Danger to the State, to each and all of us, is very near; dismay unmans many … but I hope to save the Republic, Agneta; you must pray that God will give me strength.”

“I am praying for you, sir, in my heart always,” the tears trembled on her cheeks.

There was a pause.

The pigeons fluttered away, and up through the sunny leaves.

“Will there be war?” Agneta spoke at length, under her breath.

“I think there will be war.”

John de Witt’s gaze went past his daughter, as if it rested on some threatening vision of the future.

She shyly wiped her tears.

“With France—and England, father?”

“I do fear it, Agneta.”

She shuddered. War was a terrible thing to her, but still more terrible was the anxious bearing of her noble father.

“The people riot, sir; is it because of the war?” she asked timidly.

“It is the Prince’s faction,” he answered abstractedly. “He is extraordinarily beloved by the people, Agneta.”

“He hath done nothing,” she said simply. “Why do they riot?”

“He would be Captain General … and it may not be.”

A colour came into her fair face. “I fear and mislike him!”

John de Witt turned his soft gaze on her.

“Nay, Agneta—do not say that, nor think it.”

Once more the white linen she sewed sank into her lap.

“Sir, the other day on the Voorhout there was a man wearing an orange favour—he had others with him—I was with my aunt Johanna, and when they saw us, these men, they called after us insolently—my Aunt Johanna asked one of them ‘Why?’ He said, ‘We are for the Prince and you are John de Witt’s women’—and the crowd were with them, sir.”

John de Witt frowned and coloured.

“You never told me this.”

“No—perhaps I should not have told you now, my father,” her eyes rested anxiously upon his face; “but—the Prince cannot be your friend, sir.”

“He hath no control over the brawling mob,” answered the Grand Pensionary hastily. “He would not wish me to be insulted.… I must make an example of some of these rioters—an example,” he repeated.

Agneta put her little hand timidly on his arm.

“Sir, we are no longer beloved in the Hague nor at Dordt … they say such things of you——”

There she checked herself. They had all agreed to keep from John de Witt what his growing enemies said of him.

“It is not strange,” he answered mournfully; “but it is strange, and cruel, that it should come to thy ears, Agneta.”

A frightened expression stole into her large, pale blue eyes.

“Father, why are these people turning against you?—nay, I must speak of it—M. Fagel is no longer friendly——”

“He hath elected to follow the Prince.”

“And—and there are others.…”

“Dearest, very many forsake me … but God will support me in what I have to do.”

“Will—will my uncle Cornelius have to go with the Fleet?”

“I think so, dearest.”

Agneta reflected a second, then said—

“But we are always victorious on the sea.”

“Cornelius and the others, Agneta, will do their utmost to preserve this dear land’s liberty … and we must trust in God.”

“My uncle Cornelius could never be defeated,” insisted Agneta. “But you are anxious.”

He stroked the little fingers lying on his sleeve.

“About the India fleet—now being convoyed home—de Ruyter hath gone to meet it—but I am anxious, sweet——”

“Would the English attack it?” Her fair brows contracted.

“How wise thou art become!” He smiled down into her upturned face. “Yes, I do fear the English ships.”

“But war is not yet declared, my father.”

“No, and may not be—still there is so much—so much—and I am tired, dear, how tired I only know when I rest—and to think they hate me, Agneta.”

“Ah, no one hates you!” she cried.

His sad smile deepened.

“Did you not say so, yourself, dear heart, but now? The people have neither trust in me nor love—after twenty years of toil—of such toil.… Do you recall, Agneta, how they repaid Olden Barnenveldt?”

“Father!”

“He was a virtuous man, Agneta, and did more for his country than ever I have been able to do.”

She went very pale.

“But—father—it is not possible!”

“What, dearest?”

“M. Olden Barnenveldt was beheaded, father!”

“Sometimes I think of it—to-day when I crossed the Plaats——”

Agneta shuddered.

“Sir, do not speak like that.”

He roused himself from a sad reverie.

“Nay, sweet heart, I must not grieve thee with my foolish thoughts; ’tis not often that thou beguilest me into talking State affairs here—where I am at peace.”

He glanced with a sigh round the quiet garden.

“And I am so seldom at peace now I am a very fool to mar it. We will talk of other things.”

“There is nothing else that interests me, father.”

“That must not be, see how I have distressed thee. Nay, do not spoil my little hour of repose with these tears, dearest.… Why should you weep? Indeed I am well, only tired, a little tired, dear.… Nay, this is weakness, my Agneta.”

She was weeping silently.

“My burdens are not more than I can bear, but it hurts me you should weep.”

She stifled her tears.

“I think of you always, sir. When I was away in Dordt I wearied to be here—and I can be of no use to you … you are lonely.”

“Lonely?” he echoed wistfully.

Agneta trembled closer to him.

“Since my mother died.…”

He took her hands and gazed down into her sad face.

“Thy mother was very gentle and timid, dearest … perhaps she was spared more than she could have borne. Perhaps had she known she would have chosen … to go … and I to let her … they cannot insult her, she died while her name was still respected.… Ah, thou art a beloved child … and hast her eyes.… ‘Blessed be God in happiness and affliction’.… ‘The Lord gave and the Lord taketh away’.…”

He drew her gently towards him and kissed her forehead.

“While we do our duty we cannot be wholly unhappy, Agneta; and while the angels are about us we cannot be lonely—not wholly lonely.”

The sun reddened to its setting, and a full and ruddy light was shed among the quivering leaves and over the spring grass.

The chimes of the Groote Kerk fell on the silence with a swift, clear rise and fall.

Agneta dropped her head on to her father’s breast and sobbed.

“Why—what is the matter?” he asked, distressed.

She sprang up holding her hands before her face, and fled, leaving her white sewing on the grass.

John de Witt sat silent, his form half bowed, his head bent.

Beside Agneta’s place rested a paper-bound book, his own, he saw: On the Value of Life Annuities as Compared with Perpetual Annuities—the book of which the Prince had spoken. It dealt with the enormous difficulty of the war taxation; a monument of learning, of research, of patriotism.

Agneta, who was gravely studying mathematics, had begged a copy from her uncle Vivien and carried it about with her. It touched John de Witt exceedingly to see it there.

Had she been reading it that she might understand his learned talk of the means by which he had saved the finances of the United Provinces?—poor child!…

He sat for a while staring at the humble little volume; hands and brains for once idle, the sunset flushing the garden about him and the tender breeze caressing his face.

When he at length slowly moved at the sound of a step on the gravel path he saw his father, Jacob de Witt, coming towards him with the careful gait of age.

The Grand Pensionary rose smilingly.

Jacob de Witt was still as erect as when he had defied the Stadtholder, William II., in 1650. A fine and sedate gentleman, with soft white hair falling under his black cap; stern, melancholy, and pale.

“Sit down, John, I wish to speak to you.”

The Grand Pensionary obeyed. The elder de Witt, despite his eighty-two years, still held important offices of state and had the manner of authority.

He seated himself beside his son.

“This must be answered,” he said. He held out a paper in his colourless hand.

“Another pamphlet”—John de Witt’s tone was mournful. “Father, they are distributed openly, under my very eyes. What may one do but scorn them?”

A silence followed. The life of John de Witt had been austere and irreproachable beyond that of any man of his time; yet his father knew that the violence of party hatred was holding him up to the contempt of his fellow-citizens under every vile aspect imaginable.

For twenty years of upright dealing, of pure patriotism, of incessant toil; for an unswerving devotion to his friends and a generous and unchanging policy of conciliation towards his enemies, he was now rewarded by the basest ingratitude from the opponents he had always respected, and with the vilest accusations from the people whom he had so nobly served.

These things were in the mind of Jacob de Witt as he looked at his son, and even the stern resignation taught by their common creed hardly sustained him against these bitter calumnies of his belovÈd’s name.

John de Witt was the first to speak.

“Why should we trouble about these things?”

He took the pamphlet from his father’s hand gently, and laid it on the seat between them.

The elder de Witt’s voice trembled a little.

“This must be answered, my son—every citizen of the United Provinces is reading it—the charges are most gravely and categorically stated … the vileness of it is almost beyond credit.”

The Grand Pensionary half turned and picked the pamphlet up.

It was entitled: Advice to every Good and Faithful Hollander.

“What do they say?” he asked wearily.

“They say—” Jacob de Witt drew himself erect,—“this libel says that you have purloined money from the Treasury and sent it to a bank in Venice, where you propose to retire after the conquest of the United Provinces.… That you have betrayed your country by leaving it without defence, and that you have appropriated yearly eighty thousand florins of the Secret Service money.…”

John de Witt rested his tired eyes on the gentle trees.

“How can I answer that?” he said simply. “The mere frothings of spite.”

“You must answer it—you must disprove it!” cried his father firmly.

“Disprove that!” He half smiled.

“Ay! A villain may throw mud at a saint,” said Jacob de Witt, answering his son’s meaning of lofty contempt,—“but if it is not removed it leaves a smirch; no saint even may disregard these things. What hath the Republic come to that any should dare what this man hath dared?”

He struck the paper, and his dim eyes flashed fiercely.

The Grand Pensionary put his hand to his brow and pushed back the soft hair.

“My life hath been entirely open.… My money hath been invested entirely in the public funds—with the fortune of Holland, my fortunes fall—every one knows this. Can I stoop to defend myself against party lies?”

“Your silence will not disarm their implacable resentment—you must turn on them.”

“Ah, I have so much else to do, my father, so much.…”

The light had faded from the garden and lingered only in the tops of the trees and on the roof of the modest house. It was quite warm; the pigeons flew up through the golden air, in among the leaves of the limes, and back again to the bright grass.

“I think there will be war,” said John de Witt suddenly, and with a terrible note in his voice. “I would God would let me give my life to avert it—war, in this rich and prosperous country, war against overwhelming odds,” he stared straight before him with narrowed eyes—“war provoked by base tyranny of the French and baser tyranny of the English—what have I to do? For they hate me—how can I serve them when they hate me?”

“There are those who are faithful.” Jacob de Witt grasped his son’s hand.

“I have given Gaspard Fagel the Grand Secretaryship,” answered John de Witt in an absorbed way, “to win him to us … but on every side they fall away from me.… It is strange that I should be so hated——”

“We are in the hands of God, who for His own ends tries us.”

The younger de Witt bent his head.

“I show myself a weakling, I am tired to-night. I saw the Prince this afternoon, and it saddened me—I have been disappointed in him.”

The one-time prisoner of Loevenstein answered sternly—

“He is a worldly, ambitious, and deceitful young man—a danger to the State. Little do I doubt he is in league with Charles Stewart, as little as I doubt he is behind such attacks as these.”

He struck the paper on the seat beside him.

“I believe nor one nor the other,” answered John de Witt. “It must be that he is honourable, and I know him God-fearing.”

“He is even as his father was!”

“The Captain Generalship is his claim now—and he is well supported.”

“If he obtain it—’twill be the first step to the Stadtholdership.”

“If I have any power left, father, he will not obtain it—and if he obtain it in spite of me, he will find that the office is incompatible with the Stadtholdership.” John de Witt set his lips firmly. “I have seen to that.”

“He hath an extraordinary presumption to pretend to such an office!”

The Grand Pensionary answered slowly, almost reluctantly—

“I believe it is the wish of the Army—such is their folly.”

“They are very eager to forge their own chains,” said Jacob de Witt grimly.

“It is a strange thing—I think it is the name hath the glamour—they would take him untried.…”

John de Witt paused a moment, then went on in a low and laboured voice—

“There are so many difficulties … a domestic revolution threatened … a foreign invasion … but if they trusted me I could save them yet … from France and from themselves.”

He straightened himself and put his hand to his breast.

“If they should give this command to the Prince, if they should put into that boy’s hands all our defences … and he should.…”

“Play us false,” finished Jacob de Witt sombrely. “Well, what then?”

“What then?… Ruin!… This land, that we have made one of the greatest in the world, would be a fief of France before the year is out.”

He bent his head for a moment, then rose abruptly.

“Father, I envy Cornelius, who can work with his hands, and pay with his blood; I would I might face the enemy on the high sea, nor stay here to face the factions with weary logic.”

“Your task, being the more difficult, is the more glorious, John.”

The Grand Pensionary pressed his hand to his brow and gazed at the glimpses of fading sky to be seen between the fluttering leaves.

“It is nearly twenty years since I took up this responsibility. … They cannot say that I have served them ill, as far as my abilities went——” He roused and controlled himself. “It is not often that I talk so weakly—let us go into the house, it grows cool here, under the trees.”

Jacob de Witt rose and took his son’s arm.

They were both of a height, tall, upright; dressed alike in black with lace collars, the same in demeanour and expression, the grey locks touching the brown as they walked slowly through the twilight that was gradually falling over the garden.

The birds made a pleasant noise in the upper branches, and above the low brick wall was a vision of sunset clouds, pink, remote and peaceful, floating across the placid sky.

Agneta de Witt stepped out of the long, open windows; a slim and pale figure in the uncertain light.

She came to meet her father.

“Aunt Johanna says that you stay out too late, sir, and that it is yet over soon in the year to be abroad after the sun hath set.”

All traces of tears had vanished; she spoke with a grave air of wisdom.

Jacob de Witt smiled at her.

“Hast a letter there?”

She held it out eagerly.

“Yea, sir, from Anna.”

“From Anna!” repeated John de Witt tenderly. “What does she say?”

“That she is coming home to-morrow, sir.”

“Nay, that cuts her holiday too short.”

“She says she is resolved to come, sir.”

“And what else, dearest?”

“Oh, she says my aunt Maria took her to the fair at Dordt—and that they had a feast of pancakes, and all drank your health twice over.”

She slipped her letter into the Grand Pensionary’s hand. “There is one for you indoors,” she added.

They entered the house by the wide-open windows of the library; at that moment a servant brought in the candles, and the two men paused on the threshold of the room.

At a lacquered Chinese cabinet Maria de Witt, in a prim white dress, sat on a high chair, her feet dangling, laboriously and gravely writing with a huge quill that waved over her shoulder and tangled itself with her yellow curls.

Beside her, tiptoeing that he might see, was her little brother, who supported himself by his hands on the desk.

A child still in skirts sat on the floor near them; he was in red leading-strings fastened to a heavy arm-chair, and appeared to be engaged in working his feet out of his shoes.

Agneta pursed up her mouth.

“Maria cannot write because John spills the ink, he spoilt my letter to Uncle Cornelius this morning.”

The Grand Pensionary caught his breath and turned away quickly to the mantelshelf.

He leant there, looking down into the empty hearth.

“Father,” Maria lifted a flushed face, “how do you spell ‘trouble’?”

John de Witt glanced up and gazed at her.

“What need hast thou for that word, Maria?”

“She is very ignorant,” said her brother scornfully; “I know how to spell it,” and he struggled to wrest the pen from her.

“Thou needest not use the word trouble to thy uncle,” said Jacob de Witt.

“I write—‘There is much trouble at the Hague’; is it not true, father?”

“Yes, dearest,” he answered gently. “Agneta will tell thee how to spell it.”

“I know,” insisted the younger John.

The Grand Pensionary met his father’s glance across the room that was now filled with the pleasant candlelight, then crossed to the child on the floor and stood him up.

“Thou art almost too old for petticoats,” he smiled.

The little Jacob looked at him and smiled back brilliantly. John de Witt dropped on one knee beside him, and Agneta came and stood behind them, uneasy because her brother’s jacket was crumpled, and, to her housewifely eye, untidy.

But the boy’s father did not notice that; he smoothed the fair curls with a gentle hand.

“I think thou hast grown since I saw thee last,” he said yearningly.

With a sudden shyness the child hid his face on the Grand Pensionary’s shoulder.

John de Witt pressed him close.

There was silence in the room save for the scratching of Maria’s quill.

Jacob de Witt seated himself in his usual place by the hearth; his hands clasped in his lap. His silver-bound Bible was on the table by his side.

With dim but resolute eyes he looked on at his son and his son’s children, and in his heart he gave thanks to God for his noble offspring.

John de Witt was such an one as the pure faith might be proud of; one who had followed in the footsteps of the early members of a stern and persecuted faith; one such as Jacob de Witt would have his son, an upright and humble servant of high things.

Very far away seemed the clamour of the factions, the rumours of wars, the jealousies, the ambitions, the heat of politics; very far from this peaceful home of John de Witt.

Neither did it seem possible that hate or malice should enter here, that lies or calumny, or any ignoble passions, should strike at such goodness and such innocence.

The vilest must love John de Witt, the meanest respect him in his simple, bereaved, and united home.

His helpless children were not more spotless, more free of dishonour, than he who for twenty years had guided a great nation through a difficult and perilous way.

And how are they rewarding him? thought Jacob de Witt grimly. How are they rewarding him?

Into the gathered peace and silence came a distant, ominous sound.

The Grand Pensionary listened.

The noise grew.

He put down his little son and rose.

“What is that?”

Agneta shuddered.

“Another riot——”

“Close the window,” said John de Witt; “close the window.”

---

CHAPTER III
SCHEVENINGEN

The Prince drew rein at the Palace steps.

“Bromley,” he said.

The Englishman came down to his master’s stirrup.

“Is M. Fagel here?”

“Yes, Highness; he is waiting for you.”

“Ah!” William patted his horse’s neck.

“Hath he come from the Assembly?”

“Yes, Highness—Their Noble Mightinesses sat all night.”

“I trust that they have come to a wise decision,” remarked the Prince. “And, Bromley, have you discovered the whereabouts of M. Triglandt?”

“Highness, I wrote to Utrecht——”

“I wrote there,” interrupted William impatiently, “and my letter was returned, as M. Triglandt had left his lodgings.”

“Highness, I have discovered that he fell ill——”

“Ill!” exclaimed the Prince.

“—and was conveyed by relatives to Arnheim——”

“Well, you will write there and give him my commands to return to the Hague.”

William flung the reins to his groom and dismounted.

“You may add,” he continued, “that I take the first occasion to ask his return, and that any friend of mine is honoured in the Hague now.”

He smiled with his eyes and touched Mr. Bromley on the arm with his whip.

“Tell them to keep the horse, as afterwards I am promised at the ‘Huis ten bosch.’”

Then he turned slowly into the house.

M. Gaspard Fagel, a man of talents but a servile spirit, the rival of M. de Witt, and already almost completely under the influence of the Prince, waited in the library, or the chamber that served for such; the room where Van Mander had first seen the Prince, and where William always received such as waited on him.

The Prince entered, booted, spurred, carrying his riding-whip and wearing his hat.

“Ah, M. Fagel.”

He held out his bare right hand, and the Secretary of the Republic kissed it humbly.

William did not uncover, but his manner was gracious. He knew Gaspard Fagel for what he was—able, industrious, cunning, a man who would be a tool.

It was men just such as he that William needed. There were many of them among the servants of the Republic, and very few had resisted the advances of the heir of Nassau.

“I must congratulate you personally on your appointment, M. Fagel,” said the Prince, seating himself in front of the desk, between the windows.

“Your Highness is very good,” and M. Fagel bowed. He was a well-looking man, richly dressed in green and gold, of a far more pompous appearance than William, who wore a plain brown roquelaure and beaver.

“You come from the Assembly, Mynheer?”

“Yes, Highness—to report to you privately the resolution that will be made public to-day.”

“Will you not be seated, Mynheer?”

M. Fagel obeyed, and fixed his small, intelligent eyes keenly and half anxiously on the Prince.

The early morning sunshine was pale and misty in the chamber. William sat with his back to the light, his hat and heavy feather shading his face, so that the astute Secretary could very ill see his countenance.

“There has been a most fierce fight in the Assembly, Highness—M. de Witt exerted every nerve, and the whole power of the Government was brought to bear on the situation.”

“But I believe my friends were in the majority, Mynheer,” answered William.

“It was an almost equal struggle, Highness. M. de Witt spoke for two hours against your appointment; M. Jacob de Witt vehemently seconded him, M. Vivien supported them, and they found allies in the representatives of Amsterdam.”

William bent his whip across his knee; the powerful city had always been the enemy of his House.

M. Fagel wiped his brow and his lips; he had been up all night, and looked excited and fatigued.

“What was the result of this debate?” asked the Prince quietly.

The Secretary crushed his handkerchief up in his nervous right hand.

“It has been decided to offer Your Highness the Captain Generalship——”

“Without restrictions, Mynheer?”

“That was impossible—we had to come to a compromise with M. de Witt.”

The Prince’s grasp tightened on his whip.

“What compromise, Mynheer?”

M. Fagel, whose one object was to obtain the favour of the head of the Orange party, winced at the tone of this question.

“Your Highness must consider——” he began.

William cut him short.

“Tell me straightly, M. Fagel.”

The Secretary bit his lip uneasily.

“We have obtained for Your Highness, on condition that you take the oaths never to attempt the Stadtholdership——”

“M. Van Odyk told me of that precaution of M. de Witt—I have no objection, Mynheer. He who binds can loose.”

“On this condition, and provided war is declared, Their Noble Mightinesses will offer you the Captain Generalship for one campaign, with option to continue the appointment or no at their discretion.”

“For one campaign——” repeated William.

“It was all, Highness, that our utmost endeavours could obtain.” M. Fagel spoke with humility.

William rose abruptly.

“Their Noble Mightinesses may spare themselves this offer, Mynheer,” he said hotly, “for I shall refuse the post.”

“Your Highness!”

The Prince turned on him, the whip clenched in his right hand.

“Unless the appointment is made for life I shall refuse it; and I marvel, Mynheer, that you should come to me with so paltry a compromise.”

“Your Highness will not be wise to reject it—your firmness will only further anger M. de Witt, who was with difficulty brought to this concession.”

“If you permit the Assembly to make this offer it will be declined,” returned William haughtily. “You may tell my friends so—I will not be put on trial nor be satisfied with such a poor honour.”

M. Fagel saw in this a proud indiscretion of youth. The dignity that the Prince despised had been wrung from John de Witt with much labour; to refuse it, M. Fagel, a man of cautious policy, thought unwise and dangerous.

“Your Highness will think of this——”

William interrupted—

“My decision is made, M. Fagel. I shall not depart from it.”

The Secretary ventured to protest—

“The advice of your friends——”

“No one’s advice, Mynheer, would alter my resolution.”

M. Fagel was twice the Prince’s age, and an experienced statesman; but he was dominated by William utterly. John de Witt and some few others were alone in coming in contact with the Prince and escaping his powerful, masterful influence. M. Fagel, a man in every way his inferior, he almost openly despised.

“There is not a man in the United Provinces does not desire my election,” he said. “The people are with me—Their High Mightinesses had better beware. Tell the Assembly no compromise will be accepted—none.”

He was breathing fast and with difficulty; it was obvious that he was unusually angry and unusually near to losing his self-control. He coughed, and took a quick turn about the room holding his hand to his side.

“I am sorry that we have disappointed Your Highness,” said M. Fagel, already stung into regretting that he and his party had been induced into giving way to the opposition of M. de Witt.

“Go back and do better,” answered William, with a flashing glance. “Are you afraid of M. the Grand Pensionary and his supporters? I have the people—you, and John de Witt, had best remember it——”

“I did what I could to serve Your Highness.”

“What you could?—when you bring this to me!”

M. Fagel strove to justify himself. The Prince silenced him haughtily.

“Is this a moment to show timidity—when M. de Witt carries it with a firm front? If you had not given way he had been forced to—I have both General Wurtz and Prince Charles, Prince John Maurice and de Ruyter on my side.”

M. Fagel could not forget that John de Witt was still the head of the Government.

“A compromise——” he began.

His smooth voice and the word he used stung the Prince into a rare exhibition of temper. He turned violently, with dark, fierce eyes and the whip bent double in his hand.

“Be damned to your compromise!” he cried. “John de Witt and the chaffering tradesmen who support him will have the French across the Rhine before the army is under canvas. I’ll have none of your cursed ‘ifs’ or ‘buts’—’tis all—or they save themselves.”

He snatched up his glove from where he had flung it on his entry.

“That is my answer, M. Fagel,” he said passionately, “and any remonstrance on the matter I shall consider an insult.”

The Secretary bowed.

He knew what de Pomponne had discovered, that the Prince was “tolerably firm and tolerably positive, and once he hath taken his resolution to argue with him is waste breath.”

He was aware, also, that what William wished he began to obtain, and that the expression “the country is with me” was no figment of speech.

The United Provinces were behind William of Orange, and to the rising power the prudent statesman made his court.

He already had learnt something of the character of the Prince he intended to serve, already guessed at something of the imperious passion behind the contained exterior.

Now he had proof of it, and it spurred and stimulated him. He bore not the least ill-will to William for his anger. It seemed that the Prince was one of those who are served and beloved without effort on their part. M. Fagel was more eager than ever to please him; in common with many others, the chance of William’s taciturn thanks was more to him than the certainty of M. de Witt’s courteous graciousness.

“We will do our best, Highness,” he said, rising from his chair.

William gave him a not wholly pleasant glance.

“Reflect on what I have said, M. Fagel,” he answered haughtily.

With that he flung open the door and was gone.

Mr. Bromley, waiting in the doorway in case his attendance was required, fell back at once before the sight of his master’s face as the Prince swept out into the sunlight.

The groom brought up the grey horse.

“Shall I accompany Your Highness?” ventured Mr. Bromley.

“No—I am not going to the ‘Huis ten bosch.’”

The Prince sprang into the saddle and caught up the reins.

Matthew Bromley, who knew him as well as any man was permitted to, saw that he was in a passionate ill-humour.

“See M. Fagel out of the house—and get out of the way, Bromley.”

The horse, mettlesome and fierce, like all the Prince’s animals, had grown restive with waiting, and tossed his head impatiently. But William held him in with an ease that betrayed a good deal of strength behind his delicate appearance.

“Stand out of the way,” he repeated, addressing Mr. Bromley and the groom.

“Is Your Highness going alone?”

The Prince thrust his whip under his arm and scowled at the speaker in a fashion that warned Mr. Bromley to be silent.

But the Englishman, disturbed at this rare passion on his master’s part, persisted—

“Where are you going, Sir; is there no message?”

William turned in the saddle to look at him.

“I have allowed you too much license,” he said violently, “but, by God! I am master among my own servants.”

Matthew Bromley stepped back and the Prince let the horse go; it sprang forward, and William disappeared through the Palace gates.

Without troubling where he went he turned towards the outskirts of the town, with the one idea of avoiding the people. He was fast becoming a popular hero, but he never loved the crowd save in the abstract. All public display of affection was distasteful to him; and to-day he was too roused and angry to risk the chance of meeting either M. de Witt or any member of the Assembly.

He had been defeated, bitterly disappointed. He was well used to taking both defeat and disappointment, but this time his passion had slipped his control. His bitter indignation against M. de Witt must find some vent … if it were only a fierce gallop out of the Hague.

He found himself on the klinker paved road, edged with a double row of straight trees. It led to Scheveningen, and with a quick memory of the sea he turned towards the coast. The hour was still early, and a frail sunshine quivered in the foliage and over the meadow-land that stretched either side the road.

Through the blue haze of the damp morning rose the tall, dark forms of windmills, with still sails poised against the delicate sky and the clean brickwork of farms, green shuttered and ornamented with lines of white; the black and white cattle, carefully covered with brown coats, were grazing in the long, rich, fresh grass; here and there a villa stood back among the trees with painted shutters open on treasures from the East—a glowing carpet, a Chinese bowl, or a gaudy Macaw chattering in an ebony ring.

The Prince slackened his pace.

Everything about him showed wealth, peace, and complete prosperity … the great dangers looming on land and sea cast no shadow here.…

Here was a country to be given to the conqueror; here was a rich and fertile kingdom for the insolent French to batten on.…

William gazed round with absorbed and resolute eyes as his horse’s hoofs rang out on the klinkers in slackened beat.

There were few people abroad, and the Prince, being unattended and attired like an ordinary gentleman, escaped notice; this fact, and the novel sense of absolute freedom, served to dispel his ill-humour.

He had been solitary of soul all his life, and so used to loneliness that he did not give it a name. But he had always been surrounded by enemies, watched, spied upon, and forced to weigh every word and every look; this sheer liberty of solitude was pleasant as it was new.

He cleared the houses and the trees and came out on to the dunes, low sand hillocks grown with scant poplar shrubs.

Avoiding the village of Scheveningen, the Prince took the winding road that led direct to the sea.

After a while the shrubs ceased and there was no growing thing—only the low, rolling billows of dry white sand pierced with withered and broken reeds. William rode slowly along the diminishing road, and cresting a sandy ridge came in sight of the immense stretch of quiet grey sea breaking in a curling line of foam on the desolate shore.

To his right, only a few yards above high-tide mark, stood a small church with a blue-and-red tiled roof.

The steps were half buried in sand, and up to the very door the gaily painted fishing-boats were drawn.

Behind and beyond were the dunes, broken only by the few houses of Scheveningen to the left.

The Prince drew a deep breath of pleasure at the pure salt air, at the quiet dunes and the misty sea, whose waves broke regularly with a strong, falling sound.

He guided his horse over the shifting sand towards the church, and as he neared it his keen glance perceived an old man seated on the edge of one of the boats mending tawny nets.

A great flight of sea-birds, graceful, chattering, a strong, flashing white in the pale sunshine, rose up as the horseman disturbed their solitude, and flew out across the waveless sea.

The fisher was roused too by the unusual sound of jingling harness.

He looked up, and seeing a gentleman riding slowly across the sand, the while he gazed thoughtfully out to sea, he dropped his net and stared. He was used to gentlefolk from the Hague—but not so early in the year as this.

The horse William rode was magnificent, of a Flemish breed, a stone grey and shining like polished granite; he wore the least possible harness, and his full, intelligent eyes were uncovered; he arched his neck and trod daintily into the sand that shifted under his hoofs.

The fisherman stared stolidly at the horse, then lifted his eyes to the rider.

He beheld a slight young man in a brown greatcoat and a rough beaver with a black feather, black velvet breeches and waistcoat, top-boots, and a plain cravat of Frisian needlework.

His face was turned towards the sea, and only his heavy auburn hair was visible under his broad-leaved hat.

The fisherman turned his attention again to the horse, as the more interesting of the two.

Then suddenly the Prince turned and looked at him.

The fisherman doffed his cap.

“Good morning, Mynheer.”

“Good morning,” answered the Prince, and swerved the horse towards the fishing-boats and the church.

“We have no wind to-day,” said the fisherman, picking up his net.

“No.” William was observing him.

He was a stout, red-faced man, clad in huge dark blue breeches, a striped turquoise coloured shirt, woollen hose, heavy wooden sabots, and a round red cap.

His throat was covered by an emerald green scarf; he held a thick pipe between his lips, and on a finger of his left hand shone a large gold ring.

He surveyed the Prince with a calm curiosity.

“We do not see many strangers at Scheveningen,” he remarked, “as early as this.”

“No,” the Prince assented. “Yet it is very pleasant here.”

“Have you come from the town, Mynheer?” He indicated the Hague by a jerk of his thumb over his shoulder.

“Even so.”

“I was up there—last Sunday.”

William said nothing, but he did not look forbidding.

“There was a riot,” continued the fisherman, with a kind of reserved interest.

“There often is.”

“It was outside the Stadhuis.”

“I heard of it.”

“The people were shouting against M. de Witt.”

“It is not uncommon.”

The fisherman looked up from his net.

“Are you a soldier, Mynheer?”

“At present I am merely a private citizen; but I think I shall some day be a soldier.”

The man shifted his pipe between his teeth.

“If there is war, Mynheer?”

“Yes, if there is war.”

The fisherman nodded approvingly.

“We shall all need to be soldiers if we want to keep the French out, Mynheer.”

William delicately guided his horse a little nearer.

“I should like to go into the church.”

“Well, it is open, Mynheer.”

At this the Prince dismounted.

“Where can I secure my horse?” he asked.

“There is a house behind the church——”

“Deserted, it seems.”

“He was killed under de Ruyter, and his wife died last year”—the fisherman gave slow information. “A youngster from the Hague has it now, but you can fasten up your horse to the door-post.”

William gave grave thanks, and led the horse across the sloping sand hillocks and secured him carefully to one of the stakes comprising the broken fencing that surrounded the closed house.

When he returned the fisherman had bent over his work as if he had forgotten him.

But the Prince did not enter the church; he came and stood with one hand resting on the long fishing-boat, his eyes fixed on the sea.

The early sunlight had already faded.

A pale mist blew off the water and hurried across the land; the great expanse was bounded by the curtain of vapour and the little village blotted out of sight.

Shore and ocean were grey together, divided only by the white, breaking line of the surf murmuring on the beach.

Vague and endless the sand dunes stretched against the sky pierced with the straight clusters of reeds, dry and gaunt.

The large, white sea-birds flew out of the curling fog and settled along the wet line of shining sand the retreating foam left bare.

The fisherman turned a heavy gaze on the motionless figure of the stranger.

“You are new to the Hague?”

“No, I have lived there all my life.”

“What brings you to Scheveningen, Mynheer?”

The man spoke sullenly, almost as if he resented the intrusion.

William turned.

“I wished to see—that.”

He pointed to the quiet ocean.

The Netherlander nodded; it was a feeling he could understand.

“Also,” added William, “I was in an ill-humour and came here to be rid of it.”

“It is quiet enough.”

“Yes.”

They were both so used to the mist that they scarcely noticed it.

“Will the boats go abroad to-day?” asked the Prince.

“There is no wind.”

The net gathered in a great heap at the fisherman’s feet as his long needle flew over the meshes; he moved, and the dried seaweed crackled under his sabots.

“I saw de Ruyter’s fleet go past—when I was on my herring boat—two days ago … great ships … I thought the lanterns on the masts were stars.”

“They are under weigh to meet the India fleet,” answered the Prince.

“Ay, they say the English are waiting to drop on us—because of the herring fisheries too. Do you believe that, Mynheer?”

William seated himself on the end of the boat.

“I do,” he answered briefly.

An intent look came into the old man’s face that was cut and seamed like a walnut-shell and the colour of bronze above his vivid scarf.

“You think there will be war?”

“I do,” said William again.

“With France?”

“And England.”

The fisherman’s eyes, that were still a bright blue, narrowed to slits of light.

“De Ruyter beat the English once—I remember it—when they brought home the Royal Charles.”

“That is what they would make us pay for now.”

“M. de Witt is for peace.”

William bent his whip across his knee.

“Nevertheless I think it will be war … the French are on the frontier.”

“Curse M. de Witt!”

The Prince looked at the man sharply.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because he would sell us all to the French.”

William smiled scornfully.

“I thought it was the Prince of Orange of whom they said that——”

“The Prince!—it is the Prince of Orange who will save us.”

William slightly flushed.

“You think so?” he asked softly.

“Ay, I know it, Mynheer.”

The answer was given with simple, unconscious confidence, and the Prince’s colour deepened.

“I am not the only one who thinks so either,” continued the fisherman, taking out his pipe; “it is the thought of all the Netherlands.”

“Yet you know nothing of William of Orange.”

“He has had no chance … M. de Witt’s prisoner … but now M. de Witt will go.”

William looked at the ever changing, never ending line of surf. He was now pale, even to the lips, and was so long silent that it seemed suspicious to the other.

“Perhaps you are one of the Grand Pensionary’s men,” he suggested, with an accent of dislike.

“I am no friend to John de Witt.”

The fisherman chuckled, relieved.

“I think he has not many friends left now.”

“The Assembly support him,” answered William slowly.

“And the people support the Prince … let him ask for anything we will give it him.”

William turned his brilliant eyes on the speaker.

“Why are you so devoted to His Highness?” he asked.

The fisherman reflected; he seemed puzzled.

“I know not—he is William of Orange,” he answered at last.

“You would trust him with the Captain Generalship——?”

“With everything—by God, I would! we are tired of M. de Witt.”

The Prince coughed and made no answer.

Knocking the ashes out of his pipe, the fisherman spoke again—

“He has kept the Prince out of his inheritance for twenty years.”

“’Tis so,” said William quietly.

“Well, now he is going to pay for it.”

“You think so?”

“Wait and see, Mynheer.”

William smiled.

“I have been waiting to see—for a long while.”

“Then you are for the Prince too;” the fisherman expressed a stolid satisfaction.

“I am for my country,” replied William evasively, “and that is a bigger question.… It is not the Grand Pensionary or the Prince … but our freedom or our downfall.”

“William of Orange will save us,” repeated the fisherman.

William smiled, half bitterly.

“I wonder.”

The other was roused to argument.

“That has been said to me before—it was by Heinrich Potts—‘Your Prince has never heard a shot nor been under canvas,’ he said—‘and he has no strength to live through one campaign.’”

He paused.

William looked down at him as he methodically refilled his pipe.

“Well?—the first is true—the second well may prove so.”

“I answered nothing to that—but he added—‘Your Prince is in league with his uncle—why not?—and the King of France. If we give him the power, he’ll sell us all to them.’”

“I have heard that before,” said William slowly, looking out to sea.

“Well, Mynheer, I never believed it—but Potts said, ‘Why not?’ … and I emptied his tankard in his face.… He said M. de Witt was a good man.”

“I think he is,” commented William dryly.

“But you are for the Prince?” urged the fisherman. “He will save us from M. de Witt and from the French,” he added.

There was a pause, then the old Netherlander began anew—

“They say the Prince of Tarentum pays court to him, and wants him to marry his daughter. Do you think that is true?”

“M. de Tarentum flies too high; I do not think the Prince will marry a subject.”

“I am glad of it.”

He looked up shrewdly into the young man’s face.

“You are from the Hague, you will know something of affairs——”

He paused.

“Do you know anything of the Prince?” he asked at length.

William turned his head away. “A little.”

The fisherman spread his huge brown hands on his knees.

“What do you think he will do, Mynheer?—in the matter of the war?”

“You believe in him, you say?”

“Ay, I do … to hell with M. de Witt!”

“Then, believing in him, ye know well what he will do.”

“Defy the French?”

William kept his gaze upon the sea.

“That would be madness, they say.”

“Defy them—that is what the Prince will do, I swear to ye, Mynheer!”

With that he tilted his head a little and watched the long wreaths of blue smoke disappear into the misty air.

William was silent, slightly frowning; his expression was thoughtful, as if he considered weighty matters.

The mist seemed to gather and deepen; it broke against the old church and hurried away across the sand dunes, blotting them out.

A little sound like a satisfied sigh, repeated once or twice, came from somewhere near the Prince. He looked round, and saw in the bottom of the boat against which he leaned a large and gaily dressed child, sitting up and rubbing its eyes.

Conscious in a moment of the gaze turned on it, with surprising rapidity it scrambled out of the boat and shook out voluminous skirts.

It wore a tight bodice worked with yellow and red roses, striped sleeves of blue and white, and enormous skirts of a bright green colour that stuck out as if the little person had been thrust through a half apple.

A close lace cap was drawn over its head, and from under it hung long, pale yellow curls, framing a smooth, expressionless face of rosy brown with large china-blue eyes.

The fisherman gave it a stolid nod.

William turned on it the remote but curious gaze of youth surveying infancy.

“Is it a boy?” he asked.

“My grandson, Mynheer.”

The fisherman pointed out in the back of the baby’s cap the coloured button that showed its sex.

“He has been asleep in the boat … he sleeps all day.”

The baby collapsed rather than sat down on the wreaths of dry seaweed and stared stolidly at the Prince.

A couple of screaming sea-birds started up from the mist-drenched land and flew out across the grey depths of shrouded sea.

“The wind is getting up,” remarked the fisherman. “The boats will be able to put out to-night.”

William took no notice, he seemed absorbed in his own thoughts.

“Tell me what you think the Prince will do,” urged the fisherman, who was beginning to feel some awe of the stranger. “What kind of a man is he?” he added, jerking the nets across his knee.

The baby staggered to its feet, shaking a coral and silver ornament depending from its waist; it fell at once on its face, with an unchanged expression rose again and clutched at the Prince’s hand to steady itself.

“He wants to get into the boat again,” said William respectfully.

The baby blinked up at him and kept a tight grasp on his glove.

The Prince deferred to the grandfather as to what line of action was to be taken with this novelty.

“Shall I put him into the boat again?” he asked.

“Nay, Mynheer, let him be—he sleeps too much, that is why he is so fat.”

“I like him,” said William gravely. “I have never seen a child so close before.”

The fisherman was not enthusiastic; he returned to his point.

“What can you tell me of the Prince, Mynheer?”

William gave him an intent look.

“What can I tell you of the Prince of Orange?”

His gaze fastened itself once more on the line of surf, ever falling, ever renewed; his manner dropped into an absorption.

“He had an unhappy childhood,” he said—“I think so.… He was a prisoner … and he had high desires … also he was weakly, ill-health made his days a burden to him … he knew always that he could not live at the utmost to more than middle life.… Well, his life had been maimed for him before he was born … and with the loneliness and the humiliation, and the long hours of pain, he was sometimes near despair … but God supported him … I believed, always——… What was I saying?… He believed in predestination … so I think; … that God had set him apart, made him so different from other men, because He had an especial mission for him … the protection of the Church of the Reformed Religion … he believed in that always … and he hated the French and the Romish Faith … and he loved his country.”

The speaker’s voice fell very low.

“I can say this for him … that while he draws his breath—such as these,” he looked down at the little child, “shall not inherit slavery … the Netherlands shall own no second Alva.…”

The fisherman sat silent.

“That is all I know of the Prince of Orange,” added William. “As yet he hath had no chance … no chance to prove himself.”

“Ye know him very well,” said the old man after a weighty pause. “And I am sure that he is even as you say. A second Alva! King Louis would be a second Philip—but we have still a William of Orange.”

The baby had dropped to the sand again, and the Prince rose, turned, and without further word entered the humble church.

For a moment he stood at the door, looking at the whitewashed interior, the stiff wooden pews, the tablets to the memory of sailors, and the little brass models of ships that hung from the rafters; thank-offerings from those who had escaped dire perils at sea.

In his ears was the perpetual roar of the waves, and in his nostrils the salt breeze of the ocean.

After a while he returned to the boats and walked up and down thoughtfully.

“The youngsters will be coming to the farm,” remarked the fisherman. “They have a printing press there.”

“Ah, who are they?” asked the Prince sharply.

“Young men from the Hague—Orangists—they print pamphlets against M. de Witt—I know it—they composed that last, Advice to every Faithful Hollander—they talk big too—Jounker Van der Graef is one—and his father a magistrate!”

The child was crawling round the edge of the boat; it lifted a grave face to the Prince, who stooped and picked it up.

Twenty-five years or so afterwards, when a great king who had broken the power of France, freed England, and formed one of the hugest coalitions the world has known, famous as a statesman, glorious as a soldier, died in a palace very far from Scheveningen—his life-work done, a young fisherman amid the grief of Holland recalled with awe that William of Orange had once held him in his arms.…

William placed him gently in the boat, then turned rather sharply.

“What is that?” he asked.

Through the rise and fall of the surf might be distinctly heard the sound of approaching people, talking, and even laughing, as if they had lost their way in the mist.

“The Jounker Van der Graef and his companions,” said the fisherman.

“They are coming here?”

“As I said, Mynheer.”

The Prince hastened to loosen his horse and to remount, but as he leapt to the saddle several figures emerged out of the fog.

William turned the grey horse away from Scheveningen towards the undulating, obscure lines of the sand dunes.

But they had seen him.

“A stranger!” cried the foremost.

The Prince gave a glance at him over his shoulder.

“Ah!” Jacob Van der Graef caught his breath and fell back a pace.

The Prince put spurs to his horse and galloped away along the dunes; in a moment he was a mere shadowy shape against the sea fog.

Jacob Van der Graef ran down the beach to where the old fisherman sat.

“The Prince of Orange!” he cried excitedly. “What was he doing here?…”

William, riding through the grey loneliness, was thinking of these hot-head conspirators.

“They are fools,” he said. “But there are times when fools may be useful.”

---

CHAPTER IV
THE DEFEAT OF M. DE WITT

Matthew Bromley was summoned to the great, formal audience chamber of the Palace. It was twilight, and the Prince not yet returned.

In the Palace and in the Hague a great excitement loomed and gathered. The Assembly had sat all day; fearful rumours were current as to the safety of the India fleet and the reason of de Ruyter’s silence.

Mr. Bromley carried a copy of The Gazette, as he entered the room where the two gentlemen waited for His Highness.

By the feeble candlelight that but faintly dispelled the lowering shadows he saw them; one Florent Van Mander, the other a fair and handsome gentleman, young, and very elegantly attired in a grey velvet and silver riding suit.

“Ah, Mr. Bromley, have you quite forgotten me?” The newcomer rose and held out his hand.

The Englishman was genuinely pleased.

“M. Bentinck!”

“At last!—returned from exile as you see. Where is His Highness? Abroad they tell me.”

“Abroad certainly—where, I do not know.”

M. Bentinck raised his brows.

“Does no one know?”

Mr. Bromley nodded at Van Mander.

“Sir, M. Fagel came to see His Highness this morning—and afterwards the Prince left the house in a passion.”

“Alone?” M. Bentinck looked considerably surprised.

“Alone.”

“He is no longer under any supervision?”

“None at all now, sir. M. de Witt has had to cede his authority little by little, till he has none left——”

“In all the United Provinces, I think,” smiled M. Bentinck. “Oh, Mynheer, I am tired, I have lain sick a week at Hertogenbosch.”

He seated himself in one of the heavy leather chairs, and his gay face and rich clothes made a brightness in the large and sombre chamber.

“Shall I not order dinner for you?” asked Mr. Bromley.

“No—I thank you, we dined on the road.”

Florent retained his seat by the window, composed and grave, pulling at his hat and feather that he held across his knee; his taciturnity seemed to absolve the others from the unusual in leaving him out of their conversation.

“How goes His Highness’ affair in the Assembly?” asked M. Bentinck.

“It was concerning that M. Fagel came this morning——”

“M. Fagel has turned courtier?”

“As have some others—yes!”

M. Bentinck leant back in his chair. His attractive face was thoughtful; he fingered the ribbon on his velvet cuff.

“We received garbled reports in Brandenburg—what do you think, Mr. Bromley, of the chances of war?”

The Englishman shrugged his shoulders.

“De Pomponne hath been withdrawn and no other sent—in spite of M. de Witt’s representations. No concession will pacify King Louis——”

“He cannot forgive the Triple Alliance.”

“No—and some other things—the medal and Van Beuningen’s embassy.”

M. Bentinck lifted his blue eyes—

“And the English?”

Matthew Bromley laughed.

“Well, they say the English are as insolent as the French. Temple was recalled and Sir George Downing sent—to provoke a war, I truly think. You heard of the Treaty of Dover?—well, King Charles protests love to His Highness always, but hates the States.… I am not a soldier nor a diplomat … if war is declared I shall go home.”

“Leave the Prince’s service?”

“I am English,” said Matthew Bromley lightly. He went to the mantelshelf and snuffed the candles.

M. Bentinck frowned.

“The English people—the English Parliament are not friendly to the French.”

Mr. Bromley agreed heartily.

“It is solely Charles Stewart.” Then he laughed again.

“Did you hear of the Merlin?”

“Sir William’s yacht, was it not?”

“Yes; taking Lady Temple home the yacht passed through your fleet and demanded the salute—fired on your flag—captain told to, of course; is in the Tower now for not doing more—what does that look like but war?”

“The pretexts are utterly wanton and frivolous,” remarked M. Bentinck.

“M. de Witt hath ceded the salute of the flag.”

The young Dutch noble flushed swiftly.

“Doth he still hope to obtain peace?”

Mr. Bromley shrugged his shoulders.

“Downing made some impossible demands—he is a ruffler sent to cause friction, of course. I should say his secret orders were to provoke a war by any means.”

He paused, then added with meaning—

“But both the Kings protest friendship to His Highness—his uncle saith one of his grievances against the Republic is that the Prince hath been kept so long out of his offices.”

M. Bentinck rose.

“You think His Highness and his friends are safe enough,” he said quietly.

“Yes—but I would not give much for the safety of M. de Witt.”

As he spoke the door was flung wide and the Prince entered with an unusual impetuosity.

Van Mander, unnoticed by all, rose to his feet in the shadows of the window.

“Bentinck!” exclaimed William; he dashed his hat down on a chair inside the door. “Bentinck!”

“Your Highness!”

The young man sank to one knee and kissed the Prince’s hands.

William raised him.

“You are well?—you have recovered?” he asked eagerly.

“Completely—to see the Hague and you again, Highness, would have cured me had I been far sicker.”

William gazed intently into the fair, ardent face.

“You must come upstairs with me—how dark and cold it is here——”

He looked round and saw Matthew Bromley standing by the mantelshelf.

At once he crossed over to him.

“Bromley, I spoke violently to you this morning,” he said, “and I am sorry—will you forgive me?”

It was William’s habit to make instant reparation for his rare outbursts of passion, but Mr. Bromley had not expected he would ask pardon of his own gentleman.

“M. Fagel vexed me,” continued the Prince. “I had no fault to find with you.”

Mr. Bromley coloured and stood in a foolish confusion.

William offered his hand with the graceful courtesy he knew so well how to use.

Mr. Bromley flushed more deeply with gratification and pleasure.

“It was nothing—Your Highness,” he protested, and the Prince had secured a lifelong devotion.

It did not occur to Mr. Bromley to call his master’s graciousness policy, the obvious sincerity of William’s rare advances was what gave them their value.

He was above any arts, making no efforts to gain supporters. There were already men who would have died for his praise and performed heroic feats to avoid his blame.

He smiled at Mr. Bromley and caught M. Bentinck by the arm.

“Highness, I return in the midst of great events.”

William turned the smile on him and drew him from the room.

M. Bentinck adored the Prince, not more so than many, not more so perhaps than Florent Van Mander, standing unnoticed, unthought of, but William had chosen to bestow on him his friendship.

William Bentinck was intelligent; he had always been blindly loyal to the House of Nassau. He was of a rare good looks and attractiveness, and had been the Prince’s page when they were children. William admitted him to his closest confidence, and was more open with him than with any; none knowing better, however, than William Bentinck, that in any serious matter he had not the slightest influence with his master.

The Prince would do anything to please him in trivial affairs; but he was his own counsellor, those associated with him were no more than the lieutenants of his will.

Without words this was understood between them. Bentinck offered neither advice nor criticism.

His first words when they were alone were characteristic—

“What are you going to do, Highness? In what way can I help you?” he asked eagerly.

William looked at him as if the sight of his glowing handsomeness was a pleasure.

The smile was still on his lips; it seemed as if he would not be drawn into serious questions. His attitude was rather like that of a man to a woman whom he loves but must always with a half laugh condescend to when it concerns the discussion of large issues.

“Tell me of your journey—and sickness,” he said. “You have changed very little,” he added, with a deepening of his smile.

“And you have changed a great deal,” replied Bentinck, gazing at him eagerly.

“Do you think so?”

They had reached the quiet library; the Prince sat beside his friend on an oak settle that stood against the wall.

The room was golden from end to end with the light of candles and a silver lamp placed on the desk, where it cast a strong glow over a bowl of orange and purple tulips. The curtains were not drawn, and each of the long windows framed a picture of blue twilight, trees, and sky.

“What of M. de Witt?” asked Bentinck. “It seems to me he cannot long keep the power—every village I rode through seethed with discontent.”

“Tell me of yourself, my lord,” urged William affectionately. “I have been without friends so long.”

“Of myself! You jest, Highness—I, an exile, newly returned to the theatre of great events!”

William sighed.

“There is very little to tell you … there will be war, of course.”

“And the Captain Generalship?”

“M. Fagel was here this morning to offer it to me—for one campaign.”

“And you?”

William smiled anew into the young man’s comely, ardent face; now with a half mournful air.

“I refused.”

“Unconditionally?”

“Yes.”

“My faith!” cried M. Bentinck, “that was a bold move, Highness.”

“I think it will prove a successful one.”

William spoke as if he explained himself from a pure effort of friendship, and would have preferred to talk of other things.

“M. de Witt was at the back of that.”

“Of course.”

“Who are his men?”

“Prince John Maurice, Prince Charles, Major-General Wurtz—and M. de Montbas.”

“None of them his friends—save the last.”

“No. I have their promise not to accept the post, if it be offered them—the promise of the first three, I mean.”

“And Prince Charles’ daughter?”

William looked at him keenly.

“Who told you that?”

“The Elector spoke to me of it—said Prince Charles would be pleased to make an alliance on those terms.”

“They are too high,” answered the Prince. “Think no more of it—I have refused.”

“And the French match?”

William unexpectedly coloured.

“King Louis wished a French Princess to seal his friendship—did he not?” continued M. Bentinck.

The Prince rose, coughing a little, and crossed to the hearth.

“The French Ambassador at Berlin told me so much——”

William answered sternly—

“No doubt my cousin Louis thought it a great honour.… I told M. de Pomponne that my House was used to contract alliances with royalty—I do not wish to quarter the bend sinister with my coat.”

“King Louis will never forgive that.”

“He protests he is my very good friend … he thinks he may have use for me.… This war, if it please you, is largely on my behalf … to punish the ingratitude of the Republic.”

William walked up and down the hearth. He still wore his roquelaure, and clasped his hands behind him under the full skirts.

“Whatever he may say he will never forgive that,” repeated M. Bentinck.

“It is I who will never forgive,” said William, “that he should so have mistaken how I rate myself.”

“Well, and there will be war?” flashed the other, leaning forward.

“This spring, I think.… The pretexts are utterly wanton—you heard of the Merlin incident?”

“Some account, yes.”

“And my uncle Charles has sent one Downing over, an insupportable swashbuckler. Temple was a good fellow, and friendly, therefore he was removed.”

“It will be England too, you think?”

“Yes; but I have hopes of my uncle Charles.”

Then William turned to face his companion.

“Did you hear of their complaints?” he asked in an amused tone. “My uncle protests that the Royal Charles, decked with English flags, was shown for a penny a head to gaping boors, thereupon M. de Witt sends the flags back and withdraws the ship——”

“A poor-spirited move!” cried M. Bentinck.

“As if my uncle was a man to care for his country’s prestige! Then it was His Christian Majesty—he complains that Van Beuningen after his return from the Treaty of Aix-la-Chapelle was presented with a medal making mock of His Majesty.”

William, never devoid of humour, laughed outright, showing his white teeth in genuine amusement.

“The noble city of Amsterdam was accused of this—‘Nec pluribus impar’ is His Majesty’s motto, and they had a presentment of King Sun with his rays clipped, and this inscription, ‘In conspectu meo stelit sol.’ There were other offences too; pamphlets printed at the Hague insulting the omnipotent. Poor M. de Witt and Van Beuningen have been rushing to and fro trying to appease the offended deity.”

He added in a graver tone—

“But of course Louvois is behind it—he is jealous of our commerce.”

“M. de Witt, I take it, still hopes for peace?”

“Even M. de Witt,” answered William, “will not be able to indulge that hope much longer, I think.”

He rested his elbow against the mantelshelf and took his face in his hand; the candlelight fell softly on his thick bright hair and sparkled in the green ring on his little finger.

M. Bentinck sat silent, gazing at his master. He could not quite understand the Prince’s attitude.

He had never considered William as one with the United Provinces, but rather as their enemy.

What, therefore, would be his attitude in the forthcoming war?

It was against the Republic the furies of France were directed, not against William of Orange.

In the invasion of his country he might find his own advantage. He was in no way bound to the service of a State that had never placed any confidence in him but had treated him as a prisoner all his life.

His obvious policy lay in a compact with France, but so far he appeared to have rejected such overtures as had been made to him.

“I cannot see clearly how you stand, Highness,” said M. Bentinck at last, puzzled.

“No?” In no man’s company did the Prince smile so much. “My attitude is rather difficult to define, is it not, my child?”

William was three or four years younger than M. Bentinck, and half a head shorter, but the expression did not sound foolish on his lips.

“How will war help you?” asked M. Bentinck thoughtfully.

The Prince did not seem inclined to answer this.

“I have had a whole day of idleness,” he said. “For the first time since—I cannot remember when—I went to Scheveningen—idle but not useless. I encountered an old man there—and a child—his confidence!”

William turned towards the settee.

“They all look to me to save them—does not that seem curious—after all M. de Witt has done?”

M. Bentinck caressed the fine lace at his wrist.

“It is certainly strange M. de Witt should be so disliked,” he answered.

“It is his peace policy. Confess, is it not stranger that I should be beloved?”

M. Bentinck smiled.

“I cannot think so, Highness.”

“They know nothing of me—they give me the credit of my name.”

The Prince turned to the window now and looked out on to the darkening prospect of trees and sky.

“M. de Witt hath opposed me most bitterly in the Assembly,” he said. “I think he called me some hard names—an inexperienced boy. Ah! what I have taken from that man, William. M. Jacob de Witt does not forget Loevenstein—nor do I——”

He coughed and abruptly changed the subject.

“Do you remember what they did to the children when Alva had rule here, William?… I saw a child to-day, on the sands … do you think the French would be more merciful than the Spanish?—their Romish faith!… King Louis hopes to celebrate Mass at the Hague.…”

“If the peace negotiations fail what could one do?” asked M. Bentinck. “We have de Ruyter, but there is no captain to hold the French back on the land.”

“One might arise,” answered the Prince.

“You think——?”

William cut him short.

“We talk too weightily. I have had no dinner, you must dine again to keep me company. How are my uncle the Elector and my cousin Charlotte?”

M. Bentinck rose.

“It could be a match there, if you wished, Highness. You see there are many courting your alliance.”

“I am already adept in the art of saying ‘no,’” answered the Prince.

“It would please the Elector and the Princess Dowager—I do not think the lady herself would be averse——”

William frowned.

“It is not even to be considered—my fortunes are too unsettled for me to think of a wife. Ah, here is Bromley.”

He turned quickly at his gentleman’s entrance.

“A message from the Assembly, Bromley?”

“Yes, Highness.”

The Prince took the letter that was offered him and flashed a look at M. Bentinck.

“M. Fagel come to his senses, I believe,” he said, and tore the seal.

Mr. Bromley explained.

“The Assembly has just risen, Highness; the messenger came here at once he said—from M. Zuylestein.”

A swift colour had come into the Prince’s thin cheeks.

“Yes, it is from M. Zuylestein.”

He glanced over the letter, then handed it to M. Bentinck.

“Read it, William; it is as I thought it must be.”

M. Bentinck cast his eyes over the writing; the ink of it barely dry, the sweeps of the quill blotted in the writer’s haste.

“The Binnenhof, Feb. 20, 1672

“Your Highness,—We have news from de Ruyter that the India fleet was attacked by the English, but by God his grace saved—war is inevitable. Their Noble Mightinesses have appointed you Captain General of the land and sea forces for life. Accept my humble congratulations on this success. I write in haste. Your servant,

“Frederick of Nassau.”

“Then it is done!” cried M. Bentinck. “Highness, I am beyond measure pleased—this is the more a triumph that it hath not been undisputed——”

“It is the attempt on the India fleet hath decided them,” returned the Prince. “Only this morning they offered a compromise——”

Then he looked straightly and keenly at Mr. Bromley.

“Your King has attacked M. de Ruyter,” he said. “England will declare war on the United Provinces … perhaps you would wish to leave my service?”

Matthew Bromley laughed and coloured in a half confusion.

“’Tis a long while since I was home, sir.”

“But you are English.”

“I am not a Romanist, sir.”

“Still an Anglican,” said the Prince, as if he considered the one creed almost as offensive as the other, but his eyes were kindly.

Mr. Bromley bowed.

“I serve Your Highness, not the United Provinces,” he said, with the air of one who has cut a Gordian knot.

William folded up his uncle’s letter.

“The United Provinces have made me Captain General, Bromley—I am in their service now.”

“I will stay if Your Highness will have me,” was the Englishman’s answer. He smiled a little humorously. “England is probably in the wrong,” he said; his thought was that William was right—right for ever in Mr. Bromley’s eyes after those words to him that evening.

The Prince smiled.

“I am glad to keep you.”

“May I give Your Highness my congratulations and good wishes?”

“Thank you, Bromley.”

The Englishman withdrew.

“This is something to have wrung from M. de Witt,” cried M. Bentinck excitedly. “’Tis a violation of the terms of the Act of Harmony.”

“He would have been wiser to have given it,” said William slowly. “I begged him to—I was certain of it from the first.”

With a little cough he moved to the mantelshelf again. He seemed in no way elated or moved, weary rather. He fell again into the reserved silence M. Bentinck’s home-coming had dispelled, and looked in an absorbed and thoughtful manner on the ground.

His friend could not quite understand. A thousand ardours clutched at his heart that he could not express; he saw in the Captain Generalship a step to the Stadtholdership—but what of the war?

“War is inevitable, M. de Zuylestein says——”

“It has been so ever since M. de Pomponne was recalled—De Courtin’s nomination was a mere farce—M. de Witt would never see it,” answered the Prince.

“You speak of France?”

“Meaning England also—what hath she become but King Louis’ tool?” He put his hand to his brow. “Come to dinner, William, and speak of other things.”

---

CHAPTER V
THE DECLARATION OF WAR

“I write this for your private satisfaction, and that you may be fully informed of how affairs stand with me, and that way be better able to help us, as I am sure you have the will.

“Since war was declared in London my burdens have become almost intolerable. I usually work from eight in the morning till nine at night, often without touching food, and still cannot get through all there is to do. Their High Mightinesses have allowed my clerk, M. Van den Bosch, to take my place in the Assembly and make notes of the speeches, and have also permitted me to share some of my duties with M. Vivien, otherwise I could not do it.

“The labour is incredible, and on all sides I am rewarded with complaints; the forced loans raise a storm of dissent, yet there is bitter railing that the Army is reduced and the forts dismantled. I am accused of every corruption conceivable, from a secret understanding with M. de Louvois to the taking of the Secret Service money for my own uses.

“I tell you this to show something of the state the country is in; the voices of prudence, justice, and common sense can scarce be heard among the clamour of the factions. My desire for peace is regarded with suspicion, and my opposition to the violation of the Act of Harmony as a crime.

“The Prince of Orange had to take the oaths never to attempt, or even accept, the Stadtholdership, on his appointment to the Captain Generalship.

“But what are oaths in these times?

“Few have lately shown themselves jealous of their word. The magistrates, frightened by the people, lean to the side of the Prince, and I fear we have knocked away the keystone of our liberty.

“This young man wishes to be absolute; he shows his imperious temper more clearly every day. He has already given marks of his dislike to Colonel Bampfield and other officers in my confidence.

“M. Fagel is utterly on his side, and M. Heinsius; only M. de Groot (at present dismissed by his French Majesty from Paris), M. Beuningen, and M. Vivien remain staunch.

“My brother Cornelius departed for the Fleet the 9th of this month. He is so crippled with rheumatism that he hath to direct his ship from an arm-chair on the deck; the Lord God guard him.

“You see I give you family news, knowing that your love for me will tolerate it. At present I have in my house my sister, her husband, my father, and my children, who are just returned from a visit to their uncle, Bicker Van Swieten.

“They desire their kind remembrances to you.

“The last news is that the King of France has joined his troops at Charleroi and so opened the campaign.

“The Prince of Orange starts to-morrow for his camp; his headquarters are to be at Bodegraven. My heart misgives me that such an untried boy should be put in complete command of our sole defences.

“But it is astonishing what enthusiasm there is for him in the Army. General Wurtz and Prince John Maurice both declare he is worth 100,000 men, and M. de Ruyter says his sailors work better now His Highness is at the head of things.

“His popularity is at fever height. He further pleases the people by declaring for war, and wishing to break off the negotiations I have with so much labour been keeping open. It seems as if I could do nothing right and he nothing wrong.

“God help us in our extremity.

“I cannot tell you how I miss the pleasure of your company. I know that this lamentable war is the defeat of your policy as it is of mine, and that you wish us nothing but good; it is another motive for me to desire to be free of these unhappy times, that we might meet and converse again. Keep me in your heart always, I pray you, and write to me privately when you have the leisure.

“MM. CondÉ, Turenne, Vauban, and Luxemberg are with His Majesty at Charleroi, and one of the finest armies, I hear, that ever left France. I still keep up a correspondence with M. de Louvois, but I have little hope of obtaining reason and justice from a rapacious minister and a vainglorious king.

“But He who hath put these afflictions on me will teach me how to bear them, and I must not repine against what He chooses to lay on me.

“Give my loving duty to your lady, and take as much yourself from one who will always be your friend,

“John de Witt.

“Given at my house in the Kneuterdyk Avenue, May 17, 1672. The Hague.”

The Grand Pensionary shook the sand over his letter, folded and sealed it, then wrote on the cover in his refined, clear hand: “To the Honourable Sir William Temple, Baronet, at his residence at Sheen, in the County of Surrey, England.”

It was late afternoon. When the Grand Pensionary rose and raised his eyes he saw a glimmer of gold and green through the window beside his desk, the quiver of the trees, the glow of the sunshine in the garden, which was filled with narcissi, daffodils, and tulips arranged in circles, half-moons, and straight bars of colour among the close grass and neat gravel-paths.

Under the limes sat Anna de Witt with her spinning-wheel, which made a swift, gentle sound as her foot touched the treadle. The sunshine rested on her smooth yellow hair and white cap, and on her rich but simple grey satin gown.

On a low stool beside her sat Agneta, also in grey, for the daughters of John de Witt were still in mourning for their mother.

About their feet the pigeons gathered and strutted, pearl coloured and white, and grey the hue of Anna’s flax.

John de Witt stood for a moment at the window looking at the quiet little figures under the trees, then he turned away quickly and was about to touch a bell on his table when Jacob de Witt entered the library.

“Ah, I did not know that you were at home, sir,” said the Grand Pensionary.

“I can do very little till the States sit again,” answered the old man, “very little.”

He seated himself by the blue-tiled hearth and clasped his hand round the black stick he carried.

This last month or so had given him his full age; his head trembled a little and his shoulders were bowed.

“You are so seldom here now, John,” he said wistfully.

“Sir, I am here now but for a while, I must leave instantly.”

“Where are you going?”

John de Witt crossed to his father’s chair.

“The Prince leaves for the Army to-morrow, sir, and I think it desirable that I should see him first.”

Jacob de Witt sighed.

“To the end,” his son added, “that no private bitterness may endanger our safety—His Highness must know that I shall second him with my whole power.”

“He knows that already.”

“I have not seen him,” John de Witt answered slowly, “since he was invested with the Captain Generalship—he is surrounded by those who are no friends to me. There must be some understanding between us,” he repeated anxiously—“some understanding.”

The old man straightened himself in his chair, his dim eyes seemed to gather fire—

“What understanding can there be between you and this young man, John? Son of a bad House, of the cursed Stewarts and the arrogant Nassau, he is a born tyrant, like his father—woe to us if he triumph——”

“Hush, my father!” the Grand Pensionary interrupted, “we cannot judge him by another’s sins.”

“We can judge him by the blood that is in him.”

“He hath been elected to lead our armies, as his fellow-servant of the State I must support him,” said John de Witt firmly. “Personal feelings must not touch politics, sir.”

Jacob de Witt’s thin hands tightened round his stick.

“Do you think that is the way he looks at it, John? If he snatches the power, will he be magnanimous to you—to any of us? He comes of a race that can hate—of a race that cannot forgive.”

The Grand Pensionary looked at his father with wide and tired eyes.

“I pray you speak words of good omen, sir,” he said softly.

The old man went on as if he did not hear—

“You have never felt the weight of a prince’s anger, you have never been cast into prison by the wrath of a tyrant.… What have we done?” his voice rose almost to a wail, “what have we done?… Nursed a viper to destroy us.…”

“Sir!” cried John de Witt, “I have given the Prince no cause to hate me.”

“No cause?”

The old statesman’s stern eyes rested on his son.

“You have kept him for twenty years out of what he considers his own.… Do you think that William of Orange does not hold that cause enough to hate you?”

The Grand Pensionary put his hand to his heart in a half agitated manner.

“That the Prince misliked my office I have been brought to see—that he hates me I cannot believe—” he paused, then added,—“he owes me some gratitude.”

“He will hate you the more for that,” replied Jacob de Witt. “Gratitude!—Prince Maurice was grateful to John Van Olden Barnenveldt, was he not?”

“I think the Prince is noble at heart,” said the Grand Pensionary firmly. “I did not educate him to be like Prince Maurice nor like his father——”

But Jacob de Witt interrupted sternly—

“He should have been treated as the Lord Cromwell treated the faithless Stewart if the United Provinces were to keep their liberty.”

“Certainly, I think you wrong him.”

“It is you, John, who give him virtues never yet found in the hearts of princes,” returned the old republican grimly.

The Grand Pensionary glanced through the window at that peaceful picture of his daughters under the trees.

“What do you seek to persuade me to, sir?” he asked gently.

“I seek to prevent you making further submission to the Prince of Orange.”

“Sir, I have never submitted to him, nor departed from the Perpetual Edict … you know how I fought against his appointment … but once the States have elected him I must help, not hinder, him in his duties.”

Jacob de Witt shook his head.

“Of a brood of tyrants,” he said in a low voice, “tyrants.…”

John de Witt raised his noble, mournful face—

“Until he proves himself otherwise I must treat the Prince as an honourable man—a patriot.”

“May God reward you for it—for William of Orange never will.”

“Nevertheless, sir, it is necessary that I see the Prince.”

“Why?” demanded the old man vigorously. “M. de Montbas made the mistake of waiting on him—and received a haughty rebuff for his pains. The Staff of the Army is arranged—and there you have been too just, M. Beverningh, the head of the Representatives of the States General, is on the Prince’s side——”

He was interrupted by the entry of M. Van Ouvenaller.

“His Highness the Prince of Orange, Mynheer.”

The Grand Pensionary turned and Jacob de Witt rose.

Before either could speak the Prince appeared in the doorway, and M. de Witt’s secretary, after holding it respectfully open for him, bowed and withdrew.

“I am glad to see Your Highness,” said the Grand Pensionary sincerely.

William touched his hat without raising it and looked at Jacob de Witt.

“Good day, Mynheer.”

The salutation might have been for both or neither, so indifferently was it given; when next he spoke it was directly to the older man.

“We have not met for some time, M. de Witt.”

The old republican came a step nearer the Prince.

Loevenstein was in the minds of both, and that struggle of twenty years ago when the family of de Witt had risen to greatness on the fall of the House of Orange.

Their eyes met.

William very slightly smiled. He was dressed more richly than was his former wont; he wore a circular mantle of dull pink velvet turned up over one shoulder showing the red lining, the cloth-of-gold coat beneath was cut away over a black velvet waistcoat, the heavily fringed baldric supporting the gilt-handled sword he now always wore. His dress was an indication of his altered position; to M. Jacob de Witt his whole bearing was an offence.

“I am leaving the Hague to-morrow,” said the Prince, with a courteous but unmistakable malice. “Shall I not have your good wishes first?”

The old man drew himself erect and firmly clasped his stick.

“I pray daily for the success and safety of the Republic,” he answered sternly.

“But not for me, Mynheer?” asked William quietly.

“I pray that Your Highness may be a worthy servant of the country that owes everything to my son.”

With a gesture of unspeakable pride he pointed to John de Witt.

“Ingratitude is the vice of princes,” he said strongly. “May God preserve Your Highness from that fault.”

He moved to the door, turning his back on the Prince with the air of one who has administered a just rebuke.

John de Witt thought that the Prince would answer, and answer in words that neither could forgive.

But William was silent; he merely raised his brows a little and waited for the elder de Witt to leave.

The Grand Pensionary, proud and collected as ever, remained where the Prince’s entrance found him, his back to the window, his eyes on His Highness.

The moment that the door closed William spoke.

“You must forgive me for disturbing you, Mynheer.”

“I intended waiting on Your Highness myself immediately,” replied the Grand Pensionary formally.

“Their High Mightinesses consider that I should leave the Hague to-morrow,” answered William in the same tone, “since the King of France hath joined his camp at Charleroi.”

John de Witt advanced a little across the room.

“Will you be seated, Highness?”

The Prince took the chair Jacob de Witt had quitted.

He still wore his hat; it heavily shaded his face, that was, even for him, pale. He coughed continually as he spoke, and his eyes were unnaturally brilliant and languid lidded.

“We have not seen each other since your appointment,” said John de Witt, “and I am glad to have this opportunity of speaking to Your Highness.”

William laid his fringed gloves, his riding-whip, and a red rose he was carrying down on the table beside him.

He came, characteristically, straight to the point.

“You opposed my election, Mynheer; you have contrived to restrict my authority … the War Council of the States General are to accompany me and be consulted on every step I take.”

“It is true, Highness,” was the grave response.

“Very well, Mynheer, what I have obtained has been in spite of you.… I asked your help and you refused it.… But now?—I am the chief of the Army, you of the State … what now?”

He fixed his dark eyes on M. de Witt’s face.

“Now, Highness, I will support you by every means in my power,” answered John de Witt firmly. “Do you think,” he added, with a mournful smile, “that I am of so paltry or jealous a nature as to indulge my private feelings at the expense of the public welfare and safety?”

“No, I did not think so, M. de Witt,” answered William.

“I have never borne personal ill-will to you, Prince. I of myself would never have given you the appointment you now hold, but since you do hold it, by the wish of the country, I will help you, willingly and very loyally.”

“Thank you, Mynheer,” said William, still formally.

“Put me to the test,” urged the Grand Pensionary. “If there is anything in my power——”

“Yes,” interrupted the Prince, “I have come a second time to ask you to help me.”

He drew a paper from his pocket and spread it out on the table.

“This is the list of the Staff of the Army—there has been a prolonged contest over the choice, Mynheer.”

He smiled, not very pleasantly, and then coughed, pressing his lace handkerchief to his lips.

John de Witt crossed the room to stand beside his chair.

William read from his list—

“The two Major-Generals, Prince John Maurice of Nassau and Paul Wurtz—I have nothing to say against them.”

One was his own relative, the other devoted to his cause. He might well pass these names.

“Commander of the Cavalry, the Rhyngrave, Frederick Magnus, Count Salm, Governor of Maestricht.”

He also was devoted to the Prince. William made no comment.

“The Rhyngrave’s two lieutenant-generals, John of Weldeven and the Count of Nassau Saarbruck.”

Both these men had always been attached to the House of Orange.

William continued—

“Commander of the Infantry, Frederick of Nassau, Lord of Zuylestein; his lieutenant-generals, Count KÖnigsmarck and William of Aylva; master general of ordinance, Count Hornes; quartermaster general, Moyse Pain et Vin; ‘sergeant majors’ of infantry, Colonel Kirkpatrick and Count Styrum.”

Of these two last the first was a Scotch Calvinist bearing a bitter hatred to the English Government, the second a near relation of the Prince through his grandmother.

“Your Highness has nothing to say against these gentlemen?” asked the Grand Pensionary, with a gentle sarcasm.

William raised his eyes from the paper.

“There are the two commissary generals of the cavalry whom I have not yet named, Mynheer.”

John de Witt’s eyes narrowed.

“Your Highness means the Viscount de Montbas and Colonel Bampfield?”

“Yes.”

“What of them, Highness?”

William coughed.

“Those two positions are positions of great trust, Mynheer.”

“I know it, Highness.”

“I should suggest that they be filled differently.”

John de Witt flushed.

“Why?”

“They are neither of them men whom I should choose to have under me.”

“Your Highness must explain yourself.”

“Briefly, I do not trust them.”

“They were both nominated by me, Highness.”

“I know, Mynheer.”

John de Witt drew back a little from the table, and stood looking down at the Prince with an almost incredulous expression.

He would not have believed that William would have the audacity to take exception to the only two officers of republican sympathies on his Staff.

“They are also my friends, Highness,” he continued with some haughtiness.

“I know that, Mynheer,” said the Prince; “but you are not, I think, of such a paltry nature as to indulge private feelings at the expense of the welfare of the State.”

The tone in which William repeated these words he had used brought the colour into M. de Witt’s face.

“Both these soldiers, Highness, are men whom the country should be proud of—they have my entire trust and confidence.”

“I am sorry,” answered the Prince dryly.

“What have you against them, Highness?”

The new Chief of the Army kept down his glance. “Colonel Bampfield is a good soldier—but——”

“He hath the misfortune to be my friend,” broke in John de Witt with some feeling.

“He is a Swede, Mynheer—a mere soldier of fortune. I do not consider him fitted for a post of importance.”

“And M. de Montbas?—you always disliked him!”

“Yes, I never liked him, Mynheer—and I do not trust him.”

“Not trust him?”

“No.”

“This is intolerable!… Your Highness, in what way do you not trust him?”

“He is a Frenchman.”

“But a Protestant—and since many years in our service.”

“Still, Mynheer, a subject of the King of France,” answered William. “I do not trust, I repeat, the Vicomte de Montbas—and since I am not empowered to choose my own officers, I have come to you to procure his dismissal, Mynheer de Witt.”

With that the Captain General looked steadily at the Grand Pensionary, who was both angered and taken aback.

The Prince’s request seemed to him both bold and insolent, though it was proffered with an almost disdainful quiet.

He curbed the anger that rose to his lips, and kept his glance averted from William’s cool and slightly mocking face.

“M. de Montbas is my friend,” he said sternly, “and in the confidence of Their High Mightinesses.… I will listen to nothing against him—no, nothing,” he repeated in some agitation.

Somewhat to his surprise the Prince replied at once—

“Very well—it is not my affair—I have made my request and been refused.” He lifted his brows. “Well, you will take the responsibility—as you do for every other action of the civil Government.”

Now M. de Witt looked at him.

“Yes, I will take the responsibility, Your Highness,” he answered proudly. “M. de Montbas is as trusty, worthy a gentleman as any under Your Highness’ command——”

“I am glad that you will answer for him, Mynheer.”

“We will talk no more of it,” replied the Grand Pensionary; “he stays.”

William picked up the red rose and looked at it languidly.

“My brother,” continued M. de Witt, “will not accompany Your Highness, as he hath answered the appeal of the States General to go as deputy plenipotentiary to the Fleet.”

The Prince still kept his eyes on the flower.

“I am glad, Mynheer,” he answered. “M. Cornelius de Witt and I are not likely to agree.”

The Grand Pensionary gave him a long and searching glance.

“God forgive this stubborn spirit in Your Highness,” he said.

William faintly smiled.

“Mynheer, let each keep to his business.… You need not have grudged me the sole command of the Army nor have appointed these Deputies to accompany me.”

“It is for your own good—the undivided weight of authority was too heavy a burden for Your Highness.”

“These lawyers know nothing of war,” answered William disdainfully.

“Some might say as much of Your Highness—I for one who think you should have served before you ruled.”

“I know that, Mynheer;” the Prince laid down the rose. “You have no trust in me; well, time will disclose whether or no I justify myself in this that I undertake.”

“I shall do all I can to aid Your Highness.” The generous heart of de Witt went out, despite everything, to this young man of no experience and of delicate health suddenly placed in this arduous and difficult post.

He blamed the ambition that had asked and the enthusiasm that had given the supreme command to William of Orange, and he feared the result for the United Provinces; but he saw, as perhaps no one else could see, the thousand difficulties and labours that must beset a general of twenty-one called to repel a foreign invasion with insufficient men and limited authority; the almost impossible task that faced a youth who had never seen a battle and now must come to the touch with an army of prodigious strength, already elated with glory, strong in prestige, and generaled by the most famous soldiers in the world.

On this impulse of reflection de Witt began to speak. He told the Prince what was being now done for the Navy, the Army; the fresh levies he was raising, the soldiers he hoped to add to the standing force.… He said what he could to encourage and hearten.

William listened, turning the rose about on the table beside him; once or twice he coughed and put his hand to his head.

When John de Witt paused he looked up slowly.

“This should have been seen to long ago,” he said in a low voice.

“What do you mean?” asked the Grand Pensionary quickly.

William rose.

“This country is utterly unprepared for war.… The Navy is half disarmed, the Army of a miserable strength … the forts insufficiently garrisoned.… Those who have been governing the country for the last twenty years are those who must answer for it, Mynheer.”

“You are blaming me?”

William caught up his gloves and the great red flower.

“I am the servant of the Republic—the Commander of the Army—nothing more—I cannot say what has been done amiss nor what rightly—doubtless you can answer for your conduct, Mynheer de Witt.”

The Grand Pensionary had no weapon against an indirect attack, veiled in courtesy.

“If Your Highness will let me know your requirements I will see that Their High Mightinesses meet them,” he answered simply.

The Prince flung back the pink velvet cloak and replaced the list of his officers in his pocket.

The fading, reddish sunlight gathered in the gold hilt of his sword, ran down the length of the shining scabbard, and shone in the curls that lay on his shoulders.

“You must believe me always your friend,” he said, lifting his brilliant eyes.

“And you always that I pray for your success—and that I will in every way assist you—Highness,” responded M. de Witt sincerely.

“I shall remember,” answered William, “and hereafter, without doubt, be glad to remind you of it.”

John de Witt, encouraged by the quiet friendliness of the other’s tone, continued with impulsive warmth—

“I shall work in the Cabinet as you in the field. Let no differences estrange us, for have we not the same object in view—the same hope to animate us, the same fear to spur us on? God, who has us both in His hand, keep you, Prince—and help you.”

“Amen,” said William. “And may He guide your councils, M. de Witt.”

The Grand Pensionary held out his fine right hand.

William clasped it; his eyes perhaps were defiant, but that was not perceived by M. de Witt.

“I will write to Your Highness every day however pressing my business——”

“You shall hear from the camp, Mynheer.”

They parted.

John de Witt sat down by his desk, one hand supporting his head the other hanging slackly by his side.

The Prince had not been gone three minutes before Agneta de Witt entered, rather breathlessly.

“Father!—who was that who has just left you?”

De Witt looked up, surprised.

“Dearest, the Prince—what is the matter?”

“Oh—nought—but I passed—him—in the hall, and he gave me a wicked look—as if he hated me—and all of us.…”

---

CHAPTER VI
THE CONSPIRATORS

The Prince and Mr. Bromley rode straight from M. de Witt’s house to the Groote Kerk.

William pulled his hat over his eyes; his person was not as yet well known at the Hague, and though his beautiful horse attracted notice he avoided the recognition of the well-dressed crowds that thronged the streets.

Leaving Mr. Bromley without, he entered the church by the little back door that stood always open.

Bareheaded he opened the railing round the entrance and passed slowly into the body of the church.

Some of the high-set windows were shaded by green curtains; through others the sun streamed in clear, golden, slanting lines across the whitewashed walls. In the open space where the altar once stood a shaft of light dazzled and fell in a little square of brilliance on the stone pavement.

There were no splendid monuments; here and there a plain tablet grimly decorated with a skull or a cluster of bones, yellowing in the marble.

In every place along the stiff, high-backed pews were green hassocks, a Prayer-book, and a Bible primly arranged; round the stern pulpit the seats of the elders with their larger Bibles and the green markers hanging from between the heavy covers.

Opposite the pulpit was the plain pew belonging to the Princes of Orange. Here the late Stadtholder had worshipped, and here William, every Sunday since he could remember, had sat for three hours in the morning and two hours in the afternoon, full in the eye of the preacher, with his open Bible in front of him and before him the whitewashed walls and pillars, the straight green curtains, and the figure of the pastor in his black gown and bands, preaching the doctrines of John Calvin.

He could not recall having ever missed a service here while he was at the Hague. Sometimes his head had ached so that he could hardly hold it up, but he had always sat erect, with his eyes on the preacher, even when he was a child and could not understand the long words used.

Since the declaration of war the States had ordained Wednesday for fasting and prayer, and the Prince had invariably attended but—with his household.

Now, the day before his departure to the Army, he came, for the first time, to the church alone. He mounted into his pew and knelt in his place; his sword making an incongruous rattle on the wooden seat.

He folded his hands on the front of the pew where the Bible rested, hid his face in them, and knelt so, motionless.

The extraordinary silence of a place still in the midst of noise filled the church: the faint echo of the clamour of the busy city without seemed to come from a long way off; the sunshine fell on the blank walls with a dreary sense of remoteness; clamour and sunshine alike could only enter here by a guilty stealth, they seemed to belong to other regions.

When the clock struck it sounded loud and sombre, like a note of warning or reproof, and echoed gloomily down the empty aisles and bare altar chapel.

When at last the Prince rose he remained in his place, gazing down the grim whiteness of the church, his right hand resting on the Bible.

He was very pale, and there was a look of pain about his eyes.

For a while he stood so, the pink mantle rising and falling with his laboured breathing; then he turned sharply.

Some one had entered the church.

At first he could hear only footsteps, but presently three men came round the pillars.

The Prince picked up his gloves, his hat, and the rose, and descended from the pew, closing it after him.

As he stepped into the aisle he came face to face with the newcomers.

The recognition was instantaneous; he knew them for the three who had stepped out upon him from the mist at Scheveningen. They fell back respectfully, in silence.

William, not pleased at the meeting, passed on, but when he reached the covered entrance he found that they had followed him with the obvious intent of speaking.

The Prince at once turned, and, putting on his hat, faced them.

The foremost was a very young man, fair and eager, fashionably dressed; the other two older, and, it seemed, of a meaner station.

“You know me?” asked William.

“Your Highness, we do.”

“Well?” demanded the Prince.

He knew these men for conspirators against the Government and that the youth who spoke was Jacob van der Graef, the author of Advice to every Faithful Hollander, the pamphlet said to have stung John de Witt the most among the many violent attacks made on him.

He knew also that they were Orangists whose enthusiasm was as genuine as it was unbalanced and foolishly directed.

Knowing and recalling this he deigned to stop and listen.

“Highness,” said Jacob van der Graef, adoration in his face, “we are loyal subjects of yours——”

“Ah,” William caught him up. “You, the son of a magistrate, Mynheer van der Graef—venture to say that!”

“We would venture more,” returned one of the others, Van Bruyn, a lawyer.

“Take care, my friends,” said the Prince; but the expression of his eyes rewarded them.

“Prince,” said Van der Graef in a low, excited voice, “we would die for you—any one of us, and there are others—M. de Witt treats you vilely, he is a traitor to his country … while he lives Your Highness will never come to your rights. The United Provinces will not much longer bear his yoke.”

“Speak a little more moderately, my child—or you will get into trouble,” said the Prince, slightly smiling.

The young student sank to one knee on the flagstones.

“What can I do to serve Your Highness?” he asked passionately.

“Be prudent—for your own sake,” returned William. “M. de Witt is still master.”

The other two broke in—

“He is a traitor!”

“Nay,” said the Prince; “he is a good man.”

“A traitor to your House, Highness, and to the country.”

“I do not say so,” answered William. “But it seems he is not popular.”

“The people hate him.…”

“I wonder why?” The Prince’s smile deepened.

“Because they love Your Highness!”

“I love the United Provinces, Mynheer——”

Jacob van der Graef rose.

“M. de Witt must go!” he cried.

“Go?”

“CÆsar’s way—I would play Brutus for Your Highness’ sake.”

William coloured and drew a deep breath.

“It is dangerous to be a fool in these times, Mynheer.… M. de Witt is not CÆsar.”

He turned away quickly, opened the door, and stepped out into the sunny streets.

“Who were those went in but now?” asked Mr. Bromley curiously as his master mounted.

“Some of those who stir the country against M. de Witt.”

“They followed you into the church?”

“I think so.”

“Why, Highness?”

“To speak to me.”

“Ah, they wished a little encouragement,” nodded Mr. Bromley.

“They are fanatics,” returned the Prince. “They call M. de Witt any vile name that occurs to them—and believe what they say.”

“Can they be of any use to Your Highness?” asked Mr. Bromley.

The Prince let the spur touch his horse’s side.

“Use to me?” He looked at his gentleman sideways. “What use should they be to me?… Were I M. de Witt I would police the Hague better.”

“You think these malcontents are dangerous, Highness?”

“To the Government, yes.… There is no one so hated as a usurper, Bromley, when the people who gave him his power become tired of him.”

“Does Your Highness think M. de Witt is hated in that fashion?”

“You must see that he is not loved,” answered the Prince.

“It is curious, too,” remarked the Englishman.

“It is,” said William; “for, as I reminded M. Van der Graef but now, M. de Witt is a good man.”

Mr. Bromley glanced quickly at his master. He was not a man of quick perceptions, but the Prince’s mocking intonation could not altogether escape him.

“Remind me,” continued William, “that when next I write to M. de Witt I mention that he had better take precautions——”

“Against what, Highness?”

“Assassination,” said the Prince laconically; then, before Mr. Bromley could exclaim, he asked abruptly, “You have not heard from Arnheim—from M. Triglandt?”

“No, Highness.”

“I should have liked to have seen him before I left the Hague,” remarked the Prince, with such an effect of calmness that Mr. Bromley could not tell if any feeling was behind the words or no.

They had almost reached the Palace, and were riding briskly under the lime trees that bordered the canal, when a band of young men, advancing from a side street, crossed their path and brought them to a sudden halt. A crowd accompanied the band, the foremost of whom was carrying an orange flag, a white one displayed below it; this bore the inscription: “Orange op, Witte onder.”

William was annoyed. He never loved the mob in any form or mood; he was utterly indifferent to popularity, which he rated too keenly at its true value.

He felt no gratitude to these people for their enthusiasm. They had suffered John de Witt for twenty years; despite their flag-waving and their shouting they suffered him still; therefore he sat silent, reining in his horse on the causeway of the canal and waiting for the crowd to pass.

But the beauty of the animal and the richness of the rider’s dress did not escape the attention of the Orangists.

They looked at him.

He was of too marked an appearance to escape recognition long.

Some knew him at once.

They stopped, hesitated, swayed together.…

“The Prince!” the word went round.

Then every hat and cap was off.

“Long live Your Highness!… God keep Your Highness!”

William touched his beaver.

“Thank you, my friends,” he said gravely.

They crowded round him, men, women and boys.…

Mr. Bromley felt a startled amazement to see the half sobbing, deep intensity of their enthusiasm; as if love of home, of country, and God were each and all expressed in their passionate devotion to this young man.

Like all reserved people, they did not lack expression when they were touched or roused.

William accepted their homage calmly; his attention seemed to be given to his horse that, fretted by the pressure, curveted and backed, bringing out his rider’s horsemanship.

“And does Your Highness go to the war to-morrow?” asked one, eagerly.

“Ay, to-morrow,” answered William, looking down at them.

At that they shouted anew, and roundly cursed the French.

Hearing that, the Prince slightly smiled.

“We will not see King Louis at Mass in the Groote Kerk—eh?” he said.

“Not while Your Highness lives!” shouted the young man with the flag.

William’s brilliant glance rested on him.

“Thank you.” He glanced round the eager faces. “Thank you all for your confidence.…”

They began to call frenzied curses on the MM. de Witt.

William checked them.

“Get back to your homes,” he said, “and pray God to bless the cause I have in hand—to protect—the liberty of this country and the Protestant religion.…”

An old man came forward and kissed the Prince’s stirrup … a girl was sobbing out loud; Mr. Bromley saw William go very pale.

He touched his hat again and pressed on. They fell back as the great horse moved; but they followed him to the Palace gate, blessing him.

A smile not wholly pleasant curled the Prince’s lip. These people who had forsaken his House to obey a burgher citizen cursed their idealist lawyer, the man of peace, at the first touch of danger, and turned frantically to the son of their ancient rulers—the man of action; little real trust had they in maxims and the strength of quiet godliness; when it came to real issues they cried for the sword and the leader.

What did John de Witt’s twenty years of service avail him now?… They called him a traitor, they wanted a Prince and a soldier—even at the price of losing their liberty.

William of Orange would not be content with what John de Witt had taken—a modest salary and the rank of a humble citizen; sovereign power was his price. He might save his country, but he would rule it—as his ancestors had done, and with augmented powers—not the servant of the Republic, like John de Witt, but her master.

And they were very willing to put their liberty beneath his feet.

His face wore its least pleasant expression as he entered his Palace thinking of these things.

Mr. Bromley was silent, as always when his master seemed in one of his coldly cynical moods. The Prince was usually in a sardonic humour after he had been openly acclaimed by the crowd; it pointed, perhaps, the difference between his actual position and the one he should have filled.

M. Bentinck was abroad, taking farewell of friends; he was to accompany the Prince to the front.

William dined alone.

Afterwards he wrote a brief but kind letter to the Princess Dowager, and one to Cornelius Triglandt at Arnheim.

He gave these for dispatch to Mr. Bromley, who was wandering about the dreary Palace between excitement and depression.

It was now about half-past eight.

William dismissed him.

“We leave at six to-morrow morning——”

“So early, Highness?”

“I wish to avoid the crowds—I shall not want you before then, Bromley.”

Thus left to his own resources, Mr. Bromley bethought him of some French players now performing at the Hague.

Since the declaration of war they had taken fright at the temper of the people and announced their early departure; but to-night they were giving Tartuffe, and Mr. Bromley had long wanted to see them. He persuaded M. Heenvliet to accompany him; it was their last chance they agreed, with a laugh—who could tell if either of them would see the Hague again?

The Prince went upstairs to his silent rooms, opened the windows on the still spring night and drew the curtains.

Two candles on the mantelshelf and two on the desk lit the room; between the last stood the red rose in a crystal glass.

William sat down at the desk and unlocked the drawers.

He employed no secretary, his letters were always in his own hand; no confidant was tolerated in his intimate affairs.

Drawing the candle nearer to him, with a little half-slow movement, he commenced writing the letters that he hoped and intended should secure allies for the Republic.

The first was to the Emperor. He wrote it slowly, translating it into Spanish from the rough draft he had before him. The second, in German, which he wrote with ease, was to the Elector of Brandenburg; in it he set forth the need of the United Provinces, and passionately implored help in the name of their common religion.

These finished, he set himself to write both to Charles of England, with the object of detaching him from the French Alliance, and to Sir William Temple.

These letters, that he composed carefully in English, occupied him a considerable time.

When he at length sealed them it was past midnight.

He gave a half glance at the clock, coughed, and leant back wearily in his chair.

It was absolutely silent; a slight but sweet breeze filled the room; the chimes of the Groote Kerk rang clearly with an iron clang into the night, breaking the stillness harshly. William snuffed the candles and began to sort his papers.

They were already carefully arranged and marked.

Some he burnt in the candle, some he put in his pocket; the rest he locked away.

From an inner drawer he took a roll of maps and a bundle of notes and spread them out before him on the polished surface of the desk.

They were plans of the Yssel and Rhine, and diagrams of the forts protecting these rivers. Referring to the notes, he wrote under each fort the number of men, of guns, and the nature of the defences. In some cases he made calculations and drawings of scarps and counterscarps, half moons and bastions.

He dwelt a long time over Maestricht, the key of the entrance to the Netherlands, and wrote across the plan that the garrison must be strengthened.

The Rhyngrave, Frederick Magnus, commanded there. The Prince, seeing the weakness of his men, wrote to him and desired him to raise levies from among the surrounding peasantry.

“—as I can send you no more soldiers and the loss of Maestricht would be almost a fatal disaster.”

Then he looked again at the list he had shown M. de Witt, and wrote his comments beside the name of each officer.

When he came to that of the Viscount de Montbas he hesitated as if he would have liked to cross it out, but finally left it—opposite a blank.

Next he examined the names of the Deputies appointed by the Government to accompany him in the campaign.

He was not even to move the army without the consent of this Council of War, and as he glanced down their names his eyes darkened at the thought of this restriction put upon him by M. de Witt.

Cornelius de Witt and Beverningh for Holland; Ripperda de Buryse for Guelders; Crommon for Zeeland; Schude for Utrecht; Couvorden of Stouvelar for Overyssel; Ysbrandt for Friesland; and Gokkinga for Groningen.

Cornelius de Witt having been transferred to the Fleet Beverningh was left head of the Council, and the Prince could twist Beverningh, once a loyal supporter of the Grand Pensionary, round his finger. Nevertheless he did not forgive M. de Witt this attempt to limit his authority and supervise his actions.

His bitterness against him was further revived when he came to look over the muster-roll of the forces with which he was to repel invasion.

Less than a year ago John de Witt, in pursuance of his peace policy, had disbanded a considerable portion of the Army. Regarding politics as a science, he had overlooked the importance of war; he could not believe the policy of Louvois would find expression in the armies of Louis.

Subsequently he had done what he could to repair the error; but it was not one to be easily made good, nor one to be lightly forgiven by the young man who sat now looking at the list of his inadequate forces.

Thirty-four thousand five hundred and fifty-five foot, two thousand and six hundred horse—many ill trained, several regiments not paid—constituted the standing Army of the Republic.

The Grand Pensionary’s urgent appeal to the States General had resulted in the promise of seventeen thousand men—not yet raised.

William laid the paper down and put his hand to his aching forehead.

Thirty-seven thousand men! … and Louis had left Paris with a hundred thousand, not to speak of the army already in Lorraine; a hundred thousand men, and CondÉ, Turenne, Vauban, and Luxembourg.…

“Ah, M. de Witt, this is what your love for peace hath brought us to,” muttered William between his teeth.

He turned his keen eyes to the list of the other forces at the disposal of the United Provinces.

The Fleet, under the command of de Ruyter, comprised a hundred ships, thirty fire-ships, twenty thousand sailors, and five thousand marines; with this force de Ruyter, who had already escorted the India convoy safely into the Texel, had to confront the combined ships of England and France.

William pushed back his chair and fixed his eyes on the dark square of window. His mind was busy with a question that was no part of the business of the Captain General: the financial position of the country.

The expenses of a campaign could not be less than 13,700,000 gulden for four months. The States had voted 3,000,000, and 1,500,000 for the Fleet. The National Debt was seventeen millions; the country was already taxed to the utmost.…

On the back of the list of Deputies William made a quick calculation of his own private fortune; an estimate of his jewels, estates, and property.

His serenely quiet life had enabled him to accumulate his revenues; his credit was good; he could raise large sums in Amsterdam on his mere note of hand, and he knew some German bankers who would, he thought, advance him money.…

He rose at last, pushing back his disordered hair.

It was nearly half-past four.

M. Bentinck must have returned; the Prince rather wondered that he had not come to him.

There still remained some work to do, copying and docketing, and the Prince, weary and racked with a headache, wished M. Bentinck here to help.

Taking up a candle he went out on to the head of the stairs and listened intently.

He seemed the only person awake in the Palace; not a sound, a footfall, or a breath disturbed the quiet.

The Prince, remembering a book he wished to take with him to-morrow, went lightly down to the library; resigned to the fact that he must return and finish his work himself.

Under the library door a faint light showed.

The Prince thought at once of M. Bentinck, and opened the heavy door.

A couple of candles burning on the table between the windows revealed a man sitting before them, busily writing.

At the sound of the opening door he looked quickly up.

“Your Highness!” he exclaimed, and rose hastily.

“Ah, M. Van Mander,” said William, slightly surprised. “Where is M. Bentinck?”

“Gone to bed, Your Highness.”

“And the others?”

“I think every one is abed, Your Highness.”

The Prince smiled.

“Save you and I.” He came farther into the room. “Why do you sit up, Mynheer Van Mander?”

Florent coloured.

“I—could not sleep to-night.”

William looked at him sharply.

“What are you doing?”

“Copying some letters M. Bentinck gave me, Highness.”

“Well, finish them.”

The Prince crossed to the far end of the room, held his light up to the bookshelves and took down the volume—a Latin work on tactics—that he sought.

“I have finished, Highness,” said Florent in a humble voice. He fixed his eyes ardently and half pleadingly on the Prince.

William turned, with the book in his hand, and looked at him.

Florent had an instant and haunting picture of the Prince: his cloth-of-gold suit and black jet embroidered waistcoat glimmered into points of light in the glow of the candle he held; a little diamond brooch in the lace at his throat sent out long changing rays of blue and green; he looked colourless and ill; his eyes were heavy lidded and shadowed underneath, the curls on his forehead disordered and damp; he breathed with noticeable labour, as if utterly exhausted.

“Is Your Highness not taking any repose to-night?” asked Florent timidly.

William turned towards the door.

“‘Annibal erit brevi ad portas,’” he said, with a slight smile.

Florent stood mute.

“If you will you can help me,” added the Prince. “I have still somewhat to do—will you come upstairs?”

Van Mander blushed violently. He did not say anything, but William’s keen glance seemed satisfied with his expression and demeanour.

“I do not wish to wake M. Bentinck,” continued the Prince; “we have still an hour,” he pulled out his watch.

Florent extinguished his candles and took that the Prince held, preceding him with it up the wide, dark stairs.

When they reached William’s apartment the Prince gave Florent some of the notes he had been writing and bade him copy them.

He himself walked up and down; stopping now and then to look out of the window on to the night, where the darkness lifted slowly.

Florent hardly raised his eyes from the desk; the scratching of his quill and the Prince’s light step were the only sounds.

At last William threw himself into the deep chair by the hearth, and sat there so still that Florent thought him asleep. But looking up from his finished task he saw that the Prince’s eyes were open and shining with a bright lustre. As Florent gazed at him he moved, and glanced at the black clock between the candles on the mantelpiece.

It was well past five, and the steadily increasing glow of dawn in the chamber made the candle-flames show yellow and feeble.

The Prince rose and came over to Florent’s seat.

“Have you completed that?”

“Yes, Highness.”

“Will you put up these papers?” he pointed to them. “That letter to the King of England is for M. Gabriel Sylvius—who will come for it presently.… Will you remain here till I return?”

Without waiting for an answer he went into his bedchamber and closed the door.

Florent arranged the papers as he was told; then put out the unnecessary candles and got to his feet, stretching himself.

The freshness of the early wind was marvellous.

The secretary went to the wide open window. Before him were the trees in their ideal freshness and the green walks of the Palace garden; beyond the turrets and towers of the Hague.

The birds were beginning their lusty, untaught harmony and a rose-coloured veil was being lifted from the heavens, disclosing the blue of a fair spring day.

Florent rested his head against the mullions and drew a troubled breath.

War … the beginning of War … what was it like?… War.

At Charleroi lay a great army, coming nearer—from Chatham and from Brest huge armaments advanced … nearer.… A curious fact to dwell on, here, looking over the peaceful Hague.

Well, he, Florent Van Mander, was no patriot … yet it was strange to think of this country of his, not long ago the Arbitrator of Europe, the greatest maritime power in the world, the richest, most prosperous in commerce, fallen to a footstool for the French.

Even a hero could not prevent it, he thought, and the Republic owned no hero; only John de Witt, who was a good man, and William of Orange, who was playing his own game.…

This very night he had written a letter to his uncle Charles … perhaps it was a guarantee that Louis’ troops should not find their conquest difficult … in consideration of … a price.

Florent smiled bitterly.

Yet he told himself that only a fool would act otherwise.… Since the country was lost one must snatch what might be from the wreck. Yet … yet … however … the Prince did it very well.…

“Annibal erit brevi ad portas” he had said, and as if the danger touched him nearly.

Florent turned restlessly from the window as William re-entered from the inner chamber.

Under his pink mantle he wore black armour, and he held under his arm his helmet, mounted with a black feather.

His sword was strapped to his waist, and he supported it with his right hand.

His bright hair and his pale face were in curious contrast with the dull, shining mail. He placed his steel gauntlets and his helmet down on a chair and crossed to the desk, taking up the papers Florent had left there ready for him.

“Go and see if M. Bentinck is abroad,” he commanded, and he unfolded the plan of the line of the Yssel and gazed at it.

Florent left the room, to return almost immediately with M. Bentinck, who had slept well all night and was as gay as if he were starting for a hunt in Guelders.

William gave him a charming smile and rolled up the map.

“M. de Zuylestein is below with his regiment of cavalry.” M. Bentinck, who was also in armour, bent and kissed his master’s hand. “I think you will already find the streets full of people——”

“They had best keep their cheers for our return,” answered William briefly.

Florent was observing him closely. He wished that he might have accompanied M. Bentinck to the war; the empty Palace was no alluring prospect.…

The Prince wonderfully softened his discontent by entrusting him with the letters lying on the little desk, and giving him his instructions for M. Gabriel Sylvius, who had not yet arrived.

Then he said “Good-bye,” nodded, and went downstairs.

In the hall he took unconcerned leave of the rest of his household, M. Heenvliet, M. Renswoude, M. Boreel, handing to the last the keys of his desk.

By now the sun was bright and strong, lying in scattered patches of gold on the grass beneath the Palace trees.

The Prince gave his helmet to an officer and put on his hat.

Mr. Bromley came to say his horse was waiting. William was leaving the Palace when he stopped at a sudden recollection and mounted the stairs.

When, a moment later, he returned he wore a red rose fastened into the brooch of his cravat.

“Are you ready, Highness?” asked M. Bentinck.

The Prince stepped out into the sunlight, he coughed, and closed his eyes for a second as if shaken with pain.

The clock of the Groote Kerk struck six.

Florent Van Mander watched the little cavalcade ride away.

---

CHAPTER VII
THE POLICY OF M. DE WITT

Mynheer Gaspard Fagel was roused by persistent knocking on his door.

He sat up in his bed and cursed roundly. He was working almost to the limit of his strength and contenting himself with about four hours’ rest, and his one feeling was rage at being disturbed. He pulled back the curtains and shouted angrily—

“Come in—in God’s name!”

His servant entered, in hastily snatched-up garments.

“What is the matter?” demanded Gaspard Fagel sharply, his vexation giving place to alarm.

“Mynheer, the Grand Pensionary is below,” cried the servant. “Oh, Mynheer, is it the French, and shall we all be murdered in our beds?”

“Be quiet, you fool!” M. Fagel sprang on to the floor. “Get me my dressing-gown.… M. de Witt below?” By the aid of the light that the man held he glanced at his watch on the table by his bed; it was four o’clock.

“Yes, Mynheer—he must see you at once he says.”

“Is he agitated?” asked the Secretary of the United Provinces, snatching up his slippers.

“He is the same as ever, Mynheer—but something dreadful must have happened to bring him here at this hour.”

Gaspard Fagel was of the same opinion, nothing but an affair of great moment could have brought M. de Witt to see him—and at this hour.

“It is the French,” repeated the servant, who seemed utterly confounded.

“Put that candle down or you will set the house on fire with your trembling,” said M. Fagel, struggling into his clothes. “And don’t talk so much of the French—the Prince of Orange is between us and them.”

“M. de Witt must have heard from His Highness, Mynheer.”

“Hold your tongue——”

M. Fagel snatched up the candle.

“And get back to your bed,” he said angrily, “and see to it you rouse no one else.”

With that he left the room, and, half dressed, clad in a blue, flowered dressing-gown, descended to the parlour where M. de Witt awaited him.

A candle, hastily lit, stood on the table; it but feebly illumined the small, handsomely appointed room.

Standing by the mantelshelf, wrapped in a black velvet mantle, was the Grand Pensionary.

He held his hat and his gloves in his hand. He was pallid, his lips tightly drawn, his eyes narrowed with an intent expression.

“Good morning,” said M. Fagel, a little flushed and breathless.

“Ah, Mynheer Fagel.”

John de Witt appeared perfectly composed; he spoke quietly.

“Ill news?” asked the Secretary of the United Provinces.

He was something embarrassed by the sudden presence under his roof of the man who was both his adversary and his rival.

“Will you not be seated?” added M. Fagel.

The Grand Pensionary took the chair nearest to him.

“I have come directly here from the Binnenhof,” he said.

M. Fagel lit the other candles on the table and looked at M. de Witt over the flames.

“You have had bad news?” he hazarded, puckering his brows.

“Yes, M. Fagel, I have.”

The Secretary caught at the tassels of the blue dressing-gown.

“From de Ruyter?”

“No—I have heard nothing from him.”

“From the Prince?” M. Fagel’s voice came somewhat hoarsely.

“No—my news is from Maestricht—from the Rhyngrave.”

De Witt raised his head sharply as he spoke and regarded the other man.

Across the wavering lights and shadows their eyes met.

“Well?” demanded M. Fagel.

John de Witt raised his hand to his breast.

“This—the French have crossed the Rhine——”

Gaspard Fagel stepped back.

“Crossed the Rhine?”

“—on the 9th—they are marching on the Yssel … one hundred thousand strong.”

“God!” cried Gaspard Fagel. He sank into the chair beside him, his dressing-gown flowing open over his shirt. “Oh! … my God!”

There was no change in John de Witt’s pale, proud face.

“Their leader is CondÉ … our outposts were undefended … the French hardly lost a man … every fort guarding the Rhine has fallen.”

M. Fagel put his hand to his brow, it seemed as if he would tear his hair.

“We are defended by cowards, it seems!” he exclaimed. “Has every garrison surrendered?”

“Every one.”

“And Maestricht … Bois le Duc … Nymwegen?”

“They can scarce escape.”

“And CondÉ?”

“He marches on Utrecht.”

“Utrecht!”

“Wesel hath fallen—and half the Republic is lost with that.”

“And the campaign hath been opened nine days.…”

“In nine more CondÉ may be at the Hague.”

“But the Prince?”

“He falls back on Utrecht.”

“Without an engagement?”

“He dare not risk one it would seem—he has not written to me.”

“Had he no soldiers on the Rhine?” cried M. Fagel, incredulous.

“M. de Montbas, with two regiments of cavalry——”

“And he?”

“Was cut to pieces or—fled.”

“Ah, you do not know?”

“Not yet.”

“This is a creditable beginning!”

M. de Witt put his hand over his eyes.

“M. de Luxembourg is burning and slaying … like Alva … they are already drunk with victory.”

“What is to be done?”

“What hope have we if Utrecht falls!”

“The Prince will defend it——”

“The Prince is defending the Yssel.”

“We must send more levies.”

“Ah, M. Fagel, have I not strained every nerve already to send more levies?”

“What is to be done?”

“God hath been pleased to put us in bitter straits.”

“What do you propose, Mynheer? What shall we do?”

It was a long time since Gaspard Fagel had deigned to ask the Grand Pensionary’s advice, but in the hour of terror and alarm the weaker nature threw aside pride and recognised the stronger.

M. de Witt uncovered his eyes and raised his head.

“I have come here to you, now, Mynheer, with my suggestion.”

“To me?”

John de Witt gave him a steady, mournful glance.

“You are no longer my friend, I know, M. Fagel.”

“Mynheer——!” protested the Secretary in a fluster of agitation.

“That is understood between us—I come to you as to the chief of the Orange party in the absence of His Highness.”

These two had been friends once, and allies, before Gaspard Fagel had been led by ambition to envy the position of the Grand Pensionary and serve the Prince.

At John de Witt’s calm, sad recognition of their estrangement and its motive the Secretary was silent.

“You represent the party that has always been for war, M. Fagel, as I that for peace—you have, perhaps, more influence in the Assembly than I——”

“M. de Witt——”

The Grand Pensionary silenced him.

“It is true.”

M. Fagel wiped his lips.

“What do you want of me?”

“Your help in the Assembly.”

“For what end?”

For the first time John de Witt showed some agitation.

“That we may possibly, under God’s help, avert the disaster that threatens us.”

“In what manner?”

“By endeavouring to obtain peace from the King of France.”

“Never!” cried Gaspard Fagel. “Never!”

John de Witt answered with suppressed passion—

“Orsoy, Rhynberg, Burick, and Wesel have fallen.”

The Secretary made no answer.

“I see no means of saving the United Provinces, M. Fagel.”

Now the Secretary looked at him defiantly and rose, resting one hand on the table between them.

“Well, Mynheer, the Republic hath before this been reduced to even greater extremities, and by God’s help been saved—if He saved us from the tyranny of Philip, surely He will preserve us from the tyranny of Louis.”

“God gave our ancestors the courage and resource to save themselves, M. Fagel.… I do not see these virtues among us now.”

“Would you despair of the vessel before she is on the rocks?” cried Gaspard Fagel stoutly. But in his heart he was frightened; never before had he known John de Witt speak despondently. “For my part,” he added, “I will do anything in my power to bring her safe to port.”

“Then you will help me?” John de Witt spoke eagerly.

“I do not know—I do not know.… What do you intend doing?”

M. Fagel took a hasty turn about the room, his hands clasped behind him under the blue dressing-gown.

“I intend to propose in the Assembly that envoys be at once sent to the King of France to request his terms, and to offer him everything so that we keep our final liberty.”

“Have you no trust in the Prince?” demanded the Secretary, trying to hearten himself into a confidence he could not feel.

“The Prince cannot do the impossible,” answered John de Witt dryly.

“Ah, you blame him for the passage of the Rhine,” cried M. Fagel on a note of challenge.

“No … he has been but a few days with the Army … he has not proved himself.” The Grand Pensionary spoke sternly. “We need other measures.”

“And you wish to open negotiations with the French?” repeated Gaspard Fagel.

As the head of the party opposing M. de Witt in the Councils of the State, Fagel was bound to vote for war; the Grand Pensionary had not expected to find him tractable, yet by alarming him he hoped to gain him eventually.

“You cannot refuse to help me,” he said now firmly; “these embassies will at least gain us time—and you are not surely so infatuated as to suppose the Prince of Orange can withstand the progress of the French?”

The dismayed Secretary had no answer ready.

John de Witt saw his advantage and pushed it further.

“The alliances with Spain, with Brandenburg, might save us yet—had we time to conclude them——”

M. Fagel interrupted—

“You cannot imagine that Louis would listen to any reasonable treaty—he fights for glory——”

“M. de Louvois is with him—he might deem it prudent not to push us to extremes.”

“It would be a humiliation!”

“Not so bitter a humiliation as to see CondÉ march through the Hague!” flashed M. de Witt.

“I cannot believe it could come to that.”

“Could you have believed a month ago that in nine days every fort on the Rhine would fall?”

“There is de Ruyter,” said the Secretary, clutching at straws.

“He cannot save the land forces.”

Gaspard Fagel was obstinate.

“There is the Prince.”

“M. Fagel, the Prince is opposed to CondÉ, Turenne, Luxumbourg, and an immense army strong with success——”

As he spoke M. Fagel’s terrified servant entered—

“Mynheer,” he addressed the Grand Pensionary, “a gentleman has just ridden up from the Binnenhof … there are … news, he says, from the Army——”

M. de Witt interrupted—

“May he come up?”

“In God’s name—yes,” cried M. Fagel.

The gentleman proved to be M. Van den Bosch; he explained his visit with the national calm.

A soldier had arrived at the Binnenhof with letters from the Army, among them one from His Highness for M. de Witt, and as he, still working there, knew of his master’s intention to visit M. Fagel he had brought the letter on at once. There was also a note from M. Beverningh. He apologised for his intrusion, bowed and withdrew.

“From the Prince!” cried M. Fagel, mopping his brow.

John de Witt paled as he gazed at the large, familiar handwriting.

A sickly hue of dawn was mingled with the glow of the candles, and in the cross lights the figure of the Grand Pensionary showed tall and sombre in his black velvet mantle, his worn face near as colourless as his crumpled white collar.

Gaspard Fagel went to the handsome oak buffet and, pouring wine into a tall green glass, drank fiercely.

M. de Witt stepped nearer to the candles and broke open the seals of the Prince’s letter. There were only a few lines.

The Grand Pensionary read them and handed them in silence to the Secretary.

“Given at my camp on the Yssel
June 12, 1672

“Sir,—I am in great distress, learning the approach of the enemy and having only insufficient forces to oppose to him.

“My authority is restricted and my movements hampered by the delegates, who forbid me to risk a battle.

“The militia and the peasants are in a state of terror at the advance of the French; the division available for the defence of the Yssel is only 22,000 men, so I must beg you to order without an hour’s delay that as many soldiers as possible be sent from Maestricht, Bois-le-duc, Breda, Bergen-op-Zoom, and the other strong places in Flanders.

“I think also that the few horse and foot which are still in Holland should be sent here.

“Otherwise I see no prospect of preventing the enemy crossing the Yssel.

“I entreat you to hold out a helping hand to one who is and ever will be, your affectionate friend,

“William Henry, Prince of Orange.”

M. Fagel laid the letter down in silence; he, too, was pale.

“God help us all!” he muttered.

The Grand Pensionary tore open M. Beverningh’s letter; he read it at once aloud—

John de Witt raised his prominent brown eyes, and fixed them with a steady and penetrating gaze on M. Fagel.

“What do you say now?”

The Secretary bit his pale lip.

“What can I say?”

He had nothing to oppose to the Grand Pensionary’s firm resolution; he was alarmed and unnerved.

John de Witt, absolutely master of himself, spoke again.

“If we are to have a country, Mynheer, the progress of the French must be stopped.”

M. Fagel tried to rally.

“Well, cannot we send more levies to His Highness?”

“Not, I fear, in time … from Beverningh’s letter I think they will abandon the line of the Yssel.”

M. Fagel poured himself out another glass of Chablis, and invited M. de Witt to join him. The Grand Pensionary took the glass mechanically and set it down untasted.

“Cannot we consult the Prince?” asked M. Fagel, who was afraid of offending William and wished to shift the responsibility.

John de Witt saw his motive.

“This is not a matter for the Captain General but for the States,” he answered with a stern dignity. “His Highness hath enough to do.”

Save by betraying himself as a servile and unpatriotic courtier of the Prince, M. Fagel could resist no more.

He shrugged his shoulders.

“Since affairs have come to this extremity, I cannot refuse to help you, Mynheer.”

“You will see that His Highness’ party offer no opposition in the Assembly?”

“Yes, yes.” M. Fagel was still thinking of what the Prince would say.

“Whom do you propose to send?” he asked abruptly.

John de Witt was prepared at all points.

“M. de Groot and M. Van Ghent,” he answered at once.

“They are both obnoxious to His Highness,” protested M. Fagel.

“They are acceptable to the King of France—and M. de Groot, having been so long in Paris, hath a greater knowledge of French affairs than any man I know.”

The Secretary was in some agitation.

“Mynheer,” he said, “the Prince hath always disliked M. de Groot——”

John de Witt interrupted—

“For no more worthy reason than that he is a friend of mine and a staunch republican.”

M. Fagel answered with some dignity—

“I do not know His Highness’ reasons, but he has no love for M. de Groot, and as for M. Van Ghent——”

“M. Van Ghent had the misfortune to be His Highness’ tutor; he is, however, a man whom I entirely trust.”

M. Fagel was silenced, but by no means reassured. William would certainly never forgive peace proposals being sent to Louis without his wish, and carried, moreover, by the two men whom he most distrusted and disliked.

M. de Witt saw the Secretary’s hesitation, and, fearing to lose his support, made a concession.

“I will send with these M. Van Odyk and M. Van Eyck—they are both, I think, in His Highness’ favour.”

M. Fagel caught at this solution of the difficulty.

“On that understanding, Mynheer, I will second you with all my power in the Assembly—you are going there at once?”

“In a while—I have to write to the Prince and Beverningh.”

He picked up his hat and turned to take his leave.

Gaspard Fagel could not fail to admire the patient energy, the proud calm, the unshaken patriotism of the man who was working in the face of such odds; in the face of an invasion of overwhelming strength, domestic dissension, calumny, abuse and dislike from the people he was labouring for with all his noble faculties.

Something generous in the Secretary’s commonplace mind was touched.

“You are an example to all of us,” he said, and held out his hand.

John de Witt responded instantly—

“Mynheer Fagel, I do my duty, and there are many, thank God, who do the same.”

They clasped hands warmly.

“I shall see you in the Assembly?”

“Yes,” answered M. Fagel; “and I will make sure, Mynheer, that you are not opposed.”

John de Witt took up his letters. He had obtained what he came for; his force and sincerity, aided by the letters from the camp, had turned an opponent into an ally.

M. Fagel accompanied him to the door, then returning to the dining-room opened the shutters on the grey and stormy dawn.

The Assembly met at seven.

He glanced at the clock, and walked up and down with hasty steps, biting his forefinger. He knew that nothing would reconcile William to the offers of peace, and he knew that he would be blamed for ever consenting to aid John de Witt even passively.

He himself would have liked to throw defiance at the French, but the Grand Pensionary had overruled him.…

The French over the Rhine.…

He trembled for his country.…

All the same he must justify himself to the Prince, whose party he represented. He must write to the camp.

He paused thoughtfully by the table and stared absently at John de Witt’s untouched glass. He was recalling M. Bentinck’s secretary, Van Mander, ardent in the Orange cause, now spending his time in idleness in the deserted Palace; it occurred to him that here was the young man to send to the camp with a letter and explanations.

He blew out the candles and went upstairs to finish dressing.

“The French over the Rhine!” he kept saying to himself. “And what of de Ruyter?”

CHAPTER VIII
SOLEBAY

The night was fine but cold; the stars had a hard brilliance and flashed like facets of steel in the cloudless sky.

A man was thoughtfully pacing the deck of a great ship.

Now and again he looked shrewdly up at these stars. A strong but moderate wind was filling the sails and the ship was steering rapidly through the darkness towards the east coast of England.

There was a pleasant whistling in the cordage, and a pleasant, steady swish of the water to right and left as the bows cut through the darkened sea.

When the man turned his back to them he could see great lights dotted irregularly over the black surface of the ocean.

These were the lanterns hanging at the masts of the fleet, silently and closely following its leader.

When he turned again and came under the sparse rays of one of his own lamps, that was fastened a man’s height on the mast, he was shown to be a stout, short gentleman with a ruddy face and thick brown hair, very splendidly dressed in scarlet velvet trimmed with gold braid, and wearing a heavy sword in his fringed baldric and a handsome pistol in his belt.

His wide boots were turned over with crimson leather flaps, and on his right shoulder was a bunch of black ribbons.

He carried his red plumed hat under his arm and walked with a slightly swaggering gait.

Pausing for a moment under the lantern he drew out his watch.

Two o’clock.

As he was passing on again a sailor came noiselessly across the deck.

“Mynheer the Admiral, Mynheer Cornelius de Witt would like to speak to you.”

“Very well,” said de Ruyter, with a little nod, “very well.”

The man disappeared into the darkness of the ship.

Michael de Ruyter looked again at the stars, at the lights of his ships, and then went below humming a song in a hoarse, guttural voice.

He found Cornelius de Witt alone in his cabin, seated before a table scattered with papers.

A silver oil-lamp hung by a chain from the ceiling and showed the plain furnishings, which served as a background to the splendid figure of the Ruard.

His strong and handsome features were stern and frowning; the full under-lip and prominent chin, that gave his face its great likeness to his brother’s more delicate countenance, were set grimly in his effort to control the pain of the rheumatism that tortured him. Dressed with the magnificence that befitted the dignity of the States, whose sole representative he was with the Fleet, he wore a grey velvet suit embroidered in silver, and a cravat of Mechlin lace tied with a flame-coloured ribbon.

On the wall beside him hung his sword, that swung with the swaying of the ship; on a chest beneath were a couple of richly mounted pistols and a few books and maps.

Admiral de Ruyter paused inside the door, standing with his feet far apart after the fashion of a man accustomed to pitching seas.

“Ah!” said the Ruard, looking up. “Is the wind still favourable?”

“It is,” answered Michael de Ruyter. “And unless it falls we shall make the coast of England before morning.”

“You do not think they will escape this time?”

“By God’s help, no.”

The Admiral seated himself on the chest inside the door and looked down at the great crimson rosettes on his boots.

The lamp threw his shadow behind him, bringing into relief his deep-coloured, seamed, and blunt-featured face, that was rendered attractive by the composed, lofty expression and the bright, intelligent black eyes.

“I think we shall meet them at last,” he added, with an air of satisfaction.

A week ago Cornelius de Witt had obtained the consent of the States General to his earnest desire for an engagement, and since then the Dutch Fleet had been cruising in search of the combined fleets of France and England, whose junction at Portsmouth they had been unable to prevent.

A bold fishing-boat had brought them news that the enemy was at anchor on the east coast between Harwich and Yarmouth, and silently through the June night the ships of the United Provinces, crowding all canvas, bore forward to battle.

Cornelius de Witt put up his letters, one to his brother and one to his wife.

“I hope to add good news to them—to-morrow,” he said, smiling at de Ruyter.

The Admiral pulled at his moustache.

“I have to ask your permission before I attack, you know, Mynheer,” he said affectionately. “You have the authority—and the responsibility.”

“You know my opinion,” was the answer; “nothing but an engagement can save us—I would we were at work on it now—John agrees with me.”

“I would like to know how things go on land,” said de Ruyter.

A shade passed over the face of Cornelius de Witt.

“Almost I fear to know—with everything trusted to that boy.”

Michael de Ruyter nodded sombrely.

“At twenty-one!”

“His years are the least I have against him.”

“You do not trust him?”

“No.”

“Nor I.”

A stern silence fell.

The Ruard was the first to speak—

“We have our own affairs to think of … very much lies with us.”

The swinging sword made a soft sound against the smooth wall and the lamp swayed on its chain as the great vessel pitched.

“I mean to try a surprise,” said Michael de Ruyter.

“That is what I wanted to see you about—you think we can?”

“If the wind does not forsake us.”

“They will be unprepared.”

“’Tis likely.”

“Ay—they can scarce be expecting an attack.”

The Ruard’s brown eyes flashed.

“To-morrow is King Charles’ birthday,” answered the Admiral; “the English at least will be engaged in celebrating it … we have every chance.”

Cornelius de Witt clasped his hands on the table before him.

“If one life could secure the victory——”

Michael de Ruyter looked up.

“I should be very glad to die to-morrow could I see the English sails scatter as I saw them once scatter before us—at Chatham … and I think I shall … God have mercy on me if I boast.”

“We must have victory,” said Cornelius de Witt passionately; “there is no ‘if,’ de Ruyter, we must have victory to-morrow.”

“It is quite certain,” said de Ruyter simply, “that if we do not make a descent on England they will make a descent on the coast of Zeeland.”

He put his hands squarely on his knees and fixed his bright eyes on the representative of the States.

“How many sail do you make them?” asked the Ruard.

Michael de Ruyter checked them off on his stout fingers.

“The English, sixty-five ships of war, sixteen fire-ships, three or four thousand guns, and twenty-two or so thousand men … the French not more than sixty-seven sail, all included, not more than ten thousand men … that is the uttermost they can be if their entire force has combined.”

Cornelius de Witt was silent. The Fleet of the United Provinces was a hundred and thirty-three sail, including the galiots; they did not carry quite five thousand guns; the men, including five thousand marines, did not exceed twenty-five thousand.

The Ruard cast up these odds. The Admiral seemed to detect some anxiety in his thoughtful face.

“We are in God’s hands, Mynheer de Witt, and I cannot think it is His will to forsake us utterly.”

Cornelius de Witt made a movement as if to get on his feet. But he could not rise for his crippled limbs, and the momentary effort brought the drops of anguish to his forehead.

“You battle with a sharper foe than the English,” said Admiral de Ruyter, with a little frown of sympathy. “Madame de Witt would say you should be in bed.”

The Ruard leant forward, supporting himself on the table.

“I am not so ill,” he answered, forcing a smile to his pale lips, “that I cannot go on deck to-morrow——”

“Nay, you cannot walk.”

“Well, I can be carried——”

“A deputy can take your orders——”

“The Representative of the States General cannot remain in his cabin when the Fleet is in action,” replied Cornelius de Witt proudly. “I will go on deck at daybreak.”

Michael de Ruyter said no more. Each in silence, and after his own fashion, had dedicated his life to his country.

The light of the swinging lamp shone in the bravery of velvets, gold buttons and braid, the trappings of swords and pistols, and on the calm, resolute faces of the two men who were being borne swiftly on to battle.

De Ruyter rose and opened the porthole.

The expanse of water, almost on a level with his eye, was beginning to glimmer with a greyish tinge.

As the ship dipped to her side the heavy spray splashed in on to the cabin floor.

De Ruyter shut it out.

“The dawn,” he said.

He shook hands with Cornelius. They looked into each other’s eyes, and without a word from either de Ruyter went up on the deck.

The sea was changing to a silver colour beneath the clear sky of a June dawn, the stars were faintly sparkling through a veil of fast rising mist, the colour of lilac flowers, that lay over the horizon.

Before the flagship lay the stretch of rippling waters and the indefinite, distant line of land; behind her, and to right and left, was the Fleet of the United Provinces, crowding all sail under a pressure of wind and blocking the sky with the straining canvas, the dark masts, and the flags bearing the lions of the Republic.

At many of the bulkheads the lamps still burnt with a pale and useless glare; but as the day strengthened these were extinguished silently like the last stars in the brightening heavens.

The Seven Provinces continued to lead. At four o’clock she sighted the enemy, lying at anchor off the coast of England.

By the maps it appeared that they were nearing Solebay, midway between Yarmouth and Harwich.

De Ruyter sent off boats to summon the principal officers of the Fleet on board his ship, and went himself to tell Cornelius de Witt that the enemy was in view.

Thereupon the Ruard was carried on deck in a chair bearing the arms of the Republic, and placed by the mast in the position of honour and danger.

Out of the hundred men appointed by the States General to attend him, twelve halberdiers were selected now to form a guard.

Armed on back and breast, they took their places about his chair, and the early sun glittered in their steel appointments.

The Ruard was bareheaded; his bandaged legs rested on a velvet footstool; his sword lay across his knee, and his pistols were in his belt.

In his right hand he held a Bible with gold clasps.

The strong, fresh wind blew his hair across his brow and fluttered the scarlet ribbon that fastened his cravat.

Shielding his eyes with his hand from the glare of sun and water, he fixed his narrowed gaze on the barely visible line of the enemy.

De Ruyter was pacing to and fro with his straddling gait, his hands clasped behind him, and his keen eyes following the movements of the bare-footed sailors who were clearing the decks.

At five o’clock, when the water, under the slackening wind, had subsided to faint ripples that the sun, freed from the obscuring mist, gilded with dazzling light, the captains and principal officers of the Fleet came aboard The Seven Provinces.

Among them were many noble volunteers of the finest families of the kingdom, who had placed their services and their fortunes at the disposal of the country.

Michael de Ruyter, the son of the Zeeland brewer’s man, received them with simple courtesy.

They shook hands with him, and then with the Ruard, near whose chair he stood.

Every detail of the beautiful ship, and of the magnificently dressed men who stood gathered about her mast, shining gold and silver, velvets, satin, sword-hilts and pistols, eager faces, and bare yellow or brown heads (for they were all uncovered out of respect to Mynheer Cornelius de Witt), was sparkling visibly in the gay sunshine.

Admiral de Ruyter set his feet far apart, and again clasped his gauntleted hands behind him.

“Gentlemen of my fleet,” he said, and his quick eyes roved along the line of faces, “we are in the presence of the enemy. It is my intention to give battle. I feel that your courage and your devotion are equal to the difficulty and importance of your task.

“We have to face greater numbers, but on our side is justice, and with God’s help we shall not fail.

“The safety of the Country, the liberty of the United Provinces, the fortunes and the lives of their inhabitants depend upon this battle, and only your valour can secure the Republic against the unjust violence of the two kings who attack her.”

His pointed moustache seemed to bristle, and there was a fierce, steel-like gleam in his narrowed eyes.

“Well,” he added, with a little nod, “get to your work … and ask the Lord God, in His mercy, to help us … if such be His will.”

Cornelius de Witt lifted his noble face.

“What can I add?—your own good courage will direct you—God have you in His keeping, gentlemen.”

They bent their heads.

Captain Engel de Ruyter spoke—

“If the enemy were twice as strong, we should have faith, Mynheer, in the justice of our cause, since we fight for liberty and they for glory.”

The Ruard and the Admiral shook hands with them all a second time, and they returned to their ships; silent and seemingly unmoved, as was the habit of their nation.

With all speed possible the Fleet of the United Provinces was beating to windwards, but the strong breeze had dropped, and de Ruyter no longer hoped for a surprise.

The enemy had already seen them, and were hastily arranging themselves for battle. So utterly unprepared were they that in the confusion many of the English ships had to cut their cables to place themselves in line.

De Ruyter, on the forecastle, saw this, and his lips stiffened. The superiority of the enemy sent a thrill of pleasurable excitement through his veins.

He was a just and honourable man, well fitted to serve under John de Witt, and all his indomitable energies were roused by the wanton aggression of the King of England. Had he not commenced attack like a pirate by attempting to capture the India fleet before war was declared, and, in violation of the treaty between England and the United Provinces, by seizing all the Dutch merchant-ships in English ports?

John de Witt had disdained to revenge himself for this perfidy, as he had disdained to answer Charles’ frivolous pretexts for war, and every English vessel had gone free according to the agreement the United Provinces were too proud to break.

It was an example of the different spirit animating the two Governments. The Dutch were upheld by every noble feeling patriotism may call forth; they fought for the finest of motives, for the most glorious of ends: the English, ashamed of their leaders, hating the alliance with the French, whose cats’-paws they suspected themselves to be, sullen at the unworthy part they felt themselves to be filling, had no motive to acquit themselves well save mere desire for reprisals on a country that had already once beaten them off the sea.

Michael de Ruyter was alive to this difference of spirit in the two forces about to meet.

Calling his men on to the quarter-deck, he pressed their advantage, warmly exhorting every one to do his best in a noble cause, and assuring them, out of the depth of his own strong, simple faith, of God’s help in their utmost endeavours.

The men, devoted to their Admiral and the finest seamen in the world, responded with a cheerful enthusiasm that was the outward expression of undaunted purpose and courage.

Each went to his place; the swivel guns on the top of the forecastle and quarter-deck bulwarks were swung to front the enemy; the eager, half-nude gunners knelt before the long guns on the main and quarter-decks and below the smooth muzzles pointed from the portholes.

The standard of the Republic floated stiffly out from the mainmast of The Seven Provinces, vivid in the sunshine.

Cornelius de Witt raised his eyes to it and murmured a prayer.

The hammocks were lashed to the nettings, and behind them the marines, with their muskets in their hands, took up their position.

By now the wanton English breeze had changed again and a high sea was running. De Ruyter gave the order to reef in topsails.

They were almost within range of the Allied Fleet, who had now drawn themselves up into line of battle, divided into three squadrons: two English, the first of the Red, commanded by the Lord High Admiral of England, James of York, the King’s brother; the second, called the Blue, by Vice-Admiral the Earl of Sandwich.

The third squadron, the White, comprised the French ships under the Count D’EstrÉes, Vice-Admiral of France; his second in command, Lieutenant Admiral Duquesne.

De Ruyter also arranged his forces into three; Lieutenant Admiral Banckert advanced towards the French ships on the left, and Lieutenant Admiral Van Ghent was opposed to the Earl of Sandwich on the right wing.

De Ruyter, seconded by Lieutenant Admiral Van Nes, took the central position facing the Duke of York’s division, commanded by James himself on his flagship The Royal Prince.

The Dutch Fleet shortened sail; the useless canvas was furled. De Ruyter gave the signal for battle, and the colours of the United Provinces ran up on every yardarm. From the Duke’s flagship floated the royal red standard of England, and from the great vessel that had D’EstrÉes on board the Bourbon blue with the yet unconquered lilies semÉ on the azure ground.

Michael de Ruyter walked up to his pilot Zegen.

It was then nearly eight o’clock of a beautiful June day; not a cloud visible, and the deep green water curling into foam about the bows of the advancing vessels.

Above the cordage flew circling sea-birds, the sunlight on their wings and breasts.

De Ruyter pointed out The Royal Prince to the pilot.

“Zegen,” he said in his quiet voice, “that is our man.”

The pilot lifted his cap.

“Admiral,” he said calmly, “you shall have him.”

And he steered The Seven Provinces straight for the Duke of York’s flagship.

There was a moment’s pause, of heightened calm it seemed, during which was no sound save the harsh scream of a seagull and the splash of the waves curling over one another.

Then the guns leapt into a roar.

A furious broadside came from the 18-pounders of The Seven Provinces; the shots tore the water into foam and buried themselves in the side of The Royal Prince, who returned an instant cannonade.

A thick smoke, a heavy dun in colour, at once wrapped both vessels; to the right rang a second roar as Van Ghent engaged Lord Sandwich, and to the left the answering boom of the French cannon.

The two flagships were now close-hauled, and the Dutch opened a hot fire of musketry from behind their hammocks. Theirs being the higher vessel, they were able to inflict on the English a galling volley of small shot that raked their exposed decks.

Aware of this disadvantage, The Royal Prince tried to get out of her opponent’s reach, but the light wind would not serve her, and de Ruyter brought about a collision, driving the port bow of The Seven Provinces into the enemy’s starboard side.

The English marines on the poop commenced a steady fire of musketry, but the Dutch 36-pounders tore a hole in their enemy’s close-pressed side and the deck guns crippled her masts.

The smoke was already so thick that the sky was entirely obscured; the stifling vapour was rent across by the flashes of fire from the guns and the fresh spurts of white smoke that followed each shot.

The roar of the great cannon below was incessant; splinters flew from each ship, and the planks of the Dutch vessel became so heated with her own cannonade that seamen had to stand ready with buckets of water to extinguish the flames.

As the enemy was so close in their embrace the Dutch from the nettings kept up a continuous fire that picked off numbers of the English crew, while the swivel guns on the forecastle heavily raked the enemy’s masts and rigging.

Michael de Ruyter, walking up and down the upper deck giving his orders, stopped beside the chair of Cornelius de Witt.

The air was foul with the smell of powder, and they could hardly hear each other for the thunder of the guns.

“How long will she hold out, Admiral?” asked the Ruard.

“I think she will be badly beaten in a very little while,” answered de Ruyter, with his thumbs in his embroidered sash.

The musketry fire was playing round Cornelius de Witt, but he did not even seem to notice it. A ball had buried itself in the deck a few inches from the stool where his bandaged feet rested; two of his guards had already fallen, been carried to the rails by the silent survivors and flung overboard.

Blood began to appear everywhere; on the smooth planks, on the gay clothes of the officers, on the naked, glistening bodies of the gunners.

Several of the marines lay heavily over useless muskets in the nettings, their bodies jerking helplessly with the swaying of the ship. On the lower deck others remained where they had fallen, mostly on their faces, with the red stain spreading underneath them.

A gentle breeze rose and drove off The Royal Prince after nearly an hour of furious firing.

The English ship had suffered severely; her spars had gone; her sides were driven in, her foremast and fore-topmast had been shot away, and many of her guns were dismounted.

De Ruyter had lost only his mizzen-topmast and one of the lower yards, and of his crew comparatively few; but the dead could be seen piled high on the English ship.

Encouraged by the sight of the enemy, the Dutch turned on her another fierce cannonade that swept off her mizzen-mast and battered her hulls.

This time the English guns did not answer, and a low murmur of triumph went up from The Seven Provinces.

Her cannon impeded by her own falling spars, half the gunners down—dead and dying entangled in the rigging that lay along the deck, The Royal Prince was utterly unmanageable; her pilot could do nothing with her, she lay helpless, a tattered shape looming through the heavy smoke.

Her mainmast still stood, and there the red standard of England, riddled with shot, floated above the battle.

It was now nine o’clock. De Ruyter gave orders for another broadside.

It was replied to by a feeble volley from the English ship, now pitching uselessly; the mainmast swayed, then crashed down, dragging the cordage and remaining canvas with it. Smoke began to belch through her portholes, and to complete her distress one of the 12-pounders blew up, killing several of the crew and firing the side.

“She is finished,” said de Ruyter, standing behind his pilot; and as the Royal Standard fell the hoarse shouts of victory rose from the decks of The Seven Provinces.

The Royal Prince tried now to withdraw, but was prevented by the other vessels of de Ruyter’s squadron; they closed round her and sent out fire-ships to complete her destruction.

The sea was scattered with wreckage, and stained with trails of blood and flecks of foam; the curtain of smoke concealed the rest of the battle, but the continuous sound of the guns and the splashes of flame in the darkness testified to its fierceness.

Michael de Ruyter, on the forecastle, saw a boat put out from The Royal Prince and struggle through the dipping bullets that lashed the water into spray; it lay-to at one of the portholes, and a man in a blue coat stepped out and took his place in the stern sheet.

He carried the standard that had just been disentangled from the bloody deck.

“It is the Duke of York,” said Admiral de Ruyter, narrowing his keen eyes. “Steer away from The Royal Prince, Zegen, for they have abandoned the flagship!”

The little Dutch galiots ran out, crowding all canvas, and trying to reach the cock-boat in which the Lord High Admiral of England was conveying his flag across the firing line.

They could see the English sailors straining at the oars, and the Prince himself ducking under the bullets, one of which flattened itself against the bows of his boat.

The utter calm delayed the fire-ships; the English boat escaped into the smoke, and about half-past nine, with a blare of trumpets, the English flag was rehoisted aboard The Saint Michael.

The Royal Prince, on fire in three places, an abandoned and drifting wreck, collided with one of her own galiots, and instant flames involved them both in a common doom. Such as remained of her crew threw themselves into the sea, clinging desperately to broken spars and planks, while the pale fire leapt, hissing, to the height of her fallen mast, and stained the sombre smoke with sparks and flying fragments as gun after gun, and cask after cask of gunpowder, exploded at the touch of the flames.

The Seven Provinces steered off from the floating mischief, and silencing with a sweep of her guns the circle of English fire-ships that surrounded her, went for The Saint Michael.

An officer came on board from Captain Engel de Ruyter’s ship to say that the captain was disabled by a dangerous wound, and the vessel sinking with six holes in her side; being beset with the enemy’s fire-ships.

“Keep the flag flying,” said de Ruyter, and turned his course to his son’s assistance.

Van Nes having, after a fierce fight, lost one of his ships, and being forced to retreat with his hull cut to pieces and nothing standing but the mainmast and the shattered remains of the bowsprit, had patched his vessel together, and returning to the fight seconded de Ruyter in an attack on The Royal Catherine, a ship of eighty guns that was menacing Engel de Ruyter. A Dutch fire-ship was dispatched and a broadside fired full into the hulls of The Royal Catherine, whose jib-boom and wheel were at the same time shot away by a discharge from The Seven Provinces.

Her deck guns were now abandoned, a fierce fusillade from the starboard guns was directed into the bows of the English vessel, and the two ships crashed together, starboard to starboard.

The Dutch attempted to board, and a desperate hand-to-hand fight between the two decks ensued; Van Nes leading his men with cutlass and pistol, and Captain John Chicheley, of The Royal Catherine, fiercely urging his crew forward.

The Seven Provinces, holding off a little, sent a volley into the English ship that blew the bottom out of her and ended the struggle.

Engel de Ruyter’s rescued ship withdrew from the firing line for repairs, and The Royal Catherine, fast sinking, surrendered to Van Nes, who received her crew as prisoners and took possession.

De Ruyter again turned his attention to The Saint Michael, she the while keeping up a murderous cannonade on the frigates opposed by the Dutch.

The sharp, short rattle of musketry was heard above the steady roar of the great guns, and little threads of flame and puffs of white smoke sprang out and vanished against the curtain of yellow fog as the marines on board The Seven Provinces, under cover of the nets, picked off the sailors in the rigging of The Saint Michael.

Two other high Dutch vessels, looming up out of the noise and darkness of battle, silenced the starboard guns of the English flagship with a close-range volley; her poop was swept bare with a cannonade from de Ruyter, and her disabled rigging and rent canvas swayed through the smoke that belched on her from all sides.

For the second time the English standard fell.

De Ruyter strove to press his advantage, and sent out two frigates to sink or burn The Saint Michael; but her pilot and captain brilliantly managed the wounded vessel, and, wreck as she was, steered her out of the line of battle.

Again the Duke of York was forced to abandon his ship; again he was rowed through the wreckage, the seething, stained sea, and the ragged flag was hoisted on The London.

De Ruyter, having vanquished those ships immediately in duel with him, turned his attention to the other parts of the battle.

The French Fleet, beaten in a first engagement, and wishing to leave the brunt of the battle to their allies, had withdrawn towards the south, hotly pursued by Van Banckert, whose distant guns could be heard in the lulls of the nearer firing.

Van Ghent had begun the fight on the left wing with a fury that had brought the Squadron of the Blue to retreat in confusion and terror; but as de Ruyter was fighting his way through a circle of fire-ships to second him, a young lieutenant came up in a little galiot and announced to Cornelius de Witt that Admiral Van Ghent was dead. In the midst of his victorious onset he had been killed by a cannon-ball.

A captain of marines was with the lieutenant; he had his arm in a sling and a mark of blood across his face.

“Conceal Van Ghent’s death,” said the Ruard. “Keep his flag flying and return to the fight—the day goes well for us.”

A ball had carried away one arm of his chair; three more of his guards had fallen, and the deck was smeared with blood and burnt with powder to his very feet; behind him, leaning against the mast, a dying boy sat staring at a fingerless hand he held across his up-drawn knees.

The sea was rising and the ship began to toss, pitching the dead to and fro on the slippery decks. De Ruyter stood beside the Ruard’s chair, his feet far apart, and gave directions in a firm voice.

The captain, advancing for instructions, had his arm shattered by a shot that splintered the mast; he went below to the dark cabin where the surgeon was at work, and returned to take his orders with an empty sleeve pinned across his breast.

The London opened an obstinate fire, and de Ruyter answered, leaving the left wing to manage the Squadron of the Blue.

They, not receiving the expected signal from Van Ghent’s ship, had given the English time to recover from the first shock of the onslaught; the Earl of Sandwich, on board The Royal James, his flagship, rallied his force and advanced in order of battle.

It was now past midday, and though the advantage had been so far with the Dutch the English gave no signs of yielding.

De Ruyter signalled to Vice-Admiral Sweers to take over the command of the left division, and make a decisive attack on the Blue.

But there was one Dutchman who waited for no signal; Captain Van Brakel of The City of Groningen, the hero of the victory of Chatham. Ardently desirous further to distinguish himself, he conceived the boldly audacious scheme of capturing or destroying The Royal James himself.

Defying all discipline, he left, without orders, de Ruyter’s squadron, to which he belonged, and advanced to The Royal James across the black pool of waters the battle enclosed. The exploit was daring to recklessness, for the English ship carried 102 guns and 900 men, while his little vessel was only armed with 70 guns and 300 men.

An angry broadside from the great ship met her rash foe; Captain Van Brakel approached without replying.

The Royal James, alarmed at this manoeuvre, spread her topsails and tried to sheer off; but Van Brakel was too quick. He hauled his wind, drew up alongside the English, threw out his grappling irons and seized her, while his quarter-deck guns blew away her cordage and rigging.

Despite The Royal James’ desperate efforts the two ships remained locked together. There was a rush of Dutch to the sides, an answering charge on the part of the English, and the crews mingled in a fierce hand-to-hand fight with muskets, pistols, swords, and even sticks and fragments of iron.

Van Brakel, regardless of a broken collar-bone and a cut on his forehead that blinded him, led his men himself.

The sheer Anglo-Saxon genius for fighting rose in the English; let their cause be good or bad they could not have fought more fiercely.

The Earl of Sandwich, with a broken sword in his hand, and panting a little by reason of his stoutness, ran up with his officers.

“Don’t let the damned Dutchmen board!” he shouted, and a yell of fury rose to answer him.

The Netherlanders, silent but equally in earnest, pressed over the bodies of their comrades and closed with the English on the deck of their own ship, clinging to the rails, the grappling irons, even to the guns, some of which many succeeded in ramming under the very eyes of the gunners.

Meanwhile their own cannon kept up a steady fire; the Dutch gunners remaining at their places in face of a cruel discharge from the deck guns of The Royal James.

Man after man fell as he was putting the match to the powder and lay silently gasping his life out; but there was never lack of another to take his place. The dwindling crew moved forward as the gaps occurred, and The City of Groningen’s guns were never silent.

The Royal James was suffering severely; her masts were tottering, her sails hanging in ribbons. All Lord Sandwich’s efforts were directed to a frantic attempt to disengage her; but still the little Dutch vessel clung to her side, still the guns poured their fire into her with unabated vigour.

At half-past one, after the duel had lasted an hour and a half, the English masts went overboard on the disengaged side, dragging the Admiral’s flag into the sea. The guns on the forecastle and quarter-deck were put out of action by the fallen canvas, the mizzen-topsail going over the portholes and becoming involved with the Dutch grappling irons.

The City of Groningen had done enough; battered, half her crew dead, and all her officers wounded, she changed her tactics and withdrew, cutting her chains, and signalled up her fire-ships.

The Royal James was in no condition to resist another onslaught; not a mast standing, her jib-boom and wheel shot away, her decks piled with dead and wreckage, many of her guns silenced, she lay a huge, useless hulk.

But the Earl of Sandwich was still aboard her and from her bows still floated the English flag.

Vice-Admiral Sweers hastened up to the aid of the heroic Van Brakel, under the cover of whose guns the fire-ships were advancing.

But Lord Sandwich opened a last desperate cannonade; one fire-ship was sunk, the other driven back on The City of Groningen. Van Brakel, wounded three times, but with his rash valour utterly unquenched, again brought his disabled ship forward, urging on the fire-ship, which was commanded by Van Ryn, the captain who had burnt The Rochester at Chatham.

Lord Sandwich could no longer save himself. Protected by the Dutch guns, Van Ryn advanced right under the bows of The Royal James, and succeeded in firing the canvas that hung over her portholes, retreating uninjured.

The flames seemed to crouch and hesitate for a moment, then leapt fiercely on to the piled-up wreckage of rigging and cordage.

The City of Groningen steered off her dangerous foe, and the gallant little fire-ship hastened from the reach of the ruin she had caused.

There was no hope for The Royal James.

Cries of angry despair rose from the English as they saw themselves abandoned in flaming isolation, and they might be seen rushing to the boats and endeavouring, under the captain’s orders, to flood the powder magazine. The flames twisted over the quarter-deck, feeding greedily on the broken masts, the tattered canvas, and the oaken planks.

“Lord Sandwich’s flagship is burning!”

As the news spread the very battle seemed hushed to watch the death agony of the great vessel.

Van Brakel, lying wounded on his deck, gave orders for the firing to cease, and bade his crew save such of the English as they could. But their boats had been shot to splinters; they could do nothing.

Vice-Admiral Sweers sent a pinnace to the rescue, but it made slow progress through the clogged and swelling sea.

Meanwhile the fire was encroaching over every portion of The Royal James. The soldiers and sailors began to hurl themselves into the sea. It was but a choice of deaths; most were instantly drowned in the waves their flaming ship stained with a crimson reflection.

One after another the red-hot guns exploded with a blaze of white flame, and from every porthole issued dark, slow smoke from the wet powder.

The Dutch threw out ropes and broken spars to the few desperate survivors who swam towards them. The captain, bitterly wounded, and a young lieutenant, were hauled on board The City of Groningen; the first fainted as he reached the enemy’s deck, and the other, flinging back his wet hair, gazed at his burning ship.

“Where is my lord?” he asked. “Where is the Admiral?”

A crowded boat put out from The Royal James, and the Dutch pinnace tried to reach it; but numbers of drowning wretches striving frantically to cling to its sides, it became waterlogged and sank under the rescuers’ gaze.

Then those who watched with straining eyes saw the Vice-Admiral of England, in his courtier’s dress, advance out of the smoke and mount up to the untouched portion of the ship where the flag still floated; Lord Montague, his son, was with him. The English knew him by his gold coat and scarlet sash; he had his useless sword in his hand, and set his back against the flagstaff, facing the advancing flames.

A heavy swell troubled the sea; The Royal James swung about as if she writhed, and the flames swept windward, blowing over the battle like an enormous banner of a vivid, transparent whiteness, edged with leaping tongues of crimson that licked into the smoky background.

The crew of The City of Groningen could see the Earl of Sandwich calmly placed beside his flag; could see his son drop his sword and put his hand over his eyes.

The fire darted on with a sinister roar; it was the last seen of my Lord Sandwich.… The ship was burning to the water’s edge; the hull dipped as if the tortured vessel strove to quench her agony in the bloodstained waves; the English flag fluttered a moment, then disappeared in fire.

The powder being wet there was no explosion; she burnt slowly, pitilessly, to ashes, till at length the flames rose sheer from the sea and sank reluctantly to nothingness above their annihilated prey.

At the end of an hour the waves had closed over the fragments of The Royal James, and the fire hissed sullenly along floating planks and overturned boats.

“I would I could have saved my lord Admiral,” said Captain Van Brakel.

“He did not choose to be saved,” answered the lieutenant fiercely.

It was now seven o’clock, and all heart had left the English; the terrific end of the Earl of Sandwich had utterly daunted the Squadron of the Blue.

The Duke of York alone still kept up an obstinate fight, and, aided by a veering wind, strove to drive his fire-ships against The Seven Provinces.

De Ruyter, abandoned by the daring Van Brakel, and separated from his second in command, Van Nes, having no vessels with him but a yacht and a frigate, was for a while hard pressed by the obstinate fire kept up by The London and the advance of the English fire-ships. His own boats having been sunk he had nothing with which to ward off their approach.

Michael de Ruyter saw himself in an ugly situation. For a moment it seemed as if he was doomed to the same fate as Admiral the Earl of Sandwich, and Cornelius de Witt was about to order the pumps to be turned on the powder magazine when the little frigate, under the command of the intrepid Captain Philip D’Almonde, resolved to sacrifice herself to save the flagship.

Followed closely by the yacht, she advanced on the fire-ships. The first ran into her bows and fired her; but the heroic efforts of Captain D’Almonde extinguished the flames, and a sharp volley from his guns set light to the powder the enemy carried, and she was borne off helpless before the wind and pitched against The London, that had to retreat before her.

The other fire-ship, seeing the fate of its companion, lost heart and turned aside, held at bay by the yacht, whose crew raked it with a fire of musketry.

The Seven Provinces was saved. In the time gained by the action of the frigate, Van Nes had forced his way through the squadrons of the Red; and the ships surrounding de Ruyter, placed between two fires, beat a hasty retreat.

Van Nes, having rescued the flagship, went to the aid of his brother, Rear-Admiral John Van Nes, who was engaged with the remaining ships of the Blue division.

The Duke of York, loath to give in, hastened to the assistance of the English, and courageously continued to fight from his third battered flagship.

But the English were dispirited and weary, and after three broadsides from the advancing Dutch they dispersed in sullen confusion; falling back, with tattered canvas and disabled rigging, on to their own coast.

Banckert, returning from his pursuit of the French, came up with his fleet as evening fell, and his appearance changed the retreat of the English into a flight; nightfall alone saved them from utter destruction.

After twelve hours of fierce and desperate fighting the States General had achieved a glorious victory.

They had destroyed five of the enemy’s finest vessels, including the two flagships, disabled many others, and were themselves the worse only by two frigates and some fire-ships.

The English had lost three thousand men, and a large number had been taken prisoner.

“It is God’s will,” was all Michael de Ruyter said.

He stood beside the heroic Ruard’s chair; his hands clasped behind him, his lips compressed under his pointed moustache.

Cornelius de Witt was very pale; he leant against the back of his chair, and now and then wiped his lips and his brow. But though fatigue and pain drove the colour from his face, nothing could subdue the fire of his eye or the undaunted carriage of his head.

He had seen six of his guard fall beside him, and been all day exposed to the hottest fire of the enemy. The Admiral’s ship had been always in the fiercest part of the battle.

For twelve hours Cornelius de Witt had listened to the thunder of the cannon and watched the smoke and flame arising from the struggle.

Now, in the hour of victory, he simply thanked God, and slipped his sword into its scabbard.

The sailors were carrying the wounded below, throwing the dead overboard, and washing the decks.

The stars came out, pale gold and luminous, and a gentle wind played with the drooping canvas.

On a hundred ships the lanterns gleamed at mast and prow, and from a hundred decks arose a service of thanksgiving.

“The Lord be praised!” said Cornelius de Witt.

The lieutenant who had escaped from The Royal James, and who had been brought on board the flagship as a prisoner, was amazed at all that he saw: at the discipline among the large, silent sailors, at the dexterous fashion in which they cleaned the ship that had started that morning fresh as a lady’s chamber, at their care of the wounded and their respect to M. de Witt and de Ruyter, and, most of all, at their gathering on the quarter-deck, where every man, even to the pilot behind his shining brass rails, joined in a strong and lusty singing of psalms that Michael de Ruyter selected from his leathern Prayer-book.

“They are an extraordinary people,” the Englishman wrote home. “M. de Ruyter is everything in one—admiral, captain, pilot, sailor, soldier, and preacher, too, it seems.…”

Now that the last shot had been fired, and the song of thanksgiving sent up by all, no matter to which of the seven sects he belonged, and the blue-eyed sailors were mending the sails and tarring the holes in the boats, Cornelius de Witt was carried below, and before touching food or drink added to the letter to his brother the news of the victory.

He wrote briefly and modestly, and concluded with these words, written with a hand shaking with sickness and fatigue—

“I am of opinion that we should begin again as soon as possible; I hope God will grant us the strength necessary for continuing to the death to do service to my dear country.”

CHAPTER IX
THE EMBASSY OF M. DE GROOT

“From M. Fagel,” said Florent in a tired voice, showing his passport.

The officer summoned by the sentry nodded.

“You had best see M. Beverningh,” he said. “His Highness has gone to inspect the fortifications of Amersfoort.”

Florent followed him through the encampment silently.

The Prince, who had been forced to abandon the Yssel, had gathered his troops on to the high district of Rutten before Amersfoort and Utrecht, so as to defend the entry to the States of Holland.

Florent looked to right and left of him, and wondered at the quiet and order. The wild and vague reports of the war, its sieges, disasters, retreats, current at the Hague, had not prepared him for this monotonous expanse of tents and wooden shelters, through which little groups of men and horses moved without noise.

It was hazy afternoon; the sunshine was thick and yellow like honey over the canvas, the trampled ground, and the distant belt of dark trees, beyond which, on a slight incline, rose a windmill with sluggish sails and a thatch stained golden.

The warm air seemed to wrap the sound of things close by with a sense of distance: the fierce, sweet song of a lark that hovered a few feet up, the jangle of the harness as the horses tossed their heads, the crackling of twigs as one man lit a fire at his tent door, came faintly through the veil of the languid summer haze.

Florent and his companion traversed the encampment and made their way across a strip of meadow to a red-tiled farm with green cowsheds adjoining, neat white curtains at the windows.

“The Deputies are staying here,” explained the officer.

“My message was to the Prince.”

“Well, you can see M. Beverningh,” answered the other, as if it were much the same thing.

In the beautifully kept garden, filled with stocks, pinks, and gillyflowers, a maid in a blue gown was scouring brass pans; seeing them approach she stood up hastily and wiped her bare arms, wind and sun-coloured to a deep rose.

“Tell M. Beverningh there is a gentleman here from the Hague.”

She gave a great courtesy and hastened into the house, her gold head ornaments tinkling.

Florent Van Mander stole a furtive glance at the officer, who stood contemplating, with unmoved face, a precise bed of striped stocks and southernwood.

Florent wondered what his thoughts were. He longed to ask him concerning the advance of the French, and what his feelings were about the loss of the fortresses on the Rhine and the Yssel, but both his own reserve and the officer’s demeanour came in his way.

So he too gazed at the flowers, and the brass pans shining in the sun, and a fat white cat asleep on the window-sill.

The girl, reappearing, announced in a hushed, respectful voice that M. Beverningh had come down into the parlour and would see them there.

They entered a passage flagged with black and white, and turned into a room at the back of the house.

Florent was aware of a gentleman standing before the fireplace with his head bent on one side.

“Mynheer,” said the officer, “this is Mynheer Van Mander, sent by Mynheer Fagel to His Highness—as His Highness has not yet returned from Amersfoort I brought him to you.”

“Very good,” said Jerome Beverningh. “Will you please sit down, Mynheer?”

The officer saluted and withdrew.

Florent Van Mander took the chair within the door, and turned his gaze critically upon the delegate of the States of Holland.

He saw a slight man with a hooked nose, a thin mouth, and a stooping figure, dressed richly but carelessly in prune-coloured velvet. He held his hands behind him, and regarded his visitor with large, intelligent brown eyes.

“You are from M. Fagel?”

“Yes, Mynheer.”

Florent felt weary and unreasonably depressed. The incongruity with his feelings of the neat farmhouse parlour, furnished with curtains and hangings of blue-and-white checked stuff, its bright pictures and highly polished furniture, its white glazed hearth and tiled floor, gave him unreasonable annoyance.

He had been greatly elated at the Secretary’s choice of him for a messenger; but he wished to see the Prince, not the representative of the States of Holland.

And the news of growing, almost hopeless, disaster that had met him on his way filled him, against himself, with disgust.

“Well,” asked Jerome Beverningh, “what has M. Fagel to say?”

The young man hesitated.

“I know,” continued the other, remarking it, “that you have come to His Highness, but I think that you may safely speak to me.”

“My errand is no secret,” said Florent, but still half reluctantly.

The representative of Holland smiled.

“And I am in the Prince’s confidence.”

He crossed slowly to a beeswaxed table by the window that held his handsome writing-case and silver ink-horn, and seated himself in a rush-bottomed chair.

“It comes to this.” Van Mander spoke with sudden bluntness. “M. de Witt heard of the passage of the Rhine. ‘Half the Republic is lost!’ he cried when they told him Wesel had fallen—this, for all his self-control … and the next day in council he induced Their High Mightinesses to send an embassy to the King of France.”

“Hah!” exclaimed Jerome Beverningh, stroking his chin.

In some subtle way Florent was encouraged to speak openly; the touch of sullenness left his manner.

“M. Fagel was won over—M. de Witt carried everything before him—no one dare resist him in face of the advance of the French. M. Van Ghent, M. de Groot, and M. Van Odyk are being sent to King Louis——”

“And M. Fagel sent you on an attempt to justify himself to the Prince?” remarked Jerome Beverningh shrewdly.

“Yes, Mynheer.”

“Certainly this news will not please His Highness.”

“M. Fagel feared so.”

Jerome Beverningh twisted his thin mouth.

“He risks His Highness’ favour. Was he—frightened?”

“M. de Witt, I think, over-persuaded him.”

“And M. de Witt is the head of the Government,” was the dry answer.

“Though every day more unpopular, Mynheer.”

“But he had the Assembly with him in this?”

“He carried all before him, Mynheer; there was scarcely a protest.”

“When His Highness is out of it M. de Witt is the strongest man in the Hague,” remarked Jerome Beverningh. “He can do what he pleases, methinks, despite his unpopularity. Is he not sending some one to acquaint us with this news?”

“The envoys themselves, Mynheer, are to explain their mission; I believe they will soon be at the camp. It was M. Fagel’s wish that I should anticipate them with His Highness——”

M. Beverningh interrupted pleasantly—

“And soften the news? M. Fagel is wise.”

“He seemed agitated, Mynheer, that he had been forced to support M. de Witt, and anxious not to slip in His Highness’ good graces—I have a letter from him.”

The elder man swung round on his chair, he looked little and stooping but his eyes were calm and clever.

“You have heard news of the war?” he demanded briskly.

“What every one has heard, yes,” answered Florent.

“Mostly disasters?”

“Mostly disasters, Mynheer.”

“And you, like M. de Witt, have been discouraged?”

Florent shrugged his shoulders.

“I do not say so.”

“But you think that peace would be desirable, eh?”

“I think we must have peace or conquest, Mynheer.”

“Well,” said Jerome Beverningh thoughtfully, “M. de Witt is a clever man, but he will never conclude a peace while the Prince has any influence in the United Provinces.”

Florent was interested.

“His Highness is so against it?”

“Were His Highness in power there would be no embassy sent to King Louis.”

M. Beverningh spoke in a pleasant, quiet manner; as if he touched on matters of general interest that did not personally concern either himself or his listener. He made a great semblance of frankness, yet most effectually concealed his own feelings and views.

Florent liked him; he felt emboldened to speak much more freely than was his wont.

“The peace proposals are not popular at the Hague either, Mynheer. The people choose to take it as an attempt to sell them to the French, and M. de Witt is daily attacked in the pamphlets.”

“Ah, we are a nation of pamphleteers and medallists—we have all been assailed in turn. M. de Witt hath more serious things to trouble him than libels.” M. Beverningh changed his tone. “You marvel to hear the representative of the Government speak so openly, Mynheer Van Mander—but I am His Highness’ friend.”

Florent was surprised; he stared at the calm, wrinkled face of Jerome Beverningh, without comment.

“If any one can save the country it will be the Prince,” Beverningh continued.

“He has a hard task,” said Florent.

“For most men an impossible one, but His Highness is not of the common make, he has great gifts—above all the gift of command.”

“Is he popular in the army?” asked Florent.

“He alone keeps the army together; the men are under-paid, under-fed, yet the cavalry do the work of the infantry, the officers will dig trenches and make gun-carriages—and there is no complaint, because of the Prince.”

“The news of the battle of Solebay heartened them?” suggested Florent, mentioning the one success that had attended the Dutch flag since the beginning of this disastrous war.

“A little—but the issue lies on land—His Highness was not enthusiastic.”

“Ah, M. de Witt was with the Fleet!”

“Exactly. It was a victory for the Republic not for the Orange flag, and His Highness does not love M. de Ruyter, both because he is a friend to the MM. de Witt and because he is of common birth.”

“Why—does that trouble him?”

Jerome Beverningh rose.

“Be not deceived by simple manners,” he said. “His Highness is the very proudest man I have ever met, and if he does not flaunt it in the Tamerlane fashion of his Christian Majesty, it strikes root the deeper for that.”

As he spoke he put his papers into his writing-case and locked it.

“We will see if His Highness has not returned from Amersfoort … it were better if you could give him M. Fagel’s letter before M. de Witt’s envoys arrive.”

M. Beverningh picked up his black beaver with the purple feather, and preceded Florent out of the farm into the sweet-smelling garden of stocks and pinks.

As they crossed the quiet camp, respectfully saluted by such soldiers as they passed, M. Beverningh spoke, in his easy, judicial way, of the deficiencies of the army, the lack of gun-carriages, the forced levies of peasants who had nothing but their goodwill to recommend them, and the number of foreigners, Scotch, Irish, and Swedes, in the army, and how these were by no means to be trusted; indeed, it was to the presence of these hired soldiers that the fall of the Rhine fortresses was attributed.

“Netherlanders,” said M. Beverningh, “do not open their gates to the enemy without a blow.”

He added that the Prince, though struggling with ill-health and disappointment, was beyond all praise in the way in which he kept his army disciplined, faithful, and, despite his constant reverses, encouraged. The captains who had surrendered Wesel to the French had joined the camp, and the Prince had instantly dismissed them his service—“for so strangely forgetting their duty.”

“M. de Montbas’ division comes up with us to-day,” concluded M. Beverningh. “We shall see what welcome His Highness gives him; he allowed the French to cross the Rhine—without a blow.”

Florent raised his brows.

“Would His Highness dare—with his restricted authority—to reprimand M. de Montbas?”

“We shall see,” repeated Jerome Beverningh dryly.

As they reached the tents the Deputy of Holland pointed out the one belonging to the Prince, and at the moment a blonde gentleman in grey advanced from it to meet them.

At sight of M. Beverningh’s companion he gave a surprised smile.

“M. Van Mander!”

It was Matthew Bromley.

Florent flushed.

“I am from the Hague——”

M. Beverningh cut him short—

“Has His Highness returned?”

“No—I was coming to find you or one of the other Deputies——”

“Why?”

Matthew Bromley half laughed.

“Why, there are two of His Highness’ mortal enemies waiting for him—M. de Groot and M. Van Ghent—accompanied by M. Van Odyk and a posse of secretaries.”

“Where are they?”

“Count Struym brought them to the Prince’s tent.”

M. Beverningh looked at Florent.

“Why, then, you are too late,” he said, and walked ahead with rapid steps.

The Prince’s tent was large, and divided by a dark curtain. The outer half was furnished with a few chairs, a table, and a chest, beside which lay some armour and a black cloak.

The grass before it was not yet worn away, and one flap being lifted a flood of heavy sunshine poured in through the open square.

Here M. Beverningh found M. Van Ghent, pale, and in mourning, M. de Groot, elegant, calm, but anxious, in converse with M. Ripperda de Buryse, the Deputy for Guelders, and M. Crommon, the representative of Zeeland.

Standing apart was M. Van Odyk, very handsomely attired.

Since M. Van Eyck had been objected to by the State of Groningen, he alone represented the Prince’s party in the embassy.

M. Beverningh greeted them all impartially.

Matthew Bromley and Florent entered behind him, the Englishman dragging news of the Hague from his slow companion.

The steady sound of low, earnest voices filled the tent.

Only William Van Odyk stood silent, staring at the ground.

It was very quiet without; so quiet that the sudden jingle of harness and sound of a horse’s hoofs made them abruptly hold their converse.

The second flap was lifted; M. Beverningh stepped forward.

The Prince entered quickly, followed by William Bentinck.

The bar of sunshine making a dazzle before his eyes, and, the other men being withdrawn into the shadows, he did not instantly perceive any one but Mr. Bromley and the Deputy for Holland.

“M. Beverningh?” he said breathlessly, “M. Beverningh, ah, what is this that they tell me, that M. de Witt——”

He stepped forward and at the same time checked his words, for he saw the little group behind the table.

A complete silence fell, and though it endured but a moment it was long enough to take effect.

William stood suddenly motionless; he cast his large eyes over the men facing him as if he found himself in some trap.

“M. de Groot,” he said at length, “you have a message for me from M. de Witt.”

His manner and his voice were cold, but it was not the coldness of indifference. His entry had brought into the tent a spirit of passion and hostility; it seemed to Florent that two parties had instantly formed—the Prince’s friends and his enemies.

“These are the commissioners from the States General, Your Highness——” began Jerome Beverningh suavely.

William cut him short—

“So Count Struym told me.”

The embassy came forward. To Van Odyk and de Groot his greeting was curt; to M. Van Ghent he said: “I am sorry about your brother, Mynheer, but it was a fortunate way to die.”

M. Van Ghent bowed in silence. The Prince leant against the little table and looked from him to M. de Groot.

He had never made any pretence of concealing his dislike to either of them, and it was plain that he regarded them both as his enemies, and their coming on this errand as an insult.

Peter de Groot, always courtly, began by prefacing his errand with courtesies, but William checked them.

“Will you be good enough to say at once what you have come to say?” he said in a chilling tone. “I have a press of business.”

They were all standing; the representatives of the States General facing the Prince, who had M. Bentinck behind him.

He rested one hand on the table, the other in his sword strap. He wore a black cuirass over a leather coat, and a black silk sash and scarf trimmed with gold; round his neck hung a star on a crimson ribbon; there was a great deal of Malines lace about his wrists, and in his brown beaver a long black feather fastened with a sapphire brooch.

Florent thought he looked very ill, yet, in comparison with the weighty men surrounding him, very young.

M. de Groot accepted his rebuke with courtly good temper. He was a man of wide experience, not easily embarrassed.

“M. de Witt and Their High Mightinesses consider the state of the country justifies extraordinary means of preservation.”

He spoke formally, as much to M. Beverningh as to the Prince; the representative of the States was as important in his eyes as the Captain General, his mission was to both.

“M. de Witt, hearing of the passage of the Rhine by the French troops, and of the fall of the forts on the frontier, has decided to send an embassy to the King of France, to know what terms he will take. Having obtained the consent of Their High Mightinesses, myself, M. Van Ghent, and M. Odyk are appointed to convey to His Majesty the letter of the States General—we are now on our way to the castle of Keppel, where the King of France is to be found with M. de Louvois, and, following our instructions, have stopped here to acquaint you, M. Beverningh, and His Highness.”

During this speech William had not taken his eyes from M. de Groot; when the speaker finished with a little bow, the Prince glanced quickly and keenly round the company.

“Was there no opposition to M. de Witt?” he asked, and Florent knew that he thought of Gaspard Fagel.

“None, Your Highness.”

“The States are easily frightened,” said the Prince scornfully and bitterly.

“Your Highness does not approve?” asked M. de Groot, with his easy air of elegance.

He was a handsome man, very finely dressed, with placid lips and tired eyes. He knew perfectly well that he was hateful in the eyes of William of Orange, but it did not in the least disturb his composure.

The silence of the onlookers grew tense to painfulness, so obvious and without disguise was the cold aversion of the two men facing each other.

“You are a bold man to undertake this commission,” said the Prince, evading a direct answer. “It will require careful treading, M. de Groot.”

“I am aware of the danger that I incur, Highness.”

“Perhaps not quite,” replied William in an intense, quiet tone. “This embassy, Mynheer, is utterly and entirely against my wishes.”

A little stir went through the spectators. Peter de Groot was not taken aback.

“I act on the orders of M. de Witt, Highness.”

“And you may please M. de Witt by your compliance with his wishes, but you will not please me.” William’s dark eyes held his opponent’s with a bold expression of angry disdain.

“Must I remind Your Highness that you have no share in the civil government?”

William drew a deep breath.

“Had I, there would be no talk of peace, Mynheer.”

Peter de Groot eyed him straightly.

“It seems as if you threaten me, Highness.”

“I warn you and your companions not to go on this embassy.”

M. de Groot bowed.

“I thank Your Highness, but I am bound to carry out the instructions given me by Their High Mightinesses.”

“You are very rash,” said William.

Peter de Groot answered proudly—

“Perhaps I am, Highness—I undertake a difficult and thankless task—but there is some hope for the Republic while she can find those who will sacrifice themselves for her.”

“Do you think that you serve your country by this humiliating errand?” demanded the Prince angrily.

“I think,” replied M. de Groot, with calm dignity, “that I undertake a dangerous embassy in difficult times—I think, Highness, that I carry with me the destinies of my country.”

“What terms are you to offer France?” William’s eyes narrowed and his lips compressed.

“I have full powers to conclude a peace——”

“On any terms?”

“On the best terms M. de Louvois will give.”

“My God!” cried William, with irrepressible passion. “And what do you think Louis will ask?”

“We hope that M. de Louvois will be reasonable and His Majesty generous.”

“Generous!” repeated the Prince, very pale. “Have we come to sue the generosity of the French!”

He took a step towards M. de Groot, his hand on his sword-hilt, and those who saw his face perceived that he could hate—that he could prove implacable.

“I have some authority here, at least.… You will leave the camp.”

“Your Highness——” began M. Van Odyk.

William turned on the three of them.

“You can go,” he said, “and sell your country for the highest price you can get … but you will not find it easy to put the purchaser in possession.”

Now Peter de Groot flushed hotly.

“It is better to save a portion than to lose all,” he said, “and I do not think my diplomacy can be less successful than Your Highness’ arms.”

The Prince cast a flashing glance on him, and the colour sprang slightly into his hollow cheeks.

“You are even bolder than I thought, M. de Groot … but, as you say, I have nothing to do with the civil government … there will be a reckoning.… Go to the King of France and take his terms, and see the lands ploughed up and sown with salt, that no one may benefit by them even to the third generation.”

He sat down in the humble chair by the little table and rested his brow in his gloved hand.

To those who watched it was painful, knowing his usual composure, to see how moved he was.

He deigned no further word to the commissioners, who left the tent accompanied by the Deputies of the State.

M. Bentinck questioned Mr. Bromley aside as to Van Mander’s presence.

Florent came forward with some awe on him, he did not dare address the Prince.

“I am come with a letter from M. Fagel,” he ventured to William Bentinck.

The Prince looked up at the name.

“What is that you say?” he asked.

Florent approached, gave some stumbling explanation that William did not seem to hear, and delivered the Secretary’s letter.

The Prince put it down unopened.

“It seems that there is no one at the Hague can resist M. de Witt,” he said; then he roused himself to speak to Matthew Bromley—

“Take M. Fagel’s messenger to your quarters—it may be that I shall want to see him presently.”

When the two had gone William Bentinck came softly forward; the sunlight, that was taking on a richer, deeper hue, fell through the tent opening, and lit up the golden inlay and garnishing of his armour and the bright rings of his fair hair.

The Prince took off his hat and pushed the locks back off his forehead.

“Ah, William,” he said in a tone of anguish, “can it be possible?”

“These republicans are very stubborn——”

William clenched his hand on the table.

“M. de Witt!” he cried passionately. “Will he never cease to thwart me, to humiliate and insult me?… He must go … he must break if he will not bend … by Heaven! he must.… How dare he——”

His words were checked by a cough; he shook as if in bodily pain, and pressed his hand to his shining corselet over his heart.

“What I have endured—what I have taken—never worse than this—to send those two——”

“It was very insolently done,” said M. Bentinck hotly.

“It was done in contempt, to show me the cipher that I am——”

He got to his feet in the restlessness of passion; his face was quite colourless, and in his eyes was an agony of bitter emotion.

“They have gone to cringe to Louis! Think of it, William—to cringe to the French while we have a man left who can grasp a gun.” Again his cough took him, and he had to hold his side. “Van Odyk, too——”

“He goes to represent Your Highness, I do think.”

“He goes because he is afraid of M. de Witt,” flashed the Prince. “If he had loved me he had not gone.”

M. Bentinck looked at his master in affectionate distress, he knew not what to do or say; his own blood beat high at the thought of suing to Louis for peace.

“Oh, heart, heart, what I have taken!” cried William through his teeth. “Ah, to be so powerless, so hedged about, so humbled—hampered always by the inadequacy of others! Had they sent me more men I had not been retreating now—but M. de Witt keeps me starved in my supplies, sets me to build with sand. We do not need these smooth lawyers to feed the arrogance of Louis with their whinings for peace, but more men to send the French back across the Rhine.”

He pulled his gloves off and crushed them in his beautiful right hand.

“If I had had the garrisoning of those Rhine forts,” he said, with a gasping breath, “they had never fallen.… M. de Witt’s paid adventurers came dear, after all his economy.”

The Prince pressed his forehead with a little sound of desperation, then, as was his habit when he had been moved to speak freely, even to M. Bentinck, he fell into a deeper reserve, as if he regretted what he had said.

“Will you take some rest now?” asked M. Bentinck anxiously.

“I will write to M. Fagel—and some other people. I think to fall back on Utrecht to-morrow,” returned the Prince briefly. “Amersfoort is well fortified, and should hold out.”

“Will you see M. Sylvius if he arrives?”

“Yes—and any other messenger from England.”

“There is to be a council meeting to-night——”

“And a review afterwards—we must hearten the men.”

“You do too much, Highness.”

“That is impossible; I should do more—I wish I had your strength,” he added suddenly.

This was a matter he seldom spoke of, and M. Bentinck was abashed.

“A gift I share with every common soldier,” he answered.

“They are to be envied,” said William, rather grimly.

He had regained his composure of manner and his control, but he looked tired and sick to swooning point. M. Bentinck could not bear to hear him cough.

“Will you see if you can get better lamps for to-night,” he said. “The fumes of these choke me.”

He pressed M. Bentinck’s hand affectionately, took up M. Fagel’s letter and, lifting the curtain, entered the inner part of the tent.

CHAPTER X
THE VICOMTE DE MONTBAS

Two hours later William Bentinck returned to the Prince’s tent.

The sun had set in a splendour of tawny vapour, and a warm yet damp wind blew over the low and melancholy looking land, and a misty heaviness was abroad.

The outer portion of the tent was empty; behind the green curtain Bentinck found the Prince alone writing at a small camp-table.

One of the oil-lamps William had complained of gave a bright but flickering light.

In the corner stood a bed with a red coverlet, and near it an iron and leather dispatch-box, the key in the lock; at the foot of the bed was a large trunk that seemed to have been ransacked for something in a hurry, for it stood open, and linen shirts and cravats were tossed up, and trailed on to the grassy floor that was a shade of unhealthy yellow in the artificial light.

The Prince’s armour, that he evaded when he could (finding the weight unsupportable), lay heaped up by the trunk, and on a chair rested a violet leather case showing a number of articles in carved gold.

William nodded at Bentinck, and hastily added his name to the letter he was writing.

“It is M. Gabriel Sylvius,” said M. Bentinck, “who is arrived—having pressed on, without stopping, from the Hague.”

“Ah!” said the Prince quickly; then, “I expected him sooner.”

“He was delayed.”

“Delayed?”

The Prince frowned a little.

“On the sea, he says.”

William still looked stern.

“They were fifteen hours in Calais Roads.”

“Why,” the Prince admitted, “that was a misfortune beyond the help of Gabriel Sylvius.”

M. Bentinck seated himself.

“He was monstrous sick, is now something haggard.”

“One may not wonder after fifteen hours in Calais Roads,” answered the Prince, with grim sympathy; he had nearly died of his own crossing last year.

“Well,” he added, “where is M. Sylvius?”

“In the camp, but——”

M. Bentinck hesitated.

“I will see him.”

“Highness, on my soul you take too much fatigue upon yourself—wait until the morning.”

“Nay, I will see him now,” answered William; had it been any other than Bentinck he would have spoken angrily.

“It is not long before the council, if you would rest——”

“If you would fetch Sir Gabriel Sylvius, my child,” said the Prince, folding up his letter.

M. Bentinck gave in, but protesting. When he returned with William’s confidential agent, he found the Prince in the same place, writing again.

He stopped immediately on their entrance.

“It gives me great pleasure to see you, M. Sylvius—William, bring another chair.” He looked round the tent, “We are not very luxurious here nor very neat——”

He seemed for the first time to realise the disorder about him.

“I told Bromley to see to this, but he spends too much time playing cards.”

M. Sylvius went on one knee and kissed his master’s hand.

“So you had a bad crossing?” William pushed back his chair and smiled.

“Hideous, Your Highness; I thought that never should we gain the land.”

The secret agent, M. Gabriel Sylvius, was a tall, lean man, with a shrewd and lined countenance, hair of a harsh reddish colour, and a freckled skin.

He looked keenly at the Prince. He had been in his father’s service and greatly loved the House of Orange.

“I am sorry to see Your Highness look so ill,” he said bluntly.

“No matter for that,” answered William impatiently. “What of England?”

The envoy answered with a touch of satisfaction—

“I think that I can claim some amount of success.”

“In what way?”

The Prince’s tranquil mien could hardly disguise his eagerness.

Sir Gabriel began as concise an account of his sojourn in London as he could manage.

“Sit down,” said William when he came to a pause.

M. Bentinck was also listening with rapt attention, his comely face absorbed and keen.

“I saw King Charles,” continued M. Sylvius; “he was more than friendly——”

“To me or to the States?” asked the Prince quietly.

“To Your Highness. He declared that he had largely undertaken this war on Your Highness’ account, to put you in possession of your ancient rights, and that your advantages were bargained for in the treaty between himself and His Christian Majesty.”

William repeated softly—

“My advantages!”

“So he termed it, Highness.”

The Prince looked quickly at Bentinck, as if to discover what his friend thought of this.

“Well, go on, Mynheer.”

“King Charles railed against the States and M. de Witt—he declared he had always your advancement at heart and would never forget your father’s goodness to him when he was in exile at the Hague.… Much more, very pleasant, but without definite point.”

“Did you see any beside the King?”

“Some few I managed to sound, Highness. But since the Ambassador of the States had been asked to leave, and the French were very jealous, I had to be private—all but the Court party are against the war.”

“And the Parliament?”

“They would bring great pressure on the King to make peace.”

“Have they not that power, with the grants?”

“The King is subsidised by France—and by many of the courtiers.”

William narrowed his eyes.

“And the people?”

“Are fiercely in favour of peace—they hate the French and look on the war as a scandal.”

“There seems some hope in England,” said William slowly.

“Certainly,” answered M. Sylvius, “it is in a state of unrest. The King hath shut up the Exchequer, thereby ruining many of the merchants, and yet vast sums are spent at Court and on that foreign woman, Louise de la Querouaille, who came over with the late Duchess d’Orleans and is no better than a spy of France. The Duke of York is unpopular, like his mother before him; and rumours are abroad that the King, to please the King of France, is a concealed Papist—which is the truth—and that the great lords are all in the pay of France.”

“Which is also the truth, it seems,” remarked the Prince.

“Yet the King has an easy way of agreeableness that keeps him where he is, and he is very prodigal of promises, and hath managed to smooth many an ill-seeming situation by his fair manners. I doubt his sincerity, certainly, in what he said to me—yet I hope the English may force him——”

“Into breaking with France?”

“I may hope so, Highness.”

The Prince looked at him keenly.

“But at the moment—what will my uncle do now?”

“Sir, in this I have been a trifle successful. His Majesty was so far moved by your appeals that he has appointed certain envoys who will come over and look after your interests during the war. They are accredited to you, to the States, and to King Louis, and their errand is to conclude a peace satisfactory to all.”

Again William glanced at Bentinck.

“And when will they arrive?” he asked.

“Highness, three crossed with me, and my lord Arlington was so ill he cursed God that he should have been born in an island.”

“My lord Arlington,” repeated William, moving the lamp a little farther away from him; “so he is one—who are the others?”

“My lord the Viscount Halifax, my lord Buckingham, and the young Prince James of Monmouth——”

“Why,” said William, “I think all these are in the pay of France.”

“My lord Halifax is now in Flanders—Bruges I think; he bears compliments to King Louis on the birth of the Duc D’Anjou; of the others two are now at the Hague—whence they will follow here, or go at once to the French camp at Doesburg.”

The Prince spoke to Bentinck—

“William, what hope have we from these men?”

“Highness, I mislike their reputations.”

“I think I met them all in England,” said the Prince slowly. “Give me their names severally, M. Sylvius, that I may judge of their qualities.”

“Firstly, the Duke of Monmouth—he is already with the King of France—commanding the English companies.”

“Pass him, he can serve no serious purpose,” interrupted William. “The Earl of Arlington—I do mistrust him now; it is believed he drew up the treaty of Dover and was well paid for it, is it not?”

“I am sure of it, Highness … he leans avowedly to the French; then there is my lord the Viscount——”

“I do remember him,” answered William thoughtfully. “I should think he is honest—for an Englishman, though slow and lazy and unstable.”

“Finally his Grace of Buckingham, Highness, who stands high in favour with the King.”

The Prince was silent at the name, and his eyes hardened.

He had ugly memories of Buckingham.

The Court of Charles, that had flashed its brightest for his bewilderment, had filled him only with disgust and aversion. The King, at first inclined to confide the treaty of Dover to William, had found him impervious to flattery, and informed Louis that his nephew was “too Dutch and too Protestant for anything to be hoped for from him.”

But Buckingham, repelled in the advances he deemed irresistible, fell back on his wit, and with the readiness of a shallow nature ridiculed what he could not understand.

The Prince led a strict life and showed reserved manners—here were the subjects of numerous pasquinades on his Grace’s part; William’s regular church-goings and firm adherence to the theology of Geneva furnished matter for many profane jests that were not long in coming to the young man’s ears. And once his Grace, edged on by the King, and backed by many of the ribald lords, had tried to humiliate the austere youth of nineteen by intoxicating him with strong waters disguised as a cordial for his cough.

The Prince had discovered the trick soon enough to baulk them of their amusement, but not before the mixture had made him miserably ill.

Coldness had blunted the point of the jest, and for once made Buckingham feel foolish; but the Prince, under his passive exterior, was bitterly outraged on his most sensitive points—his religion and his ill-health.

Therefore he was silent at the name of Buckingham, and a faint colour tinged his pallor.

“The envoys bring with them Henry St. Jermyn and Sir Edward Seymour,” continued Sir Gabriel Sylvius.

“I did not know M. St. Jermyn was a politician,” said William sarcastically.

“Sir, he, like my lord Buckingham, has found a new amusement—that is all.”

The Prince made a little movement as if he roused himself.

“I think my uncle has sent me a pretty parcel of knaves,” he remarked calmly. “But it would be difficult to discover an honest man at Whitehall.”

“Their instructions may be better than their characters,” suggested M. Bentinck.

“We will hope so.”

William reflected a moment, then addressed his secret agent—

“I think, M. Sylvius, it would be well if you join these English again, and accompany them to the King of France.”

He would not mention the name of the enemy’s camp, for Doesburg, where the King lay, was one of his own lordships, and it was exceedingly bitter to him that the French had taken it.

He coughed, impatiently turned down the lamp, that with the slightest movement smoked, and added—

“You can at least report directly and truthfully to me on what takes place; these commissioners will colour matters to suit themselves. And for your further convenience you had better take some Dutch secretary——”

He paused, then continued slowly—

“There is one Van Mander in Bromley’s quarters, newly come from the Hague, who will do very well.”

Sir Gabriel Sylvius rose.

“I am greatly obliged to you,” said William, “for I think you have acquitted yourself creditably.”

Sir Gabriel kissed his hand.

“Mr. Bromley has some monies of mine, and he will give you what you need,” added the Prince evenly. “And I will now tell you, myself, what you will hear presently bruited abroad, that M. de Witt hath despatched an embassy for peace to the King of France—which is something I cannot talk of.”

“Surely, Highness,” answered Sir Gabriel, “that will fall in with this deputation from England.”

“I would have the alliance of England, not peace with France,” said the Prince sternly.

Sylvius glanced at William Bentinck, and was about to withdraw.

“The officer without will take you to Bromley’s tent—Florent Van Mander is the name of the young man I mentioned—you shall shortly hear from me.”

Sir Gabriel bowed himself in silence out of the now dimly-lit tent.

The Prince sat with his elbow on the table and his cheek in his hand.

“This is hopeful news, surely,” said M. Bentinck cheerfully.

William smiled at him affectionately and tolerantly—

“Possibly—just possibly I might detach England from France.…”

M. Bentinck laughed.

“You are become a statesman as well as a soldier, Sir, and meditate great designs.”

“Do you imagine that these English come with serious purpose to listen to reasonable terms?” asked the Prince quickly.

“I imagine King Charles will contrive your advantage——”

“Mine!—what of the States?”

“The States!” M. Bentinck shrugged his shoulders. “The States are your enemies, Sir!”

“M. de Witt is my enemy,” answered William; “which is, perhaps, another matter.”

He took the twisted, silver taper-holder, melted the wax at the lamp and sealed his letter.

“I must get this to M. Fagel—at once—or he will fall again under M. de Witt’s thumb.”

M. Bentinck rose.

“Meanwhile you had best have some dinner, Sir; it will have been ready some time and the others waiting——”

The Prince took up the lamp and followed his friend without demur into the other half of the tent.

He went to the entrance and called to the officer on duty.

“You will find some messenger to convey this at once to the Hague.”

“Yes, Highness.”

William gave him the letter for M. Fagel, and was turning away when the soldier spoke—

“Highness, M. de Montbas has returned.”

“M. de Montbas!” The Prince was alert again instantly.

“With his company cut to pieces, Highness.”

“I will see him,” said William.

M. Bentinck protested.

“After dinner, Sir——”

“This cannot wait.”

“What can M. de Montbas have to say that is of importance?”

“It is not he, it is I who have something to say,” returned the Prince. “Send to him,” he added to the officer. “I wish to see him at once.”

M. Bentinck seated himself with an air of resignation.

“Get to your dinner,” smiled the Prince, “I will come immediately.”

“Nay, Sir, not without you.”

Now William spoke with authority—

“Bentinck, I will see this man alone … in a while I will join you.”

Grimacing a little, and with a clatter of his armour, M. Bentinck left the tent.

The Prince turned up the lamp, set it carefully on the table, and walked up and down, keeping his gaze upon the ground.

When the flap was lifted and a man entered, hesitating, William stopped where he was by the table and raised his eyes.

M. de Montbas was magnificently dressed. Over his blue and silver coat he wore, falling off one shoulder and fastened across his breast with a gilt chain, a green velvet cloak.

There were jewels in his cravat and holding the blue feather in his beaver. He wore a very handsome sword, and kept his light-gloved hand on it.

He was a fine man, if somewhat haggard; but now a white look on his face, and his black eyes startled, joined to his air of hesitation, took from him his dignity.

He uncovered and bowed.

William made no answering salute, but stood rigid, looking slight and sombre in his dark attire.

“Have you anything to say?” he asked.

M. de Montbas straightened himself—

“I have my report to make, Your Highness,” he said in a strained voice; “but Your Highness wished to see me——”

“How many men have you with you?”

M. de Montbas bit his lower lip—

“I have lost fifteen hundred, Sir.”

“That is half your force.”

“We were pursued by a detachment of cavalry under M. de Rochfort.”

“And——?”

“The rearguard—and the baggage were cut off——”

The unfortunate general spoke awkwardly; it seemed, by his demeanour, more as if he stood before a tribunal of judges than speaking alone to a youth over twenty years his junior, and whom he had patronised as a child.

“You did not offer fight?” demanded the Prince.

“Your Highness, we were hopelessly outnumbered by the enemy … some of the guns sank in a polder——”

The Prince cut short these excuses.

“M. de Montbas,” he said in a tone of exquisite anger, “I perceive you are a very bad soldier.”

The Vicomte took a step to one side in a baited way.

“What does Your Highness mean?” he asked in an agitated fashion.

William did not take his eyes off him.

“Your sister’s husband, M. de Groot, hath gone on an embassy to make terms with the King of France, and I think you have a mind to follow his example—you also wish to stand well with Louis, do you not?”

A dark colour tinged the Frenchman’s pallid face.

“Your Highness cannot mean what it would seem you intend.”

For the first time William moved; he came a step nearer the other.

“I mean that you very basely abandoned the post I gave you on the Rhine,” he spoke evenly, but with a bitter dislike, “thereby allowing easy passage to the French, which was an irreparable disaster and a thing that could have been prevented.”

M. de Montbas took his hand from his sword and pressed it to the breast of his shining cuirass.

“Your Highness is unjust … what could I do with three thousand men?”

“If ye had had but three hundred, M. de Montbas,” answered William fiercely, “ye could have done your duty; and if ye had had but three ye could have done it … and died.”

The Vicomte fumbled at the chain on his chest.

“I had no orders——”

“You had my orders to defend your position.”

M. de Montbas broke out desperately—

“Before God I was misled! I asked for orders and none came. I wrote to the Deputies, they said this and that——”

“I never said but the one thing.”

M. de Montbas answered wretchedly—

“Your Highness must be merciful … I had no one to consult … and after the fall of Wesel——”

“M. le Vicomte,” interrupted the Prince sternly, “the captains who delivered Wesel to the French have been dismissed the Army and their swords broken over their heads.”

“Your Highness—I did what I could.”

M. de Montbas protested vehemently but impotently.

“I did what I could——”

“Oh, we waste the time,” said William. He went towards the entrance.

“What will Your Highness do?” cried the Vicomte desperately, swinging round to face him.

The Prince turned also, so that they stood but a foot or so apart.

“What I did with the garrison of Wesel.”

“Your Highness!”

“Do you think I am a child to accept your excuses?” asked William scornfully.

“This is because I am the friend of M. de Witt.”

“No, Monsieur, it is because you are a traitor——”

“Prince!” exclaimed M. de Montbas in anguish.

“—or a coward,” added William, unmoved. “One is as dangerous as the other, but I would rather think you in the pay of France, for it is unthinkable that you are the other.”

The Frenchman fell into a shivering agitation.

“Before Heaven I am innocent! I have served the States faithfully——”

“In times of peace—Monsieur.”

“You insult me——”

“I will court-martial you—give me your sword.”

M. de Montbas clapped his hand to his weapon.

“You have not the right, Sir—the States are my masters.”

“I am the head of the Army, with at least enough power to punish soldiers who disgrace my flag.”

“I shall appeal to M. de Witt!”

“Very well.… M. de Witt hath himself to look after—his credit will not be improved by your action, Monsieur.”

This hint that the Grand Pensionary had not the power to protect him completely unnerved M. de Montbas. He had feared the Prince as much as he had always disliked him, and the sense of William’s hatred had of late weighed heavily with him.

It had not occurred to him that William, as the Captain General, would dare go as far as this, or he would never have returned to the Dutch headquarters. Like the culmination of all that he had ever dreaded was this sudden disgrace. He found himself in the power of an implacable enemy, and the loss of his honour, his property, and his life seemed already accomplished, for his hope in M. de Witt suddenly fell away.

He stood quite still, with a tortured expression and his hand clutched on his breast.

William gave him an utterly contemptuous glance and was about to lift the tent flap.

M. de Montbas flung out his hand—

“I entreat—Your Highness—this is ruin—disgrace—death!”

His voice was hoarse, and the blood had flushed up into his eyes.

In the ill light of the lamp and its confusing shadows the Prince’s face was not clearly to be seen.

But M. de Montbas had little hope that he was moved.

“Sir,” he urged desperately, “consider what you are about before you ruin me.”

Receiving no answer to this but a cold look of scorn, he broke out again—

“You always hated me—from the first you meant to undo me.”

“M. de Montbas,” replied William, “I opposed your appointment—I opposed the giving to you of that post upon the Rhine, had you been wise you would have taken neither the one nor the other——”

“You mean to drive me to despair,” interjected the Vicomte.

“I mean to maintain discipline in my army,” said the Prince, and put his hand on the tent flap.

M. de Montbas’ body heaved, and his gay appointments, gold cords and jewels, glimmered in the dusky light.

“Before God I am innocent!” he declared passionately. “I am of the Reformed Faith—what have I to do with France?”

The Prince regarded him keenly.

“I am no traitor,” he repeated vehemently. “I swear it!”

“If that be not perjury I am sorry for you,” answered William; “for Louis is your King, and it were better for you to serve him through treachery than fail us through cowardice.”

The Vicomte made an effort to control himself.

“I am unfortunate,” he said in a half sobbing bitterness “to have ever displeased Your Highness, for I see you are unmerciful.”

William lifted the flap, blew a little whistle he drew from his pocket, and said something rapidly to the soldier the summons brought.

“I shall appeal to the Grand Pensionary!” cried M. de Montbas.

“If you be innocent you may prove it without his help,” answered William, turning back into the tent; “and if you be guilty John de Witt will not dare to save you.”

He stopped at the table and looked narrowly at the other man.

“It is true I never liked you,” he said, “but if you had been one whom I loved, and had let the French across the Rhine and lost fifteen hundred men, I should now act the same.”

M. de Montbas winced, and put his gloved hand to his lips with a gesture of terror.

“Your Highness,” he said huskily, “spare me this and I will resign.”

“I will spare you nothing—give me your sword.”

The wretched officer made a convulsive movement and dragged his pistol from his belt, as if to turn it on the Prince or on himself.

“Put that down,” said William scornfully, and as he spoke a detachment of men entered the tent.

M. de Montbas flung down his pistol and stepped back.

The Prince spoke to the captain who had entered; he was a young Frieslander of the musketeers.

“Arrest M. de Montbas and keep him under strict guard. Monsieur,” he addressed the Vicomte, “will you give your sword to me or to this gentleman?”

The Frenchman drew his weapon and presented it to the Prince.

“The States will see justice done,” he said in a shaking voice.

“Monsieur, I will see justice done,” answered William.

He put the sword across the chair beside him and turned his back.

“By your leave, Mynheer,” said the young Frieslander.

M. de Montbas submitted in silence. The soldiers saluted the Prince and withdrew, their prisoner in their midst. William looked over his shoulder at them, and, when they had gone, leant against the table in an exhausted fashion gazing at the ground.

He had not stood so above a minute when William Bentinck entered hotly, with a colour in his face.

The Prince gave him a rather languid glance.

“Highness, it is the French; a boor has come running up to say they are advancing to surprise us——”

“I thought so,” replied William. “It is M. de Rochfort on the heels of M. de Montbas.”

CHAPTER XI
IN TIME OF WAR

The now hastily summoned Council of War was distracted with private fears and disagreements. The Deputies, whose opinion had to be consulted, and with whom rested the power of final decision, were powerfully affected by the embassy M. de Witt had just sent upon its way to Doesburg.

It showed, they thought, both that the Grand Pensionary despaired of saving the country by force of arms, and also that he considered an advantageous treaty might yet be made with Louis.

They were, therefore, for avoiding a decisive engagement, and suggested that the army should retreat.

The deputy for Zeeland and M. Beverningh, influenced by the Prince, opposed this, and a high argument followed.

M. de Zuylestein and most of the officers of the Prince’s Staff were for fortifying the present camp and awaiting the attack of the enemy.

William himself was for falling back on Utrecht, at present undefended, and securing that against the advance of the French.

Under the orders of the States, and much against the wish of the Captain General, the forces had been imprudently divided. Major-General Wurtz had two thousand seven hundred men with which to defend Gorcum in the south; Prince John Maurice, with ten thousand men at Muyden, covered Amsterdam; the Marquis de Louvignies with the Spanish cavalry to the number of fifteen hundred occupied Schoonhoven; and Count Homes with the same number was stationed at Gouda.

These four positions were skilfully chosen, but inclusive of the men sent to strengthen the garrisons of Nymwegen and Arnheim they left the Prince, who had ardently wished to defend the Yssel to the last, a force of only three thousand six hundred under his personal control. With these he could hope to do nothing save defend as he might the entrance to Holland.

He told the Deputies so, and they, with the indecision that had so hampered his movements, shrugged and argued and would not say what they would or would not do.

At length the Prince, who had been largely silent, threatened to throw up his commission if he was not allowed a free hand. His position, he declared, was intolerable, and he would be no man’s puppet. M. de Witt’s policy of controlling the theatre of war from a Cabinet in the Binnenhof had been disastrous enough already. He, the Captain General, was constantly overruled and disregarded; they tied his hands, then tried to make him responsible for actions he had never sanctioned.

He was supported by M. de Zuylestein and M. Beverningh, and finally the others dare stand out no more. Two hours after the news of the approach of the enemy had been received orders were given to strike camp and fall back on Utrecht.

The news of the advance of M. de Rochfort was at best vague. Scouts reported that a large force had taken Emerloo and Rutten, and was approaching from that direction. The flying peasants declared the country from Heerde to Vaasen had been devastated, and that William’s lordship of “het Loo” was in the hands of the victorious French.

The Prince, seeing that only the insufficiently defended fortress of Nijkerk was between the enemy and Amersfoort and Utrecht, made a dÉtour and threw his men along the banks of the Eem before Amersfoort, to whose defences he had just seen.

But the army were no sooner in position than the survivors of the little town of Wijk, a fortress on the Rhine, arrived with the news that a large division of the French were advancing on Utrecht by that route.

An instant message was sent to de Louvignies at Schoonhoven to defend the passage of the river Leek, and a small body of cavalry was sent on to Utrecht to encourage the city with an assurance of the Prince’s speedy arrival and to urge them to see to their defences.

It was now about one in the morning, and further arrivals from Elst, Schalkwyk, and Houten confirmed the news of the near vicinity of the enemy.

It was said that Louis had made a public boast that he would take Utrecht and treat with the commissioners of the States in their own town.

M. de Rochfort, with a large detachment of cavalry, was acting as his advance guard in clearing the country from Doesburg to Amersfoort.

The Captain General’s entire efforts now became directed to saving Utrecht. The city was one of the largest and finest in the Netherlands; it directly protected the entrance to Holland, and if it fell there was every reason to suppose that its loss would prove as fatal to that province as the capture of Wesel had to Guelders and Overyssel, both of which were now almost entirely in the hands of the enemy.

By a rapid countermarch, which was much impeded by a moonless, misty night, the army of the States recrossed the Eem at Amersfoort (which town was encouraged in its intention to resist the enemy by the addition of a company of infantry to its scanty garrison), and found themselves at daybreak in the rich and wooded meadows between Soest and Zeyst, the heart of the fertile and prosperous lands that comprised the district of Rutten.

They were perilously placed between two rivers, one of which, the Eem, had only Amersfoort to defend it; the other, the Rhine, being utterly unprotected until reinforcements should arrive from Gouda or Schoonhoven.

And as the French were circling round from the direction of Nijkerk, and on the other side from the banks of the Rhine, they indeed seemed, with their hopelessly inferior numbers, to be in a peril from which they could do nothing to extricate themselves.

Several of the Deputies were reduced to despair, and were for putting pressure on the Prince to abandon Utrecht and retreat into Holland towards Amsterdam.

But William, who owed his present position to their cautious policy, refused to listen to them, and, energetically encouraging his officers, pressed on towards the town of Utrecht.

They had not, however, come in sight of the walls before they heard the guns of the enemy and saw pale fires in the early sky, and at half-past six of a misty, warm morning they saw through their perspective glasses the glittering lines of the cavalry of France completely blocking their progress.

By reason of the flat country they could see a great way, and Count Struym, who knew the district well, pointed out the burning fortress of Zeyst, which had either blown up or been fired by the French.

The army halted, and officers and Deputies held a hasty consultation on horseback. The enemy now lay between them and Utrecht, and it was impossible to gain that town without a battle.

The Deputies again advised a retreat towards Amsterdam. In face of the overwhelming number of the enemy, M. de Rochfort’s force advancing from Nijkerk to conjoin, the unfortifiable nature of the ground, it would be not a battle but a massacre, and they were not authorised by the States to sacrifice the last defenders of the country; a defeat, they argued, would have a very ill effect on the projected negotiations of M. de Groot.

On the other hand, Count Struym contended that a retreat in face of the enemy would result only in a pursuit and an utter rout, in which they all would equally perish, but in this way with ignominy and disgrace.

The young Captain General sat silent on his grey horse and looked at the distant line of the French.

He was so well used to argument and opposition that he withheld his opinion till asked.

He had a great contempt for words, and the eloquence of the Deputies seemed to him mere mouthing. He was thinking of Utrecht, and wondering what there was to be got out of his men.

He had only been head of the army a few weeks, but he had made a new thing of the forces under his command. Throughout a campaign that had been a series of disasters and retreats his men had never lost heart. He had a way of maintaining discipline, and a personal popularity that the veterans did not possess; a gift of command that was worth everything to an army pitted against tremendous odds.

He turned his eyes on his men as they defiled across the meadows, to where the vanguard halted by a belt of trees and an old farm and windmill, and thoughtfully stroked his horse’s neck.

William Bentinck rode up to him.

“Sir,” he cried impatiently, “if these lawyers have their way we shall be cut to pieces as we stand——”

“They are for a retreat?” said the Prince.

“Yes——”

“It is neither wise nor honourable to retreat in sight of the enemy,” remarked the Captain General coldly. He turned his horse and rode up to M. Beverningh, and touched him on the arm.

“Mynheer,” he said curtly and decidedly, “there has been enough talking.”

They all looked at him.

“What is your wish?” asked Count Struym eagerly. “It seems to me, Highness, we have no course open but to fight.”

“There is Utrecht,” answered the Prince. “I mean to save Utrecht.”

The Deputies were silent. They wished, above all things, to avoid responsibility. William eyed them; he saw perfectly well that they would neither sanction nor veto his plans, and that whatever course he took they would blame him if it proved disastrous, and take the credit if it ended in success. Divided authority placed both sides in a difficult position, but if the Deputies hesitated the Captain General’s decision was prompt and unshakable.

His scheme was to remain and face the French with three regiments of cavalry, thereby distracting them from Utrecht, which town Count Struym, with the rest of the army of the States, was to reach in a dÉtour by way of Maartensdyk and Maarsen.

It was hoped that before midday reinforcements would arrive from Schoonhoven and Gouda; these, attacking the rear of the enemy, would enable the Prince to withdraw the rest of his army along the road to Utrecht, which Count Struym must keep open, and throw himself into that town before the French bombarded the fortifications.

If these tactics savoured of desperation, the situation was such as called for desperate expedients, and no one dared withstand them. Some encouragement was afforded by the fact that the rising ground would disguise from the enemy that the stand the Dutch offered covered the retreat of the greater portion of their forces, and it was reasonably hoped that the French would not suspect that any attempt was being made to save Utrecht.

At half-past seven Count Struym drew off with the bulk of the army and the larger number of the Deputies.

M. Beverningh, however, remained with the Prince, who, relieved from supervision and control, was energetically disposing his little force to the best advantage.

Since they had broken camp they had been swelled by the survivors of the garrisons of the Rhine fortresses, large numbers of peasants, and M. de Montbas’ company of cavalry, which had been put under the command of M. Bentinck. In all they numbered about two thousand men, of which fourteen hundred were cavalry.

They had been marching and counter-marching all night, and some were mere fugitives without as much as a musket. They were weary, and had every excuse for discouragement; since neither the number of the enemy nor the peace proposals of M. de Witt (which all took for an indication of despair on that statesman’s part) could be disguised from them. To add to their discomfort the baggage waggons had not been able to keep pace with the rapid movements of the army, and there was not so much as a loaf of bread among them.

The mill and adjacent farms were found to be deserted, all the surrounding country-folk having retreated into Utrecht, and the hopes of food from these were dispelled.

The men were mostly unmoved. Their officers and the Prince himself were as badly off as themselves; they would sooner fight than retreat; they had a way of doing both quietly.

William rode among the companies, and his quick observation detected no discontent. Many of the men sang psalms as they brought up the guns, and there were weighty arguments on points of doctrine between Arminians and Calvinists, Latter Day Saints and Knipperdollings,—for these people, the most obstinate and unconvincible in the world, found one of their keenest pleasures in logic and argument.

William’s appearance woke their deep and sincere enthusiasm.

He spoke to them with more animation than M. Bentinck had ever known him show, promised the cavalry (who were doing the work of foot soldiers) double pay, and the peasants, who were digging trenches and erecting palisades, a florin a day while they stuck to their work.

He heartened them with a promise of rest and food in Utrecht before night, and entreated them to stand firm in defence of their religion and their liberty.

His resolution and his energy did not fail of its effect. They forgot fatigue, the number and prestige of the enemy, their own former disasters, and set themselves cheerfully in readiness.

But if the men were encouraged by the Prince’s inspection, he himself was not. Everything was lacking—ammunition, guns, even shoes and coats.

A considerable number of the cavalry were on foot for want of horses, and two culverins had had to be abandoned for lack of gun-carriages.

William thought bitterly of M. de Witt. The Grand Pensionary had answered his appeal in eager and affectionate terms, but neither levies nor supplies had arrived; de Witt seemed more desirous to send M. de Groot on a mission of peace than to strengthen the army, and the new Captain General was left with miserably inadequate means.

“M. Beverningh,” said William, “this is my first experience of war, and I do not think any one ever fell into a harder apprenticeship.”

And the coming encounter was his first experience of actual battle. He had been a fortnight with the army but had heard no more than the distant sound of the French guns; he had witnessed no engagement.

Yet perhaps M. Beverningh was the only man to whom it occurred as an anomaly that a youth of twenty-one who only knew war from books, and had never seen bloodshed, should be commanding an army in such desperate straits against a foe led by the most famous soldiers in the world.

Every one else seemed as unconscious as was the Prince himself. If he lacked experience he had certainly rare qualities; but M. Beverningh was curious as to his behaviour in the actual shock of battle, in the actual moment of leading his men to the encounter.

The infantry was placed behind the hastily constructed earthworks, and in the mill and farm buildings which were taken as the nucleus of the defence.

The French were an unaccountable time in advancing; seemed, if anything, to be hanging back.

The truth was their commander had no wish for an encounter with the Prince of Orange, against whom his master had no quarrel and whose interests Louis had agreed to respect. His intention was to take Utrecht, and he thought that, given a little time, William would have the tact to withdraw and leave the road open to him as M. de Montbas had done at the Rhine.

But about ten o’clock, perceiving (as he thought) the entire Dutch forces still immovable before their protection of trees and rising ground, he advanced to the attack, after expressing to his officers his regret that His Majesty’s cousin had given them the unnecessary trouble of beating him.

He had under his command seven or eight thousand men, well fed, well drilled; a fine corps of artillery, and two of the most renowned cavalry regiments of France. He was further strengthened by the knowledge of M. de Rochfort’s advance from Nijkerk and near approach of the King himself, who was reported to have already left Doesburg with the Household brigade, a conquered country behind his banners.

Through the thick, sweet, hazy air came at last the sound of the French drums and trumpets, and as it was quite windless their colours and banners were all displayed above them as they marched.

They had left their baggage waggons and some of their artillery under the guard of the infantry in the rear, for they did not regard the coming engagement as one likely long to impede their progress, and at an easy pace their magnificent cavalry advanced across the flat meadows to the little wood of elm and beech where the birds were singing among the warm leaves and the Dutch waited.

The sun bathed them in an even glow; red and blue coats, gold and silver trappings gleamed as the men and horses moved. From the distance even they had an extraordinarily easy demeanour, as if they laughed amongst themselves.

Soon it became possible to distinguish the soft tramp of the horses, the jingle of the harness, and the rumbling of the guns shaking on their carriages.

The Dutch trumpets made answer now, and as the French came within range their guns opened fire, tearing the summer peace into fury.

And as the smoke curled away the cavalry of the States galloped out of the wood in little companies, colours flying and slack reins.

The Prince of Orange, Count KÖnigsmarck, and William of Aylva were together on a little incline, watching the enemy.

“Who are they?” asked the Prince of the German, who had travelled much in France.

“Regiments of the line, Highness, dragoons,—and in the centre one of the Household brigades.” He raised his perspective glass. “Yes, the company under the Prince de Soubise. I can see the colours.”

William said nothing, he turned and galloped to the centre of the line of guns, just beneath the mill.

The French, assuming the Netherlanders would have remained under cover if their numbers were weak, took the daring charge of the cavalry as a sign that their entire force was concealed by the rising ground.

This was the impression the Prince had hoped to create.

Instantly the French, wishing to draw their enemy into the open and to put themselves beyond the range of the guns, retreated with a skilful backward movement, steady and swift as the reflux of a wave.

Then the foremost company of cavalry, regardless of the empty saddles already made, divided, wheeled to left and right, met again and charged. This was the French mode; reckless, showy, expensive, but irresistible, at once the glory and the ruin of their arms. It exposed the very flower of their youth, gallantry, and nobility to the whole brunt of the battle, while the infantry remained comparatively immune.

Again and again the French were to buy dashing and profitless victories at the price of their best blood; again and again the aristocrats and gentlemen were to be sacrificed in cruel slaughter, until all the finest lives in France were hurled away in pursuance of the reckless policy of the cavalry charge of the Household troops.

So now they came on, reins hanging loose, the horses with lengthened necks, flattened ears, and staring eyes; ribbons, feathers, laces, and curls blowing back over the shoulders of the men.

The Dutch formed close and received the shock of the onset without flinching.

There was a short struggle, then the French withdrew at the gallop, wheeled and charged.

The Dutch backed before them, and as they swept to the foot of the wood a volley from the guns their cavalry had galloped aside to make way for sent back half the horses riderless.

The French were too well trained to show confusion; this was a fiercer defence, however, than they had expected.

M. de Soubise hurled forward two more companies and himself advanced with his own light horse.

This fresh and hot onslaught almost overpowered the Dutch horse; they were driven back almost to the mouths of their own guns.

The Prince sent out the Spanish cavalry to the rescue, and placed a regiment of foot behind the gunners where they could pick off the French cavalry from the cover of the trees.

M. de Soubise, unable to make much use of his artillery, had thrown out his left wing, composed of brigadiers and guns, in a half circle to attempt to storm the wood where the ground was flat and a small cottage the only vantage spot.

William, perceiving this, sent M. Bentinck to the assistance of the officer occupying the cottage, and himself rode up to M. D’Aylva, who was commanding the troops held in reserve.

“The French are magnificent,” he said, “but our men fight very well.”

He was flushed and excited, his eyes dark and wide open.

All the restraint had gone from his voice, and there was a new eagerness in his expression; the older man, at this irrelevant moment, found himself remembering that his General was a boy who had never seen battle before.

Himself a famous soldier, who had been named “a second Mars,” he looked critically at the Prince.

“M. de Soubise has every advantage,” he said.

“But we can keep him at bay till nightfall,” replied William, “when we can gain Utrecht.”

“Do you think so, Highness?”

The Prince turned on him the candid look of youth.

“Yes,” he said simply.

The air about them hung dun and heavy with smoke between the trees. The whizz and thud of bullets striking the trunks, the hoarse, deafening boom of the cannon, the nearer sound of striking tinder, transformed the sweet stillness of the morning into the lurid tumult of war.

“Your Highness is in some danger here,” said M. D’Aylva. “If you would withdraw nearer the mill——”

William smiled, and rode out of the trees on to the little clearing beside the guns.

The battle beat fiercely to and fro in the green meadows. M. de Soubise had turned his attention to the position held by M. Bentinck’s untaught valour, and at the foot of the wood the Dutch and French struggled desperately together.

The Prince’s keen glance swept over the field.

A cannon-ball fell beside him and exploded, frightening his horse into rearing frantically. He kept his seat and quieted the animal, wiping the foam from its face with his lace handkerchief.

Just beneath him a Dutch company had been repulsed by the enemy; nearly all the officers had fallen, and the men, left leaderless, were retreating in a confusion.

The Prince galloped down the incline, and to the head of the disheartened company. They were men of his own province, part of a Holland regiment.

“Gentlemen,” he said, drawing his sword, “will you have me for your leader?”

He was still smiling.

“It is the Prince!” they cried.

He lifted his sword and led them straight against the French dragoons.

They fought now with a mad passion that was not to be withstood.…

The French gave way, inch by inch, and eventually retreated to the main body.

Without a moment’s pause the Prince, shouting to the Spanish cavalry to join him, dashed round to the aid of M. Bentinck, who was being overpowered by sheer numbers.

Time after time his little band was driven back, time after time he led them again to the charge. The French themselves were amazed at this undaunted persistence; more than once their ranks were broken, and when Count KÖnigsmarck came with a Guelderland regiment to the support of his master they abandoned their attack on the cottage after a fight lasting two hours.

The sun was now high overhead, and the strong rays drove even through the choking smoke and glared on the armour of the combatants; the air was hot, dry, and close with the smell of blood and powder. The leaves, but a few hours ago so fresh, hung withered and burnt along the lower branches, and some of the neat painted out-buildings of the farm were burning steadily with pale flames and black smoke.

Rank after rank, line after line, the French cavalry rode up, and the right wing of the Dutch began to give way.

The Prince extricated himself from the confusion round the rescued outpost, and rode with M. Bentinck to his retreating men.

They had lost all their officers save one young ensign, a Friesland giant with bright gold hair, who seemed dazed, not knowing what to do. He fought like one in a dream, aimlessly, the red blood drying on his cuirass.

William dismounted, throwing his reins to M. Bentinck.

“That is not the way!” he cried. “You must put more fire in it, gentlemen.”

He placed himself at their head and led them against the musketeers.

The young officer stared at him, bewildered.

“Mynheer!” cried the Prince, “second me now and I will give you this company!”

The Frieslander roused himself and shouted a word of command.

The Dutch stood firm, then hurled themselves against the enemy.

Twice they were repulsed by the superior force, twice the Prince led them back; till the trampled grass grew so choked with dead that the living were divided by the slain.

William of Aylva surveyed the battle from the top of the incline.

“Does the Prince want to meet his death?” he muttered; then, “What is this but madness?” And he looked at the army of France that rolled almost as far as the horizon, and, though he was a brave man, his counsels were for a flight, saving such lives as they could.

He saw the Prince, remounted on the grey horse, emerge from the smoky tumult, and he rode down to meet him.

“Highness,”—he caught the young man’s bridle,—“this is madness——”

William answered—

“No, it is my duty—where are these men if I do not hearten them?”

“If you are slain where are our hopes?”

The Prince laughed.

“I shall not be slain to-day.”

As he spoke a bullet glanced along his cuirass, carrying away the knot of his black scarf.

“We cannot do it,” said M. D’Aylva. “Will not Your Highness order a retreat?”

“Not yet, not yet!” answered the Prince passionately. He looked round at the broken battalions only his unconquerable energy had kept together so long.

“They need encouragement,” he exclaimed. “They dare not stand up to such veteran troops—yet it could be done——”

“If every man had your spirit,” muttered William D’Aylva, again looking at him curiously, “I believe it could.”

The Prince gathered together the last of the cavalry and rode back into the hottest part of the battle.

William D’Aylva, though with no hope, led the reserve regiment of Guelderlanders into action. Nearly all the Dutch artillery was useless; some of the guns were spiked, others had lost their gunners, and there was little powder left.

The right wing of the Holland regiments was utterly cut to pieces; M. Bentinck, coming too late to the rescue, could bring off no more than the colours and one tattered detachment. Still the centre and the left fought on. The Captain General found himself separated from his men; he galloped to the Spanish cavalry, where he had stationed it to defend the entrance to the wood.

Close to the rescued cottage he met a band of men who were doing nothing.

He drew up his horse and turned in the saddle.

“Why do you not charge?” he asked in French, thinking they were the Spanish who used that language.

The leader answered civilly that they had no powder, and even as he spoke William saw that they were French.

He was entirely in their power. His pride did not permit him to fly; he backed his horse.

“Good,” he said; “I will send you some powder.”

Utterly unconscious, they let him go, taking him for a French officer.

Not in the least impressed by what his temerity had exposed him to, William gazed round fiercely for the Spanish, who had apparently forsaken their post.

Suddenly he saw a detachment of them riding through the underwood—but riding away from the battle.

Pale with rage, he spurred up to them.

“What is this?” he asked them. “I think you should have your faces to the enemy!”

They had a look about them such as is seldom seen in men; sometimes in a horse before it shies.

“It is a massacre out there … carnage,” answered one through his teeth. “The day is lost … lost.”

“I’ll shoot the man who says so!” exclaimed the Prince, putting his hand to his holster. “Get back to your places, you cowards, and never care whether the day be lost or no as long as you stay where you are bidden.”

They cowered before him, and he, in his wrath, turned the officer’s horse himself, and when the man still hesitated he took his whip from his boot and lashed them back into the battle.…

It was now nearly dusk, and as the sun struck level rays across the battlefield, before it sunk below the flat horizon, the sound of the Marquis de Rochfort’s guns was heard in the distance.

No human endeavour could do any more. The Prince had kept up a fight of eight hours against overwhelming odds, holding at bay, with his raw, tired troops, the splendid forces of France.

More than half his army was slain; his guns were dismounted, his powder spent. Reluctantly he drew off his exhausted men, first firing the mill and the farmhouses to impede the enemy in the pursuit, which they were, however, by no means inclined to make.

M. de Soubise was quite satisfied with his victory, and it was no part of the training of his school of warfare to follow up a success.

He still imagined the Dutch to have been at least twice their number, and consequently magnified his own glory.

His men were tired, and with the dark great clouds blew up and warm rain fell. The French camp was pitched on the field of battle, and glowing dispatches written to His Majesty and M. de Louvois.

The Prince and his officers on the Utrecht road were not ill content either, for they had done what they intended, and at no higher a price than they had been prepared to pay.

Utrecht was saved; M. de Zuylestein installed within its walls.

Riding through the soft raining dark, William repeated that to himself—

“Utrecht is saved.”

But when they were within a few miles of the city a little band of men, bearing lanterns, came to meet them.

M. de Zuylestein’s men, with this news—

“The Catholics and French in Utrecht have seized the town and closed the gates to the forces of the United Provinces. They intend to open to King Louis, and refuse even to provision Your Highness’ men.”

CHAPTER XII
AFTER THE DEFEAT

In a little farm, abandoned by its owner, the Prince and his Staff found shelter.

There was nothing to be done until dawn at least—since Utrecht had closed her gates.

The bitterness of this disappointment was well-nigh unbearable; the long day’s struggle had had solely this end in view—to save Utrecht.

The men were worn out, hungry, wet, disheartened; only the firmest discipline prevented a mutiny or a panic.

Two of the baggage waggons had come up with them; in one there was nothing but Jerome Beverningh’s camp furniture. Anger and derision were roused, the Deputy had brought with him such things as velvet chairs and crystal candlesticks, the last broken in the rough transit.

The second waggon contained food; this was dealt out to the wounded. M. de Zuylestein’s men, who had spent the day outside the walls of Utrecht while their leader argued desperately with the magistrates, were fresher, and had ravaged some provisions from the neighbouring farms; but the bulk of the men had been without food twelve hours or more.

They attempted to set up such tents as they had with them, but a strong wind rising when the rain ceased hurled poles and canvas to the ground, and scattered the camp-fires in handfuls of sparks.

No news reached them of either de Louvignies or Count Hornes, but a messenger got through the enemy’s lines with a desperate appeal from Prince John Maurice at Muyden, where the starved troops were in a state of mutiny and threatening to desert to the French.

“—do not be surprised,” his letter to the Captain General concluded, “if your next news is that we have all been cut to pieces.”

And Muyden was the key to Amsterdam.

The Prince said nothing to this; he said nothing when he heard that traitors had possession of Utrecht, though he had fought desperately for a day to save the city.

His containment now was as marked as had been his fervour and ardour in the battle.

Count KÖnigsmarck came to tell him that a young Frieslander of a republican family claimed the command of one of the surviving companies, and that it was against all precedent.

“I promised it,” said William.

The ensign got his troop, but he was no longer a republican.

For the night the officers were disposed in such shelter as they could find in the farms and sheds. The Prince, William Bentinck, M. de Zuylestein, M. Beverningh, and Matthew Bromley shared the kitchen of a humble dwelling; a pleasant place hung with the bright-coloured pictures, the patterned prints, the gay china no such Dutch home lacked.

In the chimney corner stood a spinning-wheel, and on a high-backed chair lay a child’s doll, for the family had fled with the swiftness of fear into the town. Two fat tallow candles burnt on the mantelpiece, and on the glazed white hearth a fire of sticks had been kindled, over which M. Bentinck was boiling some sour wine he had discovered, trying to render it more palatable by toasting slices of sour bread.

M. Beverningh and M. Zuylestein sat at the polished, round table, their wet cloaks over their chairs, between them a couple of pistols and another candle in a brass stick.

In the deep window-seat, half shaded by the curtain, sat the Prince, his face averted from the room.

An inner door was open on a small bedroom, ill-lit by a hanging lamp; on the black-and-white tiled floor stood a linen chest, flung open on fine tumbled sheets, and in the wall-place was a bed, the blue curtains drawn.

There lay Matthew Bromley, hidden in shadow save for his feet, over which the lamp-light fell making his silver buckles glimmer.

He was dying.

A heat that seemed to have substance, so oppressive it was, filled the two rooms. The window was wide open, but no relief came from the hot and heavy wind that blew in.

Suddenly the Prince rose and came to the table.

He wore no hat, and his long hair was tied back with a black ribbon taken from the ruffles in his sleeve.

His face was absolutely without colour, his lids drooping. He had been twenty-four hours in the saddle and without food; he held himself with an air of unutterable weariness.

His cuirass was stained with blood and rusted with the rain, his cravat undone, his scarf and sash shot and slashed to rags.

His right arm was cut, and he had rent away part of his full sleeve to tie it up with, the tattered laces and ribbons hung down over his hand; his boots and spurs were caked with mud; he held his heavy sword from the floor, and, as he reached the table, unstrapped it, and laid sword and baldric across a chair.

He looked at M. Beverningh, at his uncle Zuylestein. Neither said anything.

Slowly he went over to M. Bentinck.

“How is Bromley?” he asked in a low voice.

“The same—it cannot last long.”

“Is there no surgeon to be found?”

M. Bentinck shrugged his shoulders.

“We had but two.”

“And they?”

“Dead or captured.”

“And the clergymen?”

“There are three going about among the wounded, but Matthew Bromley is not a Calvinist.”

“I had forgotten.”

M. Bentinck rose from his knees; his splendid dress was soiled and tarnished, his bright good looks marred by fatigue.

“I am thinking of Your Highness.”

“I am very well, but I am sorry for Matthew Bromley.”

“He is not the only one.”

“The cause was not his,” answered the Prince wearily. “And he is a man who loves his life.”

With that he took one of the candles and went softly into the inner room where his gentleman lay.

The bed was set in the wall, and could be concealed by drawing a sliding panel; it was fragrantly clean, but dark and close.

The Englishman’s head was propped up on two pillows, the upper part of him concealed in shadow.

His coat had been removed and his wound dressed by William Bentinck’s unskilled care; the blood had soaked through the linen swathings and stained the neat, flowered coverlet.

William approached, shading the candle with his hand.

“How does it go with you?” he asked.

Matthew Bromley moved his head restlessly.

“How hot it is!” he murmured; then, “I would they did not build their beds in their walls here——”

“We could do no better,” answered the Prince gently.

“Who is it?” came faintly.

“I, William of Nassau.”

Mr. Bromley made a little sound of pleasure.

“Ah, Your Highness——”

The Prince set the candle on the chair behind him.

“I am sorry to see you like this, Bromley,” he said.

The Englishman’s voice came faintly from the pillow—

“No matter for me—but it has been a disastrous day.”

The Prince held back the curtain.

“It was no quarrel of yours, my poor fellow,” he answered.

Matthew Bromley smiled; his careless face had changed into a look of bewildered grieving.

“You had better have gone home,” said William gently.

“It was against … the French.”

He closed his eyes and made an effort with his strength—

“I am sorry we were beaten.”

“That may be mended.”

“But nothing can mend me—ah!”

He spoke in an absent and regretful voice.

They could hear the warm wind without and the groanings of the wounded who lay in the outhouses.

“Tell me what I can do,” asked the Prince.

“Nothing.”

The blue eyes opened vacantly.

“Your family——?”

“Yes, ah, yes.”

“I will write to them——”

“In England … Kent.”

“Is there anything I should say?”

“I cannot understand.…”

William bent lower.

“Is there any message?”

The dying man answered in English—

“That balsam my mother sent.…”

“What is it you say?”

“She never told me—how to use it.”

He smiled aimlessly.

William was silent.

“How they fought——” There was only one tongue for him now.

William spoke in his careful English—

“I shall miss you, Bromley.”

“Ah, I understand you … now.”

The Prince smoothed his pillow.

“Don’t trouble—” The Englishman moved his head restlessly. “—It isn’t worth while——”

“I would give a deal to save you.”

“Why … how hot it is.…”

“Are you in pain?”

“I don’t know.”

“Shall I lift you up?”

“The address … M. Heenvliet knows——”

“Yes, yes——”

“Bromley Place … Kent.”

“I will write——”

“We have a fish-pond.… I liked it.”

He seemed to be wandering.

“In the summer time it was pleasant there.… Harry is at Oxford now.”

The Prince turned away and picked up the candle.

“William,” he called softly.

M. Bentinck came to the door.

“Have we nothing?” asked the Prince.

“M. Beverningh has discovered a bottle of beer in the cupboard and I am burning it.… M. de Zuylestein finds the wine drinkable, he says.”

“But for Bromley, I mean.”

M. Bentinck fetched a glass of the boiled wine and handed it to the Prince.

“We have nothing else.”

William made no reply.

“You had best take some, sir; and the bread, too, is not so unpalatable.”

The Prince gave the stuff a sick look.

“Get me some water,” he said, putting it down.

“Well,” answered M. Bentinck, with a grim smile, “M. de Zuylestein and M. Beverningh are making a meal.”

The Prince returned to the bed, and in a while M. Bentinck brought the water in a dull green glass.

Matthew Bromley stared up at them.

“Am I dying?” he asked abruptly.

He took the water, drank with avidity, then murmured—

“I must write home.”

M. Bentinck left the room. The heat seemed to increase. Some one was reciting a psalm outside in a gabbling voice, another groaned bitterly.

The swinging lamp was going out with a harsh stench of oil.

The Prince crossed the room to quench it, as he moved Mr. Bromley called out rapidly—

“I was shot through the lungs in my first engagement; I died in a cottage outside Utrecht; I was shot through the lungs; I am writing to Harry.” He suddenly laughed. “I am glad I saw those French players before I left the Hague.… I shall never get another chance.”

William had turned out the lamp, they were left with only the light of the tallow candle on the mantelpiece.

The Prince came back to his gentleman, who lay in a half stupor, pulling at his coverlet with clumsy fingers.

“Bromley,” his young master bent over him, “you are dying.… I must tell you.… We have no clergyman, but you could pray——”

“No Calvinist,” muttered Mr. Bromley.

“God,” said the Prince vehemently, “knows no creed.”

Mr. Bromley gave a little sigh, as if his mind had suddenly cleared.

“Is not Your Highness in despair?” he asked weakly.

“Why?”

“Because the French beat us … and there seems no hope for you.”

“How can I despair?” answered the young General. “God has me by the hand.”

The dying man glanced at him sharply and curiously—

“Does Your Highness—believe—like that?”

William smiled.

“Could I live if I did not believe?”

Matthew Bromley’s blue eyes were still fixed on him intently.

“I never thought of it—much—but I detain Your Highness——”

“No, no, there is nothing I can do till the dawn.”

“In my coat——”

His voice failed.

“Yes?”

“There is a book—a Prayer-book.”

“I will get it.”

“If Your Highness could read it—in English.”

William pressed his hand.

The wind struggled in the great barns outside, and the coarse yellow flame shuddered in the hot air from the high window.

In the kitchen could be seen M. Zuylestein asleep on the settle and M. Beverningh at the table sipping his boiled wine.

“There are some papers too,” whispered Mr. Bromley. “Love-letters—and bills; burn them, they are so foolish.”

The Prince turned over the stained and bloody coat and found the Anglican Prayer-book.

“I wonder why I brought it,” said the Englishman vaguely.

William seated himself beside the bed and began turning over the unfamiliar leaves.

“The prayer for the departing,” murmured Matthew Bromley.

The Prince put his hand to his forehead; his head was so heavy that he could hardly hold it up, and the scanty light scarcely permitted him to read the foreign print.

Matthew Bromley closed his eyes.

William had never looked on death before to-day, but he did not fail to mark that it was very near.

“What shall I read?” he asked.

“For the … sick.”

Mr. Bromley moaned a little.

The Prince found the place, his tired but fervent voice came through the distraction of other sounds.

“‘Almighty God, with whom do live the spirits of just men made perfect, after they are delivered from their earthly prisons; we humbly commend the soul of this Thy servant, our dear brother, into Thy hands——’”

“Into Thy hands,” whispered Mr. Bromley.

“‘—as into the hands of a faithful Creator, and most merciful Saviour; most humbly beseeching Thee, that it may be precious in Thy sight——’”

The wind and the restless complainings without were unceasing. Mr. Bromley clasped his hands on his breast; the Prince read on carefully—

“‘—and teach us who survive, in this and like daily spectacles of mortality, to see how frail and uncertain our own condition is; and so to number our days, that we may seriously apply our hearts to that holy and heavenly wisdom, whilst we live here.…’

“I read so ill, my poor English,” murmured the Prince.

“No—I understand.”

“‘—which may in the end bring us to life everlasting, through the merits of Jesus Christ our Lord——’”

“Amen.”

Matthew Bromley’s life was sinking fast; like a sea receding was the blue light in his eyes, each second farther away.

William went on his knees by the aperture of the bed.

“In Thee, Lord, have I put my trust; let me never be put to confusion, but rid me and deliver me in Thy righteousness; incline Thine ear unto me and save me——”

Mr. Bromley stretched out his cold, pale hand.

“I thank Your Highness.”

“Do not think of me but of God.”

The two young men, both so white, so haggard, so dishevelled, that the one drawing his last breath was hardly to be told from him who comforted, clasped hands in the hot shadows of the peasant’s bed.

Mr. Bromley made a movement as if to draw the Prince towards him.

“I would I had lived to see Your Highness fortunate,” he breathed. Then, “God … God … He is very pitiful.…”

With that he sighed, three times—and died with the gentlest stilling of his breath.

The Prince drew back a little; then lifted Mr. Bromley’s hands and crossed them on his breast.

Death had come so softly the pillow and coverlet were not disturbed by unavailing struggles nor was Matthew Bromley. He looked at rest.

The Prince pulled the curtain, and went to the stained velvet coat hanging over the high-backed chair.

In the pockets were letters, charms, and a snuff-box full of gold pieces.

William burnt the papers without reading them, and left the money and the Prayer-book on the chair.

Then he re-entered the kitchen. M. Bentinck was smoking a short clay.

“Matthew Bromley is dead,” said the Prince.

“Poor soul!” answered William Bentinck. M. Beverningh was silent, and M. de Zuylestein asleep.

The Prince went to the window, coughing; M. Bentinck guiltily knocked out his pipe.

“What will you do to-morrow?” he asked.

“Get into Utrecht,” said the Captain General briefly.

M. Beverningh looked up.

“If they will not defend the place they shall at least provision us,” added the Prince.

Now Beverningh spoke.

“They will refuse us admission, Highness.”

“It is my will and purpose to enter Utrecht to-morrow,” answered William.

“Meanwhile——” M. Bentinck began, when the door was flung open and a young officer entered.

“Your Highness——”

He was agitated, breathing hard, and carried a pistol.

William came forward out of the shadows.

“What is it?”

“The Friesland regiments, Sir … they mutiny. I know not what to do.”

M. Bentinck rose and softly latched the swinging door.

“Why do they mutiny?” asked the Prince.

“Sir, they say they are starving, and that it is but waiting here to be cut to pieces, and that the country is lost, and that they will submit to the King of France and go back to their homes——”

“You speak as if not over confident yourself, Mynheer,” said William, holding up his head.

“Truly, Your Highness, affairs are desperate.”

“If we despair they are desperate indeed,” replied the Captain General sternly. “It is our duty, Mynheer, not to despair.”

“But these men?” asked M. Beverningh.

“I will go and speak to them,” said the Prince quietly.

“Your Highness has done enough,” protested William Bentinck.

“I do what it would seem there is no one else to do,” was the answer.

He picked up his cloak from the window-seat and flung it over his tattered uniform.

“Have you no lantern?” he asked the officer.

“Sir, the moon is up.”

M. Bentinck, with an impatient look at M. Zuylestein, who was still very contentedly asleep, made ready to accompany the Prince, and the three started out through the encampment.

The wind had dropped, sweeping away the clouds with it, and a full moon was high in the dark sky.

Tents had now been rigged up here and there; several men were moving about with lanterns, many sleeping on the ground; under a little grove of alders a row of horses were tied, beyond them could be distinguished the gaunt shapes of waggons and guns.

Unnoticed the three made their way to the other end of the meadows where the Frieslanders were encamped.

There were perhaps three hundred of them, and they sat about sullenly among their dead.

They had refused to see after their horses, to bury the corpses, even to tend the wounded; their one answer was to demand food of their officers, and to repeat they would not be cut to bits by the French.

The defection of Utrecht had set an ill example. If that great city was afraid of Louis what could others do but make their peace with him?…

An officer on horseback rode out when he saw the little company advancing.

“Here are the Prince and M. Bentinck,” said his messenger.

The other dismounted.

“Ah, Your Highness—I was loath to send to you—but the men are beyond all management, and I fear if the disaffection spreads to the others——”

“You did very well, Mynheer——”

The Prince coughed, and resumed, “I will speak to them.”

“Will Your Highness take my horse?”

William mounted and rode in amongst the men, M. Bentinck and the two officers at his stirrup.

Not knowing him they let him pass without a salute; they believed that it was one of their own captains.

William suddenly halted and bent from the saddle towards a little group who stood whispering together.

“Do you not know me?” he asked.

They fell apart and looked up.

His face was quite clear in the moonlight; for he wore no hat, and his hair was tied back in his neck.

“I think that you know me,” he said. “Go fetch the others, for I would speak to you.”

They moved back, half reluctantly.

“All these men have arms, Highness,” warned the officer.

“They will not turn them on me,” answered the Prince.

But M. Bentinck felt uneasy; for William had drawn rein on a slope of the ground, he was an unprotected object for any carbine that might be levelled out of the shadows of the camp.

The news seemed to spread with silent swiftness.

The men gathered in groups of fours and fives, forming up without noise until there was a thick semicircle of them round the Prince.

It seemed they would listen to what he had to say, at least.

William looked keenly over his mute, half-seen audience, and began to speak in his low, deliberate voice—

“I hear that you have fallen into mutinies and disobedience, which is an ill thing for soldiers, and that you do complain of hardships, thereby giving yourselves an evil distinction, for you are the only companies of mine who have so complained.

“I do entreat you remember yourselves, for as surely as those that stand by me will come to ultimate glory, so surely will I have the lives of those who rebel.”

He paused a moment, and there was the slightest movement among the soldiers.

“You bore yourselves very well to-day against great odds, and for the discomforts you endure I am sorry, but I do tell you this, you shall have food soon, for if the city of Utrecht is false we will get provisions from Amsterdam, for I have sent there to raise money on my private credit, and as long as I have a guilder you shall not starve. Now for another matter. I hear some of you talk of deserting to King Louis; now any man who does that is a coward and a traitor and a fool, for the French are unjust and cruel masters, and would make slaves of you—a thing which is hateful to you.

“For love of liberty is a strong thing in this country, and ye were born free.…

“My great-grandfather made this State, rescuing it from the most bloody tyranny of Rome, and the Princes of his race have always followed his example, to the great good of this people, and while I lead you, I tell you, you shall never be slaves nor subjected to France.

“And I pray you to be of good hope and of a cheerful spirit, for certainly I will deliver you from foreign dominion.

“Alva, Don Juan, Farnese failed, and shall Turenne and CondÉ succeed?… Philip was a great king, but we bitterly repulsed him, with God’s grace and some valour.

“Think of these things, for they will hearten you and make you see how impossible it is that you should forsake your liberty and your religion, which are such holy things that to die for them would be a noble death, and no one but a very paltry man fears to die well.…

“Now, I ask you to ponder what I have said, and obey your officers and do your duty; and such of you as do not I will certainly hang, for he who is not repentant now is no better than a traitor.

“And as for what I have said about the provisions, you have my word on it, and therefore may rest tranquil, for I am Nassau.”

As he finished there was a murmur and a sound of many men drawing their breath.

“Ye who are obedient, lay down your arms,” said the Prince.

Instantly carbines, bayonets, and pistols clattered on the ground.

“Take them up and hold them ready to use again as you used them to-day,” flashed William. “For God and the United Provinces!”

A long, sobbing shout rose from the Frieslanders:—

“God, the United Provinces, and William of Nassau!”

The Prince waved his hand to them and rode away as three hundred voices broke into St. Aldegonde’s hymn of liberty, “William of Nassau.”

At the edge of the encampment the Prince dismounted; after his long speech he was very silent.

“Your Highness has utterly quelled all discontent,” murmured the officer. “God keep Your Highness—they were greatly moved——”

“Good-night,” said William; “they will obey now, Mynheer.”

He took M. Bentinck’s arm and turned across the camp.

Neither spoke a word until they reached the cottage, then William uttered some incoherent sentence as M. Bentinck unlatched the door.

“Your Highness is ill!”

The Prince took a step forward and fell into his friend’s arms, completely unconscious.

“My God!” whispered Bentinck.

He pushed open the door and called M. Beverningh, who came showing a frightened face.

M. Bentinck lifted the Prince easily enough and carried him into the kitchen.

M. de Zuylestein was awake now and poring over a map on the polished table.

He got to his feet with a little exclamation under his breath.

As they had no manner of bed or couch they laid the Prince on some cloaks along the floor.

In a bewildered way they looked at each other.

“You should never have let him go,” said M. Beverningh. “A strong man could not have stood what he has put upon himself——”

“You made no protest,” retorted William Bentinck.

“What influence have I?”

“No—nor any man.” M. Bentinck frowned. “Well, if he falls sick there is an end to all of it—for he alone holds us together.”

Catching up the candle he flickered it across the Prince’s unconscious face.

M. de Zuylestein was unbuckling his nephew’s rusty armour.

“He is not wounded,” he said; “ye should never have let him go out again——”

“If ye had been awake, Mynheer, maybe ye could have stopped him,” replied M. Bentinck angrily.

Much of their reserve and fortitude was suddenly shaken by this collapse. The despair his personal influence had kept at bay began to seize hold of them; of the three the lawyer was the calmest.

He put his hand to the Prince’s forehead and untied his cravat.

“It is what the foreigners call the Dutch fever,” he said.

This sickness, deadly and common, was well known to all of them; it was in symptom like a tertian ague, caused, strangers declared, by the mists rising in summer from the low, damp lands—alternate burning and shivering, with high fever and fierce pains.

“What can we do?” asked M. de Zuylestein helplessly.

“With nothing we can do nothing,” replied William Bentinck.

It was surprising to reflect that a fortnight could reduce them from the luxury and ease of the Hague to this kitchen, with the Prince lying unconscious at their feet and not so much as a cordial to revive him.

“Where is Matthew Bromley——?” began M. Bentinck, then checked himself, remembering that the Englishman lay dead in the adjoining chamber.

M. de Zuylestein cursed the baggage waggons for having lost their way, and was moving to summon outside assistance. M. Bentinck checked him.

“No one can do any more; if you let the news abroad there will be a panic——”

“And what of the mutiny? Had he checked it?” asked M. Beverningh, who was on his knees beside the Prince.

“Yes—he can do anything with the men.”

“What did he say?”

“Not much—he spoke stiffly I thought, and proudly.”

“Sincerity needs no arts,” murmured Beverningh.

They had water, but M. Beverningh was against William Bentinck’s suggestion of bathing the Prince’s forehead; it increased the fever he said.

M. de Zuylestein was for bleeding him, but since they had no lancet that also was abandoned.

One of the candles burnt down, and they could find no other, so had to manage by the dismal light of one.

“If he takes the fever,” said M. Beverningh, “we are truly undone.”

M. Bentinck had found a withered brown shell of a rose inside William’s waistcoat.

“He has his sentiments,” he remarked, “although he guards them fiercely—he picked this from the tree his mother, the Princess Royal, planted, the last time he was at the ‘Huis ten bosch.’”

“I think he is this country’s sole hope,” said M. de Zuylestein. “There is no one to take his place.”

The hot night was wearing away; the first pallid glow of dawn stole through the window and fell on the calm, unconscious face of the young Captain General.

Once or twice he moved heavily as if he were asleep. M. Bentinck knelt beside him on the glazed tiles; felt his wrist helplessly, and pushed back the tangled, damp auburn locks from his brow.

Their last candle burnt to the daylight, then spluttered out in the brass stick.

William suddenly opened his eyes and half sat up.

He was shivering, and the hand M. Bentinck held was fever hot.

“Bentinck,” he said, “we must get into Utrecht to-day.…”

And on these words he fainted again.

M. Beverningh looked at M. de Zuylestein.

“Pray God King Louis’ terms will be reasonable,” he said grimly; “for whatever they are we must accept them.”

CHAPTER XIII
THE FANATICS

M. Van Ouvenaller snuffed the candle, took off his glasses, wiped them, and set them again on his nose and took up his long quill pen.

It was about eleven at night and very hot; the window was set open on the June dark, on the expanse of the Vyverberg and the trees of the Kneuterdyk Avenue beyond the water.

The Binnenhof was empty save for this room where John de Witt and his clerk sat completing the day’s task.

It was a little chamber, simply furnished, its sole adornment several handsome pictures of flowers and still life.

The candlesticks, taper-holders, and ink-stands were of glittering brass, and the only bright objects in the severe, sombre surroundings of John de Witt.

He wore black velvet, and leant back a little in his stiff, carved chair. His full brown eyes were fixed on his clerk, who was finishing the notes on the day’s affairs which were to be used in the Grand Pensionary’s speech to the Assembly to-morrow.

“Read over to me what you have there,” said John de Witt.

Both men looked exhausted. The work put upon the Grand Pensionary was more than he could do; he had sent for his cousin Vivien to help him in duties that began to accumulate beyond his strength, but until the arrival of the Pensionary of Dordt he had to put through his labours unaided.

Reinier Van Ouvenaller moved the candles so that they escaped the draught from the open window, for a slight breeze was rising.

“The Prince of Orange,” he read from his notes, “entered Utrecht yesterday, the people having overawed the magistrates. His Highness, who was sick of an aguish fever, had a scene with the town council, and, on their refusing to burn the suburbs or to make any defence, he abandoned them and fell back on Bodegraven, saying he would not risk his men in the defence of such selfish, unpatriotic people—he forced them to provision his forces, however. M. Beverningh writes in a despairing strain.”

John de Witt rested his elbow on the arm of his chair and his cheek in his palm; his gaze was turned on the peaceful darkness beyond the window.

M. Van Ouvenaller gave a little dry cough and resumed—

“Nota, that the Prince William lost many men in a desperate brush with the contingent of M. de Rochfort, and that Prince John Maurice protests that he cannot hold out much longer in Maestricht—more men if possible to be sent.

“Nota, that the several States demand their own troops for their particular protection, the great inconvenience of this to be put to Their Noble Mightinesses. Jealousy of other provinces that they pay men to defend Holland—but this must be; nota, that the Hague and Amsterdam are the chief towns and must be defended at any cost.”

John de Witt looked across the candles at his secretary.

“Add that the other States be reminded Holland bears the chief cost.”

The pen scratched a moment, then M. Van Ouvenaller resumed—

“The Dutch envoys received violently by His Highness the Prince William, and coldly by His Christian Majesty; M. de Groot’s report not hopeful. M. de Louvois appears unreasonable; M. Van Odyk, fearful of displeasing the Prince and the State of Zeeland, withdraws from the embassy; M. de Groot returns to the Hague to obtain full powers, King Louis refusing to treat on any other terms; nota, that Their Noble Mightinesses be urged to grant these full powers; nota, that M. de Groot is a very able and honest man.”

The Grand Pensionary was again looking out at the night.

“Go on,” he said in a quiet voice.

“State of alarm in the country, shops closed, business suspended; nota, a more resolute front to our advantage; rumours that the Jews of Amsterdam have offered M. de CondÉ two million if he will spare their quarter, and that the goldsmiths are making a gold basin in which to present the key of their city to the King of France; nota, speak to the Deputies of Amsterdam to contradict these rumours.”

The secretary snuffed the candle again, turned over a leaf, and continued—

“Riots becoming serious, the magistrates to be exhorted to firmness; M. Cornelius de Witt hath permission, on account of his sickness, to leave the Fleet; nota, that he hath waived the salute he was entitled to and presented the powder to Dordt, where it is very scarce; nota, that the States thanked him for his noble conduct at the battle off Southwold town, and that I reply for him, he being abed in Dordt; nota, that there are riots in Dordt, and the portrait of M. Cornelius de Witt hath been cut from its frame in the town hall; protests to be made with regard to the weakness of authority.”

“Underline that,” interrupted John de Witt, “for it is of all things serious.”

Van Ouvenaller obeyed.

“Nota, that the English envoys are dissolute and frivolous men, and come not for any honest desire for peace but to see their master has a share of the spoil; nota, that Viscount Halifax is the most moderate and the least trusted by his Government, that the Earl of Arlington was in the treaty of Dover, and that the Duke of Buckingham is jealous of the Prince James of Monmouth who has the command he desires; nota, most hopes from him; nota, fear they have secret offers to make to the Prince William of Orange, to his advantage, but not to that of the States; nota, that there is a popular idea that if the stadtholdership were reinstated King Charles would make peace; nota, this false, he makes war not for his nephew’s sake, but because of the treaty with France.

“Nota, that the alliances with Spain and Brandenburg go well.

“Nota, that the Prince William of Orange is popular in England; nota, not to trust him, M. Fagel has changed front and is utterly against peace; nota, he has received instructions from the Prince.

“Fresh levies to be sent to Groningen; nota, that the French, especially M. de Luxembourg, behave with great cruelty, thereby filling the people with terror.

“Nota, confidence to be restored to the States by resolute speaking, despair a worse enemy than the French.

“Nota, that the clamour for the Prince of Orange grows, and that the people seem to put more trust in him than in God.

“Nota, that two days of fasting be appointed till God be pleased to guide us out of these troubles.

“Nota, that the Princess Amalia petitions the State for leave to ask the King of France’s protection for her property at the Hague; nota, not to be granted, as it would show despair of our success.

“Nota, that one Mynheer Sylvius arrived from England on a secret mission to the Prince; nota, that this looks ill.

“These notes made Tuesday, June 21, 1672, at the Binnenhof.”

John de Witt drew out his handkerchief and wiped his brow.

“How hot it is, Van Ouvenaller,” he remarked.

The clerk folded up the memoranda.

“Have we finished now, Mynheer?” he asked wearily.

“No, I have another letter to write.”

M. Van Ouvenaller pulled out a fresh sheet of paper.

“A moment,” said the Grand Pensionary. “I must collect myself.”

He rose and went to the window.

The summer night had soothed or silenced the sorrows and passions that had raged all day; gone were the threatening men, the weeping women, the clatter of the burgher companies, the passing to and fro of the town guard, the people who had pressed to the Binnenhof for news, the crowds who had swept through the distracted streets clamouring for the Prince of Orange. Binnenhof and Buitenhof were both dark save for this one light in John de Witt’s window.

The stars shone through a fine vapour; the glow of the lamps round the Vyverberg was half obscured by the thick leaves of the wych elms and the limes, which sent up a luscious fragrance to the open window.

John de Witt stood quite still. The black velvet and falling lace collar threw into relief his romantic good looks; the candid and melancholy features that were strangely unlined and simple in expression for one whose years had been so laboriously full.

He looked less than his years, partly by reason of the heavy brown hair that still fell so thickly on to his shoulders, and the full but shapely mouth whose lips lay together with a fresh and youthful set of gentleness.

“Who is it you will write to, Mynheer?” asked Van Ouvenaller.

“To M. Beverningh.”

“And to His Highness?”

“No,” answered John de Witt.

The hot stillness had a lulling quality; lassitude was in the perfume of the silent darkness.

For once John de Witt seemed reluctant to turn to his work. He stood with one hand resting on the mullions and his eyes were dreamy.

M. Van Ouvenaller yawned.

“I remember,” remarked the Grand Pensionary, “how it was said to me—twenty years ago—when I took up this office—‘Thou must not care henceforth, whether thou be laid in thy coffin whole or in pieces.’”

The clerk lifted a startled face.

“Latterly I have thought of it,” continued his master. “How the people hate me.… I never thought that I should be so hated.”

“Mynheer!—they are but fanatics——”

“Fanatics,” echoed John de Witt, with a sad smile. “They think I sell them to M. de Louvois.”

He pressed his hand to his heart as if he was wounded there.

“When they took this office from my predecessor Cats, he thanked God on his knees for removing such a heavy burden from him.… Well, he was never hated as I am.”

“Mynheer, it is but the vulgar who rail against you.”

John de Witt turned his full eyes on the secretary.

“It is the People,” he said mournfully. “The People of this Republic … if they trusted me I could save them yet … if they trusted me——”

He returned to the table and took up the pen.

“I must make some answer to that pamphlet, Advice to every Faithful Hollander, there are accusations there must not be overlooked. Their High Mightinesses will do me that justice, to silence some of these lying tongues—remind me, Van Ouvenaller … many thousand copies have been sold, here alone——”

He spoke proudly and frowned a little. His clerk knew that the malice, detraction, and bitterness surrounding him harassed his noble spirit sorely. He walked like an unarmed man among gathered spears that might any moment be turned against his heart.

“And is this all we have to do to-night, Mynheer?” asked the clerk.

“Yes.”

Van Ouvenaller began to put up the papers in the dispatch bag; when he rose he walked stiffly, by reason of his long sitting.

John de Witt’s pen travelled rapidly over the smooth paper. Once he began his eager spirit did not lack for means of expression, his unwearied soul held his tired body to the task.

His letter to Jerome Beverningh ended thus—

“We must consider Amsterdam as the heart of the State, by which succour may be carried to all its members; so that, under God’s guidance, we may fight against the enemy for our country to the last man, and with Dutch constancy.”

He folded and sealed his letter, then rose again.

It was now nearly midnight and the heat increasing; the faint breeze had completely dropped.

“You will go home now?” asked Van Ouvenaller anxiously. “It is so late, and you, Mynheer, have laboured exceedingly to-day.”

“It is not the labour that irks but the payment,” answered John de Witt. “I learn with sorrow the truth of the ancient saying they applied to the Roman Republic—‘Prospera omnes sibi vindicant, adversa uni imputantur.’ Ah, Van Ouvenaller, they say from the very pulpits that I would sooner let the country go to the French than see the Prince of Orange governor of it.”

“The Calvinists are all ardent in his favour,” replied the secretary; “naturally, for he is very zealous for their creed.”

John de Witt took his hat and cloak from a chair.

“I hope my sister hath not sat up for me.”

“She always does,” answered Van Ouvenaller, drawing the string of the dispatch-bag.

“To-night I am so late.”

He waited while the clerk locked up the desk, then extinguished all the candles but one, which he took up and carried into the outer room.

There, by the dim light of a lamp, sat his servant asleep.

“Van den Wissel,” said John de Witt.

The man woke with a start and a confused excuse.

“No matter,” answered his master. “I am going home now.”

He gave the servant the candle, and the three traversed the silent corridors of the Binnenhof.

In the courtyard was a little delay while Van den Wissel lit a torch with which to guide them home.

As the chimes of the Groote Kerk struck twelve, they set out across the Buitenhof, the servant ahead bearing the torch, and Van Ouvenaller following with the dispatch-bag.

The outer air and the movement refreshed the Grand Pensionary. He found the dark night and the darker outlines of the fine buildings grateful to his tired eyes, the silence pleasant after the scratching of the quills and the weary voice of the little clerk.

His anxious thoughts took a more peaceful turn; his pious fancy imagined the serene stars promised protection from the God they concealed.

But as he neared the Gevangenpoort he must needs think of John Van Olden Barnenveldt and gloomy auguries.

They turned under the prison, through the low gate on which it was built; the spreading light of the torch showed the heavy walls closely confining them, and John de Witt shivered in his velvet.

He was glad when they reached the trees surrounding the Vyver.

It was solitary, as always at this time of night, but he thought he heard an unaccountable sound.

“Van Ouvenaller,” he spoke over his shoulder, “do you hear anything?”

“Nothing, Mynheer,” was the sleepy answer.

“I thought I heard some one draw a sword,” replied John de Witt, peering into the shadows of the trees.

Even as he spoke there was a great cry from his servant; the torch was swung up into the air, where it scattered sparks across the blackness, then dashed to the earth; some dark shapes leapt forward.…

“Ah!” cried John de Witt, with a quick intake of his breath.

“We have been waiting for you,” answered a youthful voice, “watching your light yonder … traitor!”

“M. de Witt!” yelled the clerk dismally; then he was silent suddenly, and the Grand Pensionary heard him fall.

It was quite dark. He stepped back against the railings and called his servant; a man quickly closed with him.

“I am unarmed,” he said. “Are you an assassin?”

His opponent flung himself on him and thrust his sword viciously at him, wounding him in the throat.

Taken by surprise as he was, John de Witt turned, seized his assailant, and hurled him off.

“Van den Wissel!” he called again; but the only answer came from two others of the ambuscade, who rushed to the assistance of the one the Grand Pensionary had thrown. He had now three against him; he set his back against the railings and fought them off with his bare hands, proudly saying nothing, though every moment he received a fresh wound.

It could not last long. As he turned to face one, another stabbed him in the back and he fell silently, striking his head violently against the railings of the Vyver.

Hoarse, broken whispers came from the murderers—

“Is he dead?”

“He fell.…”

“Yes—he is dead.”

“Who struck him?”

“I—Jacob Van der Graef.”

“Hush!—I cannot see any one.”

“No—it is too dark.”

“What of the servant?”

“Is that you, Bruyn?”

“Yes——”

“The lot fell to you——”

“Well, I struck him——”

“I killed him——”

“So die all friends of King Louis!”

“Hush!”

“Ah!—I am treading on him——”

“My God! I feel giddy——”

“Come away——”

“Have you the dispatch-bag?”

“Yes——”

“And the clerk?”

“Here.”

“Dead?”

“I do not know.”

“He did not see us?”

“I think not——”

“Then leave him——”

“I have lost my sword——”

“Well, come away——”

“I cannot leave it here.”

“I am wounded——”

“Where is Borrebagh?”

“Here.”

“Where shall we go?”

“To Van Dyck’s house.”

“Make haste.”

So four hoarse voices passed to and fro as the assassins stumbled among their victims; then they made off across the Plaats with all the haste terror, exultation, and their wounds would permit them.

Once more it was utterly silent on the Plaats.

The great chimes of the Groote Kerk struck through a warm stillness.

John de Witt sat up and fumbled in the dark.

Emptiness and perfect blackness seemed about him; he put his hand to his head and felt it warm and wet.

“Van Ouvenaller,” he called faintly.

There was no answer.

By the aid of the railings he got to his feet.

His right shoulder gave him exquisite pain; his strength seemed to have been utterly robbed from him.

He clutched at his collar that was all sticky with blood, and gave a soft exclamation.

“God be with me if this is death,” he said dazedly.

Then across the night he saw the light they always left for him in his room—at home.

A sudden waft of perfume from the limes came to his nostrils.

“I will not die in the streets, like a gallant in a tavern brawl,” he thought, and forced his failing strength to drag him on. Clutching the railings, the tree-trunks, staggering, falling once or twice to his knees, John de Witt gained his house at the corner of the Kneuterdyk Avenue.

As he leant, exhausted, against the door-post it occurred to him that his appearance would frighten his sister and daughter, who might still be up.

He tried to fling his velvet mantle over himself, but could not.

A great giddiness came over him; he opened the door and stumbled into the quiet hall.

At the bottom of the stairs stood Anna de Witt in a white gown, her fair hair shining in the glimmer of the lamp she held.

“Oh!” she cried brokenly. “O—oh!” and ran forward.

John de Witt was blood from head to foot; his collar soaked from the wound in his throat, his hands red and torn, his shirt stained, his forehead bruised, and the hair clotted with the slow drippings from the gash in his head.

He tried to reassure his daughter.

“Dearest … I have escaped … why, this is nothing at all—get me a surgeon, Anna——”

The girl did not lose her presence of mind; she made no lamentations.

“Aunt Johanna!” she called strongly. “Aunt Johanna!”

Madame Van Beveren appeared in the door of the dining-room where she had been preparing her brother’s supper.

“Father is wounded,” said Anna de Witt.

Johanna stepped into the hall, and her eyes fell on the Grand Pensionary who supported himself against the wall.

“God have mercy on us!” she exclaimed.

She had a blue china bowl of peaches in her hands; in a mechanical way she set it down on the table where Anna had placed the lamp.

“John,”—she caught her brother by the arm,—“come upstairs.”

“I was attacked on the Vyverberg,” said the Grand Pensionary thickly. “How they hate me——”

“Anna, rouse your grandfather—the servants—send one for the physicians of the States—and M. Wilde——John, can you get upstairs?”

Anna dashed into the dining-room and rang the bell; sped upstairs and beat on Jacob de Witt’s door.

When she returned to the hall she found John de Witt senseless in the chair outside the dining-room door and his sister bending over him, her spotless gown stained with blood as she strove to stanch the wound in his throat.

In a moment the whole house was in a commotion. M. de Witt had only two men-servants, one of whom had been with him at the Binnenhof; but the coachman and the other private clerk, M. Bacherus, carried him up to his room; then hurried out with torches to fetch a doctor and search for the other victims.

Jacob de Witt lost his usual resignation; he wrung his hands and cried out for Cornelius, for he was very old.

Anna led him gently away.

“God does not will that my father should die,” she said. “We must not complain, but rather rejoice that through a miracle he hath been saved.”

“God’s will be done,” said the old man, but the tears rolled down his pale cheeks.

Anna sat beside him, holding his hand, in the dining-room, where the untouched supper showed pleasant in the candlelight, while the doctors went upstairs.

Presently M. Wilde entered.

“The wounds are not mortal,” he said. “M. de Witt will live.”