“Since Octavius the world had seen no such instance of precocious statesmanship.”—Lord Macaulay, History of England.

“Nobile par fratrum, sÆvo furor ore trucidat.”—Motto on a medal in commemoration of August 20, 1672.

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CHAPTER I
THE CAMP OF THE CONQUEROR

Sir Gabriel Sylvius arrived at Doesburg to find that King Louis was already on the road to Utrecht; immediately came news of his entry into that town and his choice of headquarters at Zeyst, the castle of M. Van Odyk.

The alarmed States, deprived of the leadership of John de Witt, who was confined to his bed with a raging fever from his wounds, had given M. de Groot full powers to treat with King Louis, and he, despite the violent remonstrances of M. Fagel, repaired with M. Van Ghent to the camp of the conqueror on a desperate attempt to obtain honourable terms for his distracted country.

Sir Gabriel Sylvius retraced his steps over the conquered and despairing provinces of Overyssel and Guelders, where M. de Luxembourg was making the people taste the full severities of military rule, and took lodgings in Utrecht.

The day before his arrival M. de Groot had returned from the Hague, hastily, for fear the Orange party should prevent his departure, and Sir Gabriel found the old castle of Zeyst the head of the negotiations that were to decide the fate of the United Provinces.

Louis, having taken Utrecht, and forced the Dutch to the humiliation of returning M. de Groot with full powers to treat for peace, deigned to allow a truce.

The Prince of Orange, with the remnant of his forces, lay at Newerbrugge, between Leyden and Haarlem; and M. de Turenne, sweeping the Protestants down with the fervour of a convert, made preparations to annihilate him should the negotiations fall through. He declared His Majesty should dine at the Hague within the next month, as friend or foe, and swore it before the Saints he had recently recognised.

He was the more eager as M. de CondÉ, wounded at the passage of the Rhine, had retired to Chantilly, and his now was the sole glory of the war.

Sir Gabriel sent his name and credentials to M. de Louvois, and to the surprise of his secretary, Florent Van Mander, the acknowledgment was an instant command to attend His Majesty.

To Florent’s further surprise they were received with great courtesy by the gorgeous officials who shed splendour on the French Court. Van Mander knew that the Dutch envoys had been met with a supreme haughtiness; he held M. de Groot a much greater man than Sir Gabriel Sylvius, who was, after all, only the secret messenger of a citizen.

But Louis made a fine distinction between the representative of a confederation of traders whom he had always disliked, despised, and now regarded as conquered, and William of Orange, his cousin, a Prince of the blood royal of England, a Grandee of the German Empire, the possessor of one of the finest private fortunes in Europe, and the owner of talents and qualities that might well fit him to join the galaxy of great names that shed lustre on the crown of Louis de Bourbon.

So the Prince’s envoy was received graciously at the castle of Zeyst. He arrived there towards the close of a warm day, soon after His Majesty had returned from an inspection of Utrecht’s fortifications; he was conducted, with his secretary, into one of the chambers that opened into the great dining-hall, where once M. Van Odyk had entertained his master.

Florent Van Mander had just crossed a conquered province and was lodged in a conquered city; he had seen the Host carried through the streets of Utrecht, and listened to the chants of the priests that had not been heard in the United Provinces since they drove out Farnese; he had seen his countrymen killed, spurned, insulted; he had seen their dwellings fired, their goods plundered; he had seen the burgomasters submit humbly to the omnipotent King; and now he was looking on the inner side of this terrible army that had taken two provinces in so many weeks.

He made no comment; he had said very little since he left the Prince’s camp. Sir Gabriel had an open manner that disguised complete reserve.

Florent fed his silence with rumours; of the wounding of M. de Witt, of the frantic state of feeling in Holland, of M. de Groot’s desperate mission, of the arrival of the English envoys at the Hague; of the rapacity of M. de Louvois and the high-handed arrogance of his master: which things he considered and reflected upon day and night.

The castle was filled with French officers, splendid men of graceful manners. Van Mander found them as dazzling as the reports of their exploits; looking at them he felt that his country was non-existent, already a province of France, and he thought of William of Orange, and wondered why Sir Gabriel sought an audience with the conqueror.

Yet he believed that he knew.

The room they waited in was very handsomely hung with Flemish tapestry representing the story of the Unicorn, and furnished with inlaid Spanish pieces, for M. Van Odyk had wealth and good taste; the door into the next chamber was curtained with dark velvet, looped back, and from behind it came the sound of a man singing in a voice of a pleasant, medium quality.

He sang in English to the accompaniment of a lute.

Sir Gabriel walked up and down the room, glancing out of the deep windows he passed at the French soldiers in their gay uniforms filling the grey courtyard below.

He held his hat behind his back, and his shrewd, freckled face was set in lines of reflection.

Van Mander stared at the contorted figures on the arras, and listened to the clatter of horses and arms from without.

Above it all rose the near sound of the English song—

Sir Gabriel stopped by the window and frowned; he was impatient at being kept waiting, even by His Majesty.

The singer paused, and seemed to fidget with the strings of his instrument that he played but moderately well.

Florent became curious to see who sang.

Sir Gabriel seemed self-absorbed, so he rose and moved so that he could see beyond the curtain into the inner room.

Just beyond the door he saw a young man, with one foot on a chair, holding across his knee a long-necked lute of shining ivory and satinwood.

His face was turned away. His person was a matter of great marvel and admiration to Florent, who had never seen anything more splendid than this cavalier.

He was a well-made man, very young, it seemed, and dressed in a dark rose brocade stiff with threads of silver and fastened with little knots of pearls; round his waist was a white silk sash branched and fringed with silver; his sleeves were unbuttoned and turned back over his rich needlework shirt, he wore a deep falling collar of Venetian lace and had fine ruffles of it at his wrists and knees.

A baldric of white velvet worked with jewels supported his slender sword with its curious gold hilt; his close, high boots were of white leather, and his spurs gilt and fantastically shaped.

On the chair lay his gloves, trimmed with pearls, and his grey hat with an upright plume of white feathers and twisted with a silver cord fastened with a diamond brooch.

As Van Mander stared at him he seemed to become conscious of the scrutiny and turned his head, revealing the most beautiful face Florent had ever seen on man or woman.

Yet the sheer perfection of curving line and warm brown colour made not the chief attraction—this lay in the expression, a charming combination of dare-devilry and sweetness, amiability and an innocent pride; a face by no means effeminate, not very intelligent, but wholly lovely and lovable.

He had deep, soft brown eyes, straight, thick brows, a blunt English nose, a fair complexion, a beautiful and expressive mouth; his thick, waving, chestnut hair fell in curls on to his shoulders and on the left side was tied with a knot of pink ribbon, a fashion Florent had not seen before.

His glance dwelt for a moment on the man observing him, then he turned away again, bending over the gleaming lute, but now without singing.

Sir Gabriel came from the window and Florent went over to him.

“Who is that cavalier in there—decked out like a woman?” he whispered.

“Is there one in there?”

“Yes, Mynheer, he who sang.”

“Ah, yes——”

Sir Gabriel crossed the room and looked into the outer chamber.

The lutanist had set his instrument down and was gathering up his gloves and hat.

“It is the Englishman,” said Sir Gabriel indifferently.

“The Englishman?”

“The Prince James of Monmouth.”

The Duke heard his name and held back the curtain.

Sir Gabriel bowed.

“I await an audience with His Majesty, your Grace.”

The Englishman gave them both the sweet smile he had for every one.

“Ah, Sir Gabriel—I did not think to see you again, so soon——”

“Nor I, your Grace.”

“You come from the Prince of Orange?” asked Monmouth. He spoke in English, for he had no other language but a little imperfect French, and Florent, who could not understand what he said, dwelt on his glittering presence with a slow admiration.

“Yes,” answered Sir Gabriel, with a little smile.

The Duke smiled again too, for no reason but good-nature.

“It has been a most marvellous campaign,” he remarked, with his usual utter absence of tact. “A glorious beginning to the war——”

“For the King of France, your Grace,” replied Sir Gabriel. “I am in the service of the Prince of Orange.”

“Ah, yes—forgive me,” said Monmouth sweetly; “but I hope it will be to His Highness’ advantage also.”

With which vague remark he changed the subject.

“Did you see my lord Arlington lately?”

“I crossed from Harwich with him.”

His Grace half frowned.

“I should have heard from him. It is astonishing, Sir Gabriel, how difficult it is to get letters here.”

“I can believe it, sir.”

“My lord promised me supplies of money,” said the Englishman frankly, “which I am already in need of——”

He paused a moment, and then added—

“But I can take you to His Majesty now, Sir Gabriel; I do not know why they make delays.”

He pulled out a little crystal watch.

“It is near dinner-time—I will take you with me and you may see His Majesty before he dines.”

“I shall be infinitely obliged, your Grace.”

Monmouth included the secretary in a sweetly courteous glance, and begged them to follow him.

“Have you seen our soldiers, Sir Gabriel?” he asked as they proceeded through M. Van Odyk’s handsome chambers. “By the Lord, ’tis a mighty fine army.”

“I hear your Grace has distinguished yourself——”

“Oh, la! I don’t know; it is vastly amusing being a general, Sir Gabriel.”

They traversed a large antechamber filled with bowing pages and several officers of the King’s Guard, who swept off their hats to the commander of the English forces.

“We are private and informal here,” said Monmouth, who was used to splendour ever since he could remember, and he opened the door into what had once been M. Van Odyk’s private dining-room.

Sir Gabriel spoke to Florent in their own language over his shoulder.

“Now you will see a notable company.”

This with a half-smile, as if the greatness there was such a stir about in Europe was not so dazzling on a near view.

It was a fine room; the ceiling beamed and painted, the walls panelled half-way up and above that hung with arras, save over the mantelshelf where the woodwork rose to the ceiling and formed a background for some dark family portraits.

There were velvet cushions in the deep window-seats and on the various carved chairs, and on a handsome buffet a rich collection of glass and gold and silver plate.

The usual quietly splendid and plainly costly chamber of a Dutch nobleman.

Seated at the head of the long table were two men, looking at a map: one young, scarcely at his prime, short, stoutly made, with a broad, vigorous face, and crimped brown hair falling on to his collar, dressed in black silk ruffled with red ribbons; the other a man of about thirty-five, also below the medium height, but slender, with a brown, handsome countenance, long effective eyes, an imperious mouth, and a hard expression of pride and obstinacy.

He wore green velvet, cut short in the French fashion to show his shirt, a gold baldric, and no ornament save a little brooch of pearls at his collar; his hair, chestnut colour and very fine, was frizzed to stand out in a multitude of little curls that fell to the middle of his shoulders.

Behind him, leaning on the back of his chair, stood another gentleman, eating chocolates, who was far more richly dressed, being nearly as extravagant as my lord Monmouth, but not near so handsome, though of a delicate face and a graceful carriage.

Standing by the hearth was a tall man very plainly habited in brown velvet, well past middle life, but erect and powerful, with haggard features, fiery eyes, and an air of melancholy, dishevelled grandeur; of these four he had the most appearance of greatness, and seemed to know it and to despise his surroundings.

Monmouth advanced, his hat in his hand.

The man in the green velvet turned in his chair.

“Sire, this is Sir Gabriel, the messenger from His Highness of Orange,” said his Grace.

Florent stared, wondering which was the King, and attracted by the man on the hearth who took no notice of any.

“We are glad to see you, Monsieur,” said the gentleman in green graciously, and then Florent knew that he was the King, for Sir Gabriel knelt and kissed his hand.

When he rose he motioned towards Florent.

“My secretary, Sire, who is in His Highness’ favour.”

Florent bowed very low.

“You are both very welcome to Zeyst,” said Louis. “M. de Louvois,” and he looked at the other seated at the table, “advertised us of your coming, and, pressed as we are with great affairs, we were very pleased to grant you an audience.”

He had an air of great and distant dignity, but he made it plain that he wished to be gracious.

Sir Gabriel, in no way discomposed, bowed again.

“Sire, I am no accredited ambassador but the private agent of the Prince, as Your Majesty knows, and the first object of my mission was to the commissioners of His Majesty King Charles, but I received instructions from His Highness to wait on you, to tender you his duty, and to ask Your Majesty if you would be pleased to enlighten him, not as a subject of the United Provinces, but as a member of Your Majesty’s House, what terms Your Majesty desires from the United Provinces?”

The King seemed pleased with this speech. M. de Louvois looked up sharply from his map.

Monmouth and the gentleman from behind Louis’ chair had withdrawn together to a window embrasure, as if business was small matter to either of them.

“My cousin sends to us as a private person?” asked the King.

“As affairs stand, Sire, His Highness is no more.”

Louis lifted his fine eyes.

“I have no quarrel with the Prince of Orange, Sir Gabriel. He hath been unjustly treated by these insolent States whose outrages on myself I have chastised, and His Britannic Majesty hath a great affection for him—I speak openly.” He glanced at M. de Louvois.

“We war,” he added arrogantly, “with a Republic that hath annoyed us, not with our cousin.”

“I thank you, Sire.”

M. de Louvois was listening intently.

“M. de Groot,” continued Louis, “has our terms; if the States refuse them we shall advance on the Hague.”

M. de Louvois spoke—

“Your countrymen think those terms severe, do they not, Sir Gabriel?”

“They are hardly blown abroad yet, M. le Marquis.”

“I believe the States have the folly to complain of what we choose to dictate to them. But I think they will accept,” remarked the King.

“I would remind Your Majesty this is no affair of His Highness.”

“I know,” assented Louis; “and I will tell you this for His Highness’ private satisfaction, that his advantage is clearly looked to in these same Articles of Peace.”

“I was assured so in London, Sire.”

Louis faintly smiled.

“What is said in London I generally say first, Sir Gabriel.”

The Prince’s messenger bowed—

“I am well enough informed to know who rules Europe, Sire.”

His Majesty accepted the compliment with serene graciousness.

“Let His Highness put his affairs in my hands and he will not repent it, Sir Gabriel.”

M. de Louvois spoke again—

“I hear there is some talk of a revolution at the Hague—M. de Witt has lost all prestige.”

The Dutchman avoided a direct answer.

“His Highness is very popular.”

Louis made a disdainful gesture with his hand.

“I can do better for my cousin than a confederacy of traders. Cadets of my House, Monsieur, need never lack glorious employment—the arms of France will always receive noble recruits.”

He smiled again.

“The Prince’s behaviour has pleased me; M. de CondÉ commended his generalship, it is thought that he might fashion into a fine soldier. He has made mistakes, notably in abandoning the Yssel, but I believe there were difficulties in his way——”

“Great difficulties, Sire.”

“He wastes his talents in these uninhabitable marshes, we shall look to see him at Versailles.”

His Majesty was invitingly pleasant.

“Tell this to my cousin: I hear he has ill-health—he must take care of it. I am anxious to see him, I hope he will attend me at the Hague after the conclusion of peace.”

“Sire, after proving yourself as irresistible as Alexander you show yourself as generous as Scipio.”

Louis said nothing to this. He covered his absolute ignorance, of which he was heartily ashamed, with a perfect manner and an unmoved front.

M. de Louvois smiled dryly; he wore the air of a ruler even of the King.

He administered the commissariat department, the brilliant management of which had largely helped to secure the successes of the campaign, and considered himself equally great with, and far more valuable than, any general.

“I am to assure His Highness of Your Majesty’s friendship?” Sylvius bowed on a note of interrogation.

“You may give him,” said Louis, with a large air of generosity, “a proof of it—I have ordered that my troops are to spare his lordship of Grave that we have recently taken——”

M. de Louvois broke in through Sir Gabriel’s thanks—

“Your Majesty, M. de Groot refuses the protection offered him for his country-house.”

“Why, M. le Marquis?” demanded the King haughtily.

The Minister shrugged his shoulders.

“Roman virtue, Sire—he refused to be spared any of the ills falling on his fellow-countrymen.”

“M. de Groot,” said Louis, “becomes insufferable.” He turned again to Sir Gabriel—

“My cousin is at Bodegraven?”

“At Newerbrugge, Your Majesty.”

“The English envoys intend to visit him there?”

“I believe so, Sire.”

“Well,” smiled the King, “we will hope they will be able to arrange matters with His Highness, whom I am impatient to embrace.”

“There is not much doubt of it,” added M. de Louvois.

The Duke of Monmouth and his companion came forward, talking together.

“Philippe,” said Louis rather sharply, “when do you hold the review of your brigade?”

“This evening, Sire,” answered M. D’Orleans.

“Sir Gabriel must see it.”

The fourth man, who had remained all this time apart, now approached the little group.

“If Your Majesty will give me leave—I am due in Utrecht.”

He wore brown velvet touched with gold, and had a noble, careless presence.

Louis answered him with deference—

“I do not presume to give you orders, as you know, M. de Turenne.”

The Vicomte bowed.

“M. Vauban requested my attendance.”

“Then I must not keep you,” answered Louis gracefully; “but first, this is a messenger from my cousin, the little Prince of Orange.”

M. de Turenne fixed his searching eyes on Sir Gabriel, and a faint colour tinged his worn cheeks.

Turenne’s mother had come of the House of Nassau; nearly all his life he had belonged to the Reformed religion; but he had sacrificed his conscience to his glory, his faith to his fame.

“Am I to have the Prince of Orange on my staff, Sire?” he asked, with a touch of scorn.

“We hope so, M. le Vicomte,” answered Louis suavely.

The great soldier gave his master a curious look.

“So you have tempted him, too,” he said. “Your Majesty is irresistible.”

“It is you who have made me so,” replied the King.

M. de Louvois smiled at this sourly.

“There are some of Your Majesty’s triumphs that I have had no hand in,” said M. de Turenne.

“Those I must thank M. le Marquis de Louvois for,” responded Louis, with his air of fine-mannered greatness.

“Whom will you thank when the Prince of Orange goes to Mass, Sire?”

“It will be the Prince who will thank me, Monsieur le Vicomte,” answered His Majesty.

M. de Turenne spoke, his tone slightly sarcastic—

“You are very fortunate, Sire, to be able to buy everything, even men’s faith.”

Louis’ straight brows rose a little.

“What price,” continued M. de Turenne, “will Your Majesty give for this—the conscience of a Calvinist?”

Louis looked at him straightly—

“That which bought one before,” he answered, “my favour.”

M. de Louvois stole a malicious glance at M. D’Orleans.

The Vicomte de Turenne bowed, hitched up his baldric, and left the chamber heavily.

The King’s face was clouded.

“What is amiss with M. de Turenne?” he asked haughtily.

“He has his moods, Sire,” smiled the Minister.

“He says the strangest things,” remarked Louis. “Why does he remind me he was once a heretic?”

“It gave Your Majesty the chance to remind him what procured his conversion,” answered M. D’Orleans.

Louis pulled out his handkerchief and pressed it to his lips.

“I will take M. de Turenne’s moods,” he said, “but no one’s comments on them.”

He rose and turned to Sir Gabriel, who awaited his dismissal.

“I hope to see you at the review this evening, Monsieur. Convey my very good friendship to His Highness.”

He held out his fine hand and Sir Gabriel kissed it; then bowed severally to the other gentlemen.

M. de Louvois gave him a curt nod, M. D’Orleans was vacant, and the Englishman came to the door with him.

“You have reason to be satisfied, His Majesty is very well disposed towards you. Commend me to His Highness—I hope we shall both be fighting under the same flag.”

“I thank your Grace.”

The fair face smiled in an eager, fascinating manner, as if his Grace’s one desire was to please Sir Gabriel, but in reality he hardly understood the matter and was wholly indifferent to it, his mind being occupied with a game of tennis he proposed with M. D’Orleans, and his assumed interest being merely his good nature.

Florent gazed at him, then for an instant back at the man wearing green velvet and frizzed hair who was the King of France; he looked at the man beside him, alert, composed, and commonplace, M. de Louvois, feared throughout Europe.

A page in gorgeous livery conducted them through the castle.

Florent, bewildered and disturbed, was further troubled, as they passed along the handsome rooms, by a glimpse through an open door of three people.

Madame Lavalette was one, M. de Pomponne and Hyacinthe St. Croix the others; St. Croix, looking up, recognised Florent, and nodded in a meaning way.

Van Mander frowned and coloured. When they were clear of the castle, and its dazzle of pomp and soldiery, he turned abruptly to Sir Gabriel—

“What does it mean, Mynheer?”

Gabriel Sylvius answered composedly—

“It means I can tell His Highness not to concern himself about the terms offered to M. de Groot, for His Majesty is entirely friendly and will do more for the Prince than the States could ever do.”

“Which is to say, His Highness will change his religion?” said Florent gloomily.

Sir Gabriel smiled.

“We must not commit ourselves as to that, but it is possible that in a little while the theology of Geneva will be extremely unfashionable.”

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CHAPTER II
THE TEMPTERS

“Mynheer, if you call the position one of absolute despair,” said William Bentinck, “you will not be wrong.”

He spoke to M. Beuningen, late ambassador to England, who was now employed on desperate errands between the States and the Prince.

It was afternoon, warm and cloudy; the two walked up and down the little garden belonging to the farm where the Captain General had fixed his headquarters. About them lay the encampment. The remnant of the Dutch army, thirteen thousand men, had been gathered here at Newerbrugge to defend the two remaining provinces in concordance with the dauntless policy of the Prince, which was in direct contrast to the consternation, desperation, and submission displayed by the Government.

M. Van Beuningen, accomplished, high-minded, voluble, charming and impetuous, fair, handsome, and finely dressed, was silent awhile, fixing his blue eyes on the distant, sluggish waters of the old Rhine.

M. Bentinck spoke again—

“Louis will be at the Hague in a week.”

“How can you utter such words?” broke out M. Beuningen passionately.

“It is so obvious. Did you hear that Leerdam and Knotsenbourg, Swartenluis, and many smaller places have fallen?”

“I know … I know——”

“Well?” M. Bentinck asked.

“I still have hopes.”

“In what?”

“In the Prince.”

M. Bentinck smiled rather grimly.

“The Prince is another matter—he is not involved in the ruin of the States.”

M. Beuningen glanced at him quickly.

“Mynheer,” he said in an agitated voice, “you are His Highness’ friend—tell me, in God’s name, has he a mind to sell us to the French?”

“Why, you speak bluntly.”

“The matter is not one for fair phrasing.”

M. Bentinck knocked with his cane at the heavy heads of the pinks along the walk.

“I am not free to say anything of the Prince, Mynheer; but I will tell you this, His Highness is in no way bound to the States, who have kept his rights from him and treated him with suspicion and distrust for twenty years.”

“You justify his acceptance of overtures from the King of France?”

“I say he is not bound by any law to refuse them.”

“By your leave, Mynheer,” answered M. Beuningen, “the laws of God forbid a man to sell his country.”

“The laws of God,” smiled M. Bentinck, “vary according to the interpreter,—and I think, Mynheer, that there will be very little of the United Provinces left for any one to either buy or sell.”

M. Beuningen uttered a little sound of desperation. The Prince’s friend watched him with some malice, for he had been of the republican party in the days of the glory of John de Witt.

“What is it like at the Hague?” asked M. Bentinck.

They halted by the gate and looked over the neat painted paling towards the camp.

“It is naught but wrath and anguish,” answered M. Beuningen with emotion. “M. de Witt hath but recovered from a raging fever to find himself execrated. He hath written a justification of himself—about the Secret Service money, and the ill supplying of the Army—but who will listen to sober reason?”

“And the peace proposals please no one?”

Coenraad Beuningen replied hotly—

“They are insolent—impossible. When M. de Groot read them to the States, many wept and wrung their hands.… They have asked five days in which to consider them.”

He paused a moment, then added—

“The shops are closed, all business suspended. This week they did not print The Gazette; the Binnenhof is besieged with angry people—one feeling appears to warm them against the chill of despair, and that is the firmness of the Prince.”

“These things point to a revolution from within even if we escape conquest without.”

“The Prince hath always had the people, and now they believe he can save them——”

“Do they believe,” asked M. Bentinck, “that by making him Stadtholder they will mollify Charles into breaking with Louis?”

“Some may, I do not.”

“Nor I,” admitted M. Bentinck.

“The States,” continued M. Beuningen, “are further divided among themselves. Many are for accepting the terms as they stand—M. Fagel says he would sooner be cut to pieces than subscribe to them.… M. Jacob Van der Graef was executed yesterday, the crowd tried to rescue him. He confessed to the attack on M. de Witt and expressed his repentance——”

“And named his accomplices,” commented M. Bentinck.

“Who have escaped——”

“They are in the camp the States say.”

“I know. The States wrote to His Highness requesting that the men be delivered up; the Prince had other business to attend to than making a search for obscure fanatics.”

“What of M. de Montbas?” asked M. Beuningen.

“He was found guilty and banished for fifteen years; the Prince told them to reconsider the sentence——”

“Not finding it severe enough?”

“No.”

“That shows His Highness hates a traitor——”

“Or a coward.”

The two men fell into silence, their gaze still upon the tents.

Close by the soldiers had built fires between bricks, and in a raised earth-oven were cooking meat. The sun darted a long ray through the clouds and sparkled on the distant Rhine; a white butterfly fluttered up from the garden and flew over the tents.

A horseman rode up, flung the reins to his servant, and dismounted at the farmhouse gate.

It was the Prince.

M. Bentinck and M. Beuningen stood aside.

“Come into the house,” said the Captain General abruptly.

When they had followed him into the hall he spoke again.

“The English envoys have arrived—I am to see them now. Mynheer Van Beuningen, you come from the Hague, I will speak with you afterwards.”

Leaving the messenger of the States standing under the mirror—the first thing to be found in all Dutch houses (so that the visitor might find his own image before anything)—the Prince turned to the room to the left, followed by William Bentinck.

It was a small chamber of dark wood, plainly furnished; the table covered with dispatches.

The Prince went to the window and opened it. The fever that he had recovered from, as by a miracle, returned at intervals, and had greatly aggravated his asthmatic cough; he was shivering now, though the weather was oppressively hot.

He returned to the table and spoke to Bentinck—

“I have heard from Sir Gabriel.”

“Favourable news, Sir?”

“King Louis is resolved to ruin the States, but is wholly friendly to me. M. de Louvois said the English asked too much, and were not in a condition to put forward such terms as his master—so they quarrel already over the plunder.” He coughed, and seated himself at the table. “I have other news,” he said in the same even tones, laying his letters down. “Nymwegen has fallen.”

“Sir!”

“Yesterday,” continued William.

“We have come to a bitter pass!”

“M. Fagel writes there is fierce dissension at the Hague.… We will see what these English have to say.”

“They are in the camp now!”

“Count Struym conducts them here,” answered William.

He took off his mantle and leant back in his chair. He looked ill, and coughed continually.

M. Bentinck regarded him curiously. He rather wondered what the Prince was going to say to these English.

The situation was so desperate that any terms offered were almost bound to be accepted, but William Bentinck could not think of the Prince as submitting to either England or France.

Suddenly William broke out—

“Did you hear the terms M. de Groot obtained? Outrageous insolence! Does he think we will be content to be slaves? But they brought it on themselves by sending a crawling embassy of submission.”

“Do you imagine the English will be more reasonable, Highness?”

“I think they come to confirm their alliance with France—not to obtain justice for us.”

“Will you see them alone, Highness?”

“No—you remain, William.”

The Prince spoke in a gasping way, and held his hand to his side.

The room was full of hot air from the camp-fires, and the smell of the cooking. William rose and closed the window again, and as he was returning to his chair the English envoys entered, preceded by Count Struym.

There was a second’s pause of curiosity on either side.

William saw two splendidly dressed gentlemen, who carried themselves with an air of pride and grandeur, both tall, handsome, and decked out in the extreme of fashion.

Their persons he remembered perfectly well. The Earl of Arlington, quiet in manner, of a placid countenance, dark ringlets and moustaches, his carriage fine, but rather stout; richly habited now in black velvet and gold brocade, scarlet feathers in his hat, and wearing a collar of jewels. My lord Buckingham, once “the most beautiful person that ever graced a European Court,” but now over florid and heavy, his face suffused and lined, but still with the manner of his youth, and gorgeously attired in white cut velvet, his blonde hair elaborately curled, his blue mantle starred with silver, every detail of his attire sumptuous and costly.

On their part the Englishmen beheld a slight youth of the middle height, with a thin face, an arched nose, curved lips set disdainfully, and deep and powerful eyes, wearing plain armour and top-boots, leather gloves, and a linen cravat.

The envoys swept off their hats and bowed very low; then Buckingham held his beaver against his breast and looked at his companion over the curling feathers.

“I must receive you very simply, my lords,” said the Prince in English, as Count Struym withdrew. “I think that we have chairs—though little else.”

“I am sorry,” answered my lord Arlington, “to meet Your Highness again in this pass.”

“And I,” said the Duke, seating himself grandly, “am pleased to see Your Highness again under any circumstances.”

William gave him a quick look, then addressed himself to the Earl—

“This is my lord Bentinck—he is entirely in my confidence.”

The two noblemen bowed. M. Bentinck knew some English, but did not trust himself to speak it.

The Prince seated himself. He still wore his hat, that shaded his pale face and heavy brown hair.

The Duke, filling the room with perfume, splendour, and dazzlement, sat erect, his right hand on his gold cane, the hazy sunlight winking in his jewels.

William glanced keenly from one to the other.

“My lord Halifax?” he questioned.

“Is following, Your Highness—he was too late to accompany us.”

Of the three it was Lord Halifax whom William preferred.

“Your Highness,” continued Arlington, “we have to put before you the terms of the King, our master.”

“And I, my lord, have some reproaches to make on the manner in which His Majesty has forsaken the Triple Alliance.”

“It is to satisfy Your Highness on that matter that we are now here——”

The Duke interrupted—

“Shall we to business?”

“If you please, my lord,” answered William, not looking at him.

“Your Highness is not too fatigued?” asked Buckingham, who would sooner have gone to his supper first.

“An it please you I will hear you now,” replied the Prince.

The Earl was drawing off his gloves.

“You must not confuse the King’s action against the States with his feelings towards yourself, Highness,” he said.

“Yet I must exclaim against my uncle for this war.”

“Sir, I assure you he would never have undertaken it had he not seen your account very clear.”

The young General lowered his eyes.

“In the war, my lord?”

“Yes; it was always His Majesty’s intention to avenge the ill-treatment of Your Highness by the States,” replied Arlington. “And this war may be much to your advantage.”

William looked up.

“My lord, I cannot discuss the matter from that standpoint.… I speak as the General of the forces of the United Provinces.”

Buckingham smiled.

“It is an army almost non-existent, Your Highness,” he said.

The Prince slightly flushed.

“My lord, I do not admit that—I am expecting help from Brandenburg and Spain.”

“I trust that they will not be needed, Highness,” replied Arlington. “Peace, we hope, will render them unnecessary.”

“I do hope, my lord, an honourable peace may be come by, but the terms the King of France offers are not to be considered——”

“Yet those in desperate straits can scarce be choosers,” answered Buckingham.

“We have not come to desperation, my lord; the Emperor alone is sending me fifteen thousand men.”

The Duke shrugged his shoulders.

“Your Highness has heard of the fall of Nymwegen?”

“Yes, my lord,” answered William composedly, “but we have not the losses of the campaign under discussion—but the exorbitance of the demands of France.”

“The second is the result of the first, Highness—the King of France is in a position to make these demands.”

“And we,” returned the Prince, “are in a condition to refuse them.”

“Your Highness speaks confidently.”

“I would not have my words bolder than my actions—I am prepared to stand by what I say.”

Buckingham answered—

“Sir, what terms do you object to?”

William fixed his eyes on him.

“My lord, to all of them.… M. de Groot offered the King of France Maestricht and the towns on the border, such as Breda, Bergen-op-Zoom, and Hertogenbosch—and in this I think he exceeded his commission.”

“His Majesty rejected these terms haughtily,” commented Arlington.

The Prince glanced at him gravely.

“The King of France’s demands are these—that the frontiers of the Republic be withdrawn to the river Leek, leaving in his hands Guelders, Overyssel, Utrecht and Brabant, Delfzyl and its dependencies, which are, my lords, the keys of Groningen; the free exercise of the Romish faith in the States; the revocation of all edicts detrimental to French commerce; the rights of our East India Company waived in favour of his; a tribute of 12,000,000 florins; and lastly, sir, to complete the humiliation of the States he demands that a formal embassy be sent every year to do homage to him and thank him for having left us so much.”

“Well,” answered Buckingham, “the terms of a conqueror, Your Highness—and what avails it to complain when there is no alternative?”

Arlington replied more gently—

“We will endeavour, Sir, to soften these terms.”

William looked from one to another.

“I think these terms are of M. de Louvois’ suggestion—they will prove the worst piece of policy he ever set his hand to. If he had taken M. de Groot’s terms he had had a great advantage; but now he will obtain nothing.”

The two envoys exchanged a glance.

“Sir,” said the Earl, “you confuse yourself with the States—this does not ruin you.”

William coughed and drew a painful breath.

“What does my uncle desire of the States?” he asked quietly.

“I have the heads of His Majesty’s demands in my mind, Highness,” answered Arlington. “Firstly, the right of the flag, and a yearly rent for the herring fisheries, £100,000 a year or less; secondly, the expenses of the war, fixed at £500,000, to be paid in next October; thirdly, three or four towns as hostages—Flushing, Sluys, the Brill, or such.”

“The States will never agree to those terms, nor could I in conscience advise them to,” answered William firmly.

Arlington was suave.

“They might be moderated——”

Buckingham interrupted—

“Why, by God?… Is France to get all and England nothing?”

The Prince bit his lip with the effort to keep back a violent answer.

“My lords,” he said in a low voice, “I have no power to treat with you save as General of the States, and with the object to detach you from the French alliance. I do not think it would be to the advantage of England to see the Republic in the hands of France, and it is my aim to separate you from your ally.”

Again the envoys looked at each other. Both trained in small dissimulation, neither great enough statesmen to know that candour is often more effective than deception, they regarded this statement as boyish simplicity. It emboldened Arlington to bring out his trump card.

“To return to the terms of France——”

“Sir,” interrupted the Prince, “talk no more of them—we would sooner die a thousand deaths than submit to them.”

“I will take it upon me,” answered the Earl, “to moderate them—so that we find our account in the adjustment; but we must have the cautionary towns.”

“I am confident the States—will never give them,” returned William.

Buckingham rose suddenly and came to the table.

“There is somewhat else to add,” he said, with his air of good-humoured insolence. “You will not lose by this——”

Arlington took it up—

“This in confidence between us: so you cede these terms His Majesty will make you greater than any of your House have been.”

“Is that in your instructions?” asked William quietly.

“It is a point His Majesty made with the King of France,” answered Arlington eagerly. “If you make this peace, not only will the war be removed from your country, but you will be made Sovereign of it, and both the Kings will secure you, at home and abroad. For their Majesties agree to make this a condition of peace with the States, that they take you for King over such of the Low Countries as be left after we have had our partage.”

William kept his eyes lowered, and leant a little sideways over the arm of the chair.

“Ye were to make this proposal to me?” he asked.

My lord Buckingham put the matter more bluntly.

“We are to offer you the hereditary sovereignty of the United Provinces, Sir, if you will give up to the King of England the towns he demands from the States, forbear to contest the conquests of the French, and place in King Louis’ hands those remaining towns he has not yet taken.”

For the first time since the interview William looked at Bentinck, who stood motionless by the window.

“Sir,” said my lord Arlington, “do you hesitate?—you will be a sovereign Prince.”

“I like better,” replied William, “the condition I am in of Captain General of the United Provinces.”

“It is to your interest,” said Buckingham strongly, “to take this offer.”

William gave him a proud look.

“Maybe, sir,” he replied; “but I believe myself in honour, and in conscience, bound not to prefer my interest before my obligation.”

My lord laughed, half wearily.

“Honour and conscience!” he repeated; “it is strange diplomacy that quotes them.”

“They are things,” answered the Prince, “that I have some regard for——”

My lord Arlington interposed—

“I think you are ambitious. This offer may well rouse your hopes of glory—Louis’ ranks offer many chances—you will be protected by the two most powerful kings in the world.”

William put his hand to his forehead.

“Did you come to bait me with these prospects, my lords, or to treat for an honourable peace?”

“This is a peace wholly advantageous——”

“To me, my lord; not to the States.”

Buckingham was contemptuous.

“The States! do they any longer exist?—a handful of traders—always opposed to Your Highness.”

“I must not remember that now, sir, for I am entrusted with their sole defences.”

“Why, the better for you—since you have your revenge put into your hand.”

The Prince narrowed his eyes on him.

“I am Dutch, my lord.”

Buckingham accepted the rebuke with a shrug.

“You are King Louis’ cousin, Highness, and King Charles’ nephew.”

“But I am neither Stewart nor Bourbon, my lord, but of my father’s House.”

The envoys were silent a while. They had bartered away their own honour so long ago that they had forgotten they had ever had any. They were clever at overcoming scruples, but a firm attitude of cold honesty bewildered them both; it roused, too, my lord Buckingham’s sneers. He let his glance run with a galling look of mockery over the young man who presumed to have a conscience.

“If you refuse these offers what other course have you open to you?” he asked. “In whom will you trust?”

William looked at him straightly—

“In God.”

“God!” echoed my lord, with a jesting accent of sarcasm.

The Prince flushed.

“He is not dead because ye have forgotten Him at Whitehall, my lord.”

“I perceive that Your Highness is a fanatic,” sneered Buckingham.

“I am a Calvinist,” returned the Prince; “and I take such comfort in my faith that no mocks can touch me.”

The Duke smiled at Arlington.

“What have we here?” he asked. “This would sound like Tom o’ Bedlam in London. If Your Highness is to talk like a country parson, I am silenced.”

The Earl spoke—

“I must entreat Your Highness to consult your advisers on what we have said—this matter may not be decided easily.”

William rose and held on to the back of his chair.

“It may be decided in a breath, my lord.” He addressed himself to Arlington, and had his back half turned to the Duke. “But the terms of peace—I will appeal to you to consider those. In the name of wisdom, of generosity, of policy, my lord, offer us terms we can with honour accept.”

Arlington rose.

“Sir, if you prove not tractable in this matter we must go to the French, and I have small hopes of concessions from them.”

“I beseech you to try your best, my lord.”

“I shall always be mindful of Your Highness’ interests.”

“If Your Highness is mindful of them yourself,” added Buckingham.

William took no heed of him.

“My lord,” he continued to Arlington, “I should wish you to see some of the States; M. Beuningen is with me—we will approach this matter after supper.”

“Highness,” answered the Earl, “I would warn you—at the present juncture—to make no mention to the States of the offer of the sovereignty of the Provinces.”

“I will make no promise,” said William, who, being jealous of his word, was always loath to bind himself. “I must say what I think fit, my lord.”

“It is for your own good we give the caution,” advised Buckingham arrogantly.

Again the Prince ignored him.

“Count Struym has found accommodation for you, my lord,” he told Arlington. “I will see you at supper.… It were better, perhaps, we considered privately before we said anything further in this matter.”

The English deputies departed, leaving the Prince very pale, very composed, standing by his chair in the modest room, and William Bentinck silent against the window-frame.

“Here’s a proud piece,” said Buckingham, as he flaunted out into the twilight. “Here’s a to do over a few miles of marsh!”

He was, in truth, deeply mortified by the Prince’s cold reception.

“Wait until he has seen his advisers—he will subscribe to our proposals yet,” answered Arlington, himself disappointed. “What prince of one-and-twenty ever preferred his country to his interests?—besides——”

“Besides he hath no alternative,” added Buckingham, “and must know it. This is but playing with us to enhance his own value. Wait till to-night, my lord, you will see me prove myself a pretty politician.”

---

CHAPTER III
THE ANSWER

William Bentinck, carrying a candle, went up the narrow, polished stairs to the Prince’s apartment.

It was between four and five of the morning, within the house still quite dark and silent at last.

The conference with the English commissioners had been opened again after supper and continued till long past midnight.

M. Van Beuningen had talked on the folly of the Anglo-French Alliance, adorning his speech with scriptural quotations, illustrations drawn from his vast learning, and a copiousness of logic, until Arlington had grown restive and Buckingham blasphemous.

But his arguments were not without effect. The Duke, who had drunk heavily, swore at last he was in the right, and had almost offered to sign a treaty with the States when my lord Arlington, who was a moderate man at table, restrained him.

M. Beverningh, who had taken at least enough wine for volubility, declaimed loudly against the injustice of the demands made by Charles and Louis. Buckingham became noisy, offending the Prince with his swearing and profanity, and refused to abate his terms, repeating that France should not have everything and England nothing.

Arlington, grave, good-natured, but weak and unscrupulous, was more reasonable. He promised, though not very confidently, to endeavour to moderate Louis’ preposterous demands; he insisted, however, on the cautionary towns, as he termed them, for Charles.

On this point the Dutch deputies were firm: they would not place an inch of their territory in the hands of France or England, beyond the border towns, such as Maestricht, with which William had already asked the Allies to content themselves.

Buckingham, speaking violently, argued that it was absurd to offer a king a few towns in exchange for three provinces he had already conquered, and three more that he was prepared to conquer; and hinted that the Dutch were in no condition to argue about terms at all, but must take thankfully what was given them—and this in face of it that a while before he had been offering to sign an alliance with them.

So, veering and unstable, he embarrassed the discussion with constant changes of opinion and capricious arguments based upon neither justice nor reason.

For his part, the Prince appealed to England’s ancient friendship, to the principles of the Triple Alliance, to his uncle’s protestations, to the unwisdom of allowing the French to upset the balance of power in Europe, and to the one religion common to England and the United Provinces, threatened by the encroachments of Louis.

But this policy was too far-seeing, too slow, and too lofty to appeal to men eager for immediate gain and applause, indifferent to their country’s ultimate good, only vaguely concerned even for her present glory, and absorbed purely in their own selfish interests, that lay entirely with France.

Arranging for another private interview with the Prince in the morning, the commissioners and the deputies separated. After hours of talk, nothing had been conceded one side or the other, the English refusing to abate their terms and the Dutch resolved not to accept them.

William Bentinck, who had listened eagerly, but said very little, had decided privately that the Prince could and must do no other than come separately to terms with the envoys, on the basis of a secret arrangement such as they had themselves offered and urged.

Excited, and unable to sleep on the hard settle that was his only bed (since an English gentleman had his room), Bentinck determined to consult with the Prince. William had desired to be roused early, to allow himself time before his final interview with the English commissioners.

But Bentinck discovered that he had not been to bed at all, but was sitting fully dressed by the open window.

“Ah, you,” he said affectionately. “I am glad to see you.”

M. Bentinck placed the candle beside the one already on the mantelshelf.

“And I am sorry you have not been asleep, Sir.”

“Have you?” smiled the Prince.

“No—but it was not my fault.”

“Whose then?”

“The hardness and narrowness of the settle, Highness, which was as unyielding as the English demands.”

The Prince rose.

“You had been welcome to mine. Bentinck, I could not sleep to-night.”

“The arguments of M. Buckingham and M. Beuningen buzz too much in your ears?”

“M. Beuningen is an immoderate talker,” answered William. “I think he spoke too long to-night.”

“M. Buckingham thought so too.”

“Oh, he!” said the Prince impatiently; “half the time he was not sober.”

“None the easier to deal with for that.”

“M. Beverningh, also,” added William, with an air of disgust, “hath the vice of drinking too much.”

M. Bentinck smiled.

“It makes him eloquent.”

The Prince stood at the window in a weary attitude.

“What hour is it?”

“Not yet five, Highness.”

William spoke abruptly.

“Bentinck—they are going to repeat their offer to me.”

His friend looked at him.

“I think so, Highness.”

“They advised me to consult some one that I had trust in.”

“You have spoken to M. Beuningen? My faith!” exclaimed M. Bentinck, “there is little to consult about.”

For a moment William was silent; then he said, looking out of the window—

“M. Fagel writes to me that I alone keep the people from despair.… My name, Bentinck.”

“They begin to repent their ingratitude, Highness.”

“The country is without a head since the illness of M. de Witt … if they should turn to me——”

“I think they may——”

“—and offer me the Stadtholdership——”

“Now that it is worthless.”

“Not worthless,” said William.

“At least not what the French and English can offer you.”

The Prince gave him a strange, almost a wistful, glance.

“Oh, this is a little age,” he said wearily. “Of such little men … I … but, no.…”

He turned his gaze over his camp, spread beneath the gold and silver dawn.

“Perhaps some men could have done better,” he said. “I would I could have served one campaign under CondÉ before I had to serve against him … yet against all odds something may be accomplished.”

M. Bentinck stared at him.

“You do not seriously think of resistance, Highness?”

“Would you consider it madness?” asked William.

“The most utter madness!”

M. Bentinck was vehement.

“The country is lost—half conquered, wholly despaired of. Nothing will soften King Louis’ demands—you must see it.”

William turned towards the room and seated himself in the chintz-cushioned chair by the yellow-glazed hearth.

“And if I pitted myself against Louis?” he queried.

“It would be——”

“As if a child should set itself to stem a river with its unaided hands?” finished William grimly.

M. Bentinck shrugged his shoulders—

“It would be an impossibility—there is no one in Europe to stand against Louis——”

“One might arise.”

“England is his ally—the Empire afraid—the rest of Europe overawed——”

“One might rouse them.”

“It would be a task—well, I call it impossible.”

William coughed, and fixed his bright eyes on the empty hearth.

“You are weary,” said Bentinck tenderly, coming nearer.

“I am very weary and sick to-night,” answered the Prince faintly; “in body and soul, William, I can get no rest. At times—despair cannot be always held at bay—my head hath a horrible inclination to ache, and I think I have the fever still. Yet, it will pass; I pray you do not notice me.”

“Console yourself, Sir, that your prospects are more hopeful than for some time.”

The Prince made no answer, and M. Bentinck regarded him anxiously.

“I would have you consider well what you say to these envoys,” he added earnestly. “Your terms will never be listened to … Louis is a conqueror.… By making yourself King of Holland, you save it, and revenge yourself on the republicans.”

“I have considered that,” answered the Prince.

“Well,” returned M. Bentinck, “you have always been reserved, even with me, Highness, and you take advice of no man … but I make bold to tell you that only a foolish mind would refuse these offers the French and English make you.”

Again William was silent. His attitude was one of utter exhaustion; he continually coughed and shivered.

“You cannot stand the occupation of war,” said William Bentinck. “If you would not kill yourself you must make peace, Highness.”

The Prince roused himself and sat up.

“Will you wait on the English, Bentinck, presently, and tell them I will receive them here as soon as they wish?”

M. Bentinck understood his dismissal in this and felt offended.

Once more he proved the uselessness of any attempt on his part to offer advice to his master.

He put out the needless candles, for the small room was filled with the glitter of the sun, and left without further speech.

William sat quite still, gazing at the homely tiles with their little rural scenes in blue on a yellow ground—a cow, a milkmaid, a windmill, a barge, a dog, a man and a woman skating.

The languor of fatigue and pain made him sit heavily and droopingly, his head supported in his right hand.

The childhood he had scarcely left behind rose in his memory, one incident after another, back to the early years when his mother had taught him he was of the proudest blood in the world.…

He looked back on the loneliness, the dreariness; the rankling and constant sense of humiliation; the illnesses; the hunts in Guelders; the bitterness of having to part with M. de Zuylestein; the espionage of the republicans; the lofty governorship of M. de Witt; the perpetual feeling of injustice and restraint, the agony of having to take quietly treatment his imperious nature longed to spurn; the overtures from M. de Pomponne, first insinuating to him that he could revenge himself by leaguing with Louis; the visits of Sir William Temple, so different from the others, treating him with homage as a grandchild of England; the long hours of arduous study, followed by blinding headaches; the quiet Sundays with the lengthy sermons in the Groote Kerk,—all his training teaching him to be reserved, self-reliant, cautious, and to conceal his quick passions under an unreadable exterior.

He had never been happy, often utterly dreary, dispirited, and sad.… He remembered his recent entry into Middelburg as the fairest episode; for the rest he shuddered at the recollection of the slights, rebuffs, reprimands, loneliness, disputes, illnesses and neglects that made up the sum of his life.

With a little, broken sigh he moved at last and slowly rose.

His cuirass and his sword lay on the ground beside his bed. He picked up the weapon, buckled it on and went languidly downstairs.

The small farm was full of young Dutch noblemen, and the English forming the train of the envoys.

Avoiding these, he entered the little front room where the previous day he had received the commissioners.

Half an hour later M. Beuningen found him there, breakfasting alone on brown bread, radishes, and cock ale, and making notes on a slip of paper.

“Highness——” began Coenraad Beuningen.

William looked up gravely—

“Ah, have you had breakfast, Mynheer?”

“Not yet.”

“Well, will you share mine?” the Prince drew forward a chair.

M. Beuningen seated himself, murmuring thanks.

He looked agitated and overwrought; his handsome eyes were red, his dress dishevelled.

The Prince folded up his paper and placed it in his pocket. He had changed his suit, and wore a prune-coloured velvet, very plain, and a black sash.

“I have made some notes on the converse of last night,” he remarked.

M. Beuningen poured out the ale from the silver jug.

“Your Highness has to see the envoys again?” he inquired in a humble way.

“This morning, yes,” answered William; “before they leave for Zeyst.”

He leant back and looked full at his companion, with a penetrating and almost smiling glance.

M. Beuningen set his tankard down.

“We have gained little good by this conference,” he said distractedly.

William was silent.

M. Beuningen crumbled his bread on the table.

“Your Highness,” he said desperately, “I have been thinking … all night … this wretched country.… O God! my country.…”

A light flashed into William’s eyes, but still he said nothing.

M. Beuningen pushed back his chair. He could hardly control his features and his voice.

“I must appeal to Your Highness—in the name of the States,” he said thickly, “for we have no hope but in you.…”

“What do you mean, my lord?” asked William softly.

Coenraad Beuningen rose.

“I think these men have made private overtures to Your Highness,” he answered, “and you are free to take them … but … have pity on the country.” He clasped his hand passionately over his heart. “To such wretched straits are we reduced.… Ah, they tempted your ambition I doubt not, but if Your Highness would be truly great, save the United Provinces.”

“Do you believe I could?” asked the Prince breathlessly.

“Before God I believe Your Highness could.”

An extraordinary change came over the Prince’s face; he replied with vivacity—

“M. Van Beuningen, you have been a good republican—I will forgive it you for that.”

“I have been opposed to Your Highness,” said M. Beuningen, “but the time of party is over—I can see only that the country is conquered, ruined … and that our one hope is in the courage and firmness of Your Highness.”

He went restlessly to the window and put his hand before his eyes.

William gazed at him, still with that expression of animation and pleasure.

“You must not despair, Mynheer,” he said gently; “too many despair.”

“I shall not—if Your Highness does not forsake us.”

The Prince rose.

“What of your former rulers?” he asked.

“They can do nothing with the people. M. de Witt is ill—loathed.”

“Mynheer,” answered William, “the States dealt hardly with me—I have been virtually a prisoner all my life—it is strange they should come to me now.”

“It may be, but Your Highness’ voice is the only one that can make itself heard,” said M. Beuningen in a tone of despair. “The people will turn to you.… If in vain … God have mercy upon us.”

“You credit me with great powers.… Do I not hear it said that the man who pits himself against France must be mad?”

Coenraad Beuningen looked round sharply—

“Or a hero,” he said.

“They are rarer than madmen,” answered the Prince.

“Your Highness’ House has been rich in great men.”

William drew back from the suspicion of flattery.

“Leave them, Mynheer,” he said coldly, and picked up a copy of The Gazette that lay on the table.

M. Beuningen turned away, his hands clasped behind his back.

William regarded him covertly and keenly.

“Mynheer,” he said in another tone.

M. Beuningen raised his head, there were tears in his eyes.

Before he could speak M. Heenvliet announced the English envoys, who were accompanied by M. Bentinck.

Coenraad Beuningen gave the Prince a quick look, bowed to the company and left the chamber.

William remained where he was, standing by the breakfast-table, his hand resting on the rail of M. Beuningen’s chair.

The Duke, over-dressed and flamboyant, trailing a purple velvet mantle over one shoulder and carrying his hat with long rose-coloured feathers, seated himself without ado; but Arlington, more respectful, remained on his feet.

“I trust the night has brought wisdom to Your Highness,” said Buckingham, swinging his embroidered gloves by the tassels.

“I can only repeat the proposals I made yesterday,” replied the Prince. “My influence with the States permits me to promise their execution. As to what you propose, my lords, the States will never accede to such terms, nor could I advise them to.”

Arlington answered with great earnestness. The success of his mission lay with this attempt to gain the Prince—

“Sir, forget the States awhile,” he said. “We speak to you—as a Prince of our Royal House—to show the consideration and friendship of His Majesty.… Sir, you must believe that we are sincere.… Cromwell made your exclusion from power a condition of peace with the United Provinces.… King Charles will make your restoration a condition—yea, restoration to a greater position than ever your ancestors possessed.”

William seated himself and looked on the ground.

The Earl continued, in his smooth, pleasant voice—

“These burghers have behaved insolently to you, Your Highness. It hath always been His Majesty’s intention to make them repent their ingratitude to your House. He now proves his entire friendship by this offer—which is, we repeat, the sovereignty of Holland and other lands, in return for your alliance with His Majesty, the cautionary towns, and the delivery of the remaining forts into the hands of His Majesty of France.”

The Prince glanced up.

“My lord, you had my answer last night.”

“I trust Your Highness has considered since then.”

“Reflect,” added Buckingham, “that resistance is useless—by God! you must see it.”

“I see,” returned the Prince, “that you propose to me an infamous thing.”

Arlington slightly coloured, but the Duke laughed.

“Your Highness is very young,” said the Earl. “M. de Witt has filled your head with fantastic notions.”

“M. de Witt is an honest man,” replied William, “and a wise one—I learnt no folly from him.”

“I do not understand Your Highness’ attitude,” urged Arlington. “Our agents and those of M. de Pomponne assured you some time since——”

William interrupted.

“My lord, the French have made advances to me very often—they have always been rejected. I would not owe my elevation in the State to foreign intervention, but to the will of God and the wish of the people.”

Arlington was nonplussed.

“Your Highness has not learnt the language of diplomacy,” he said.

“Your lordship must lay that to the charge of my inexperience—I am new to affairs,” answered the Prince proudly. “Maybe I speak too bluntly—but the meaning is the main thing, is it not, my lord?”

Buckingham spoke now.

“Consider well your meaning before you utter it, Highness—think of the alternative. The terms that you propose we should not dare put before M. de Louvois, I tell you plainly; and there is nothing before you but a continuation of the war—that is, a continuation of the conquest of the Republic—if you refuse us. You and the States go to ruin together, for there is no help for you.”

M. Bentinck came anxiously forward.

William looked straight at the Duke.

“Nevertheless I refuse your offer, my lord.”

Buckingham rose impatiently.

“You do not know what you say. Have you no ambition?—We offer you dominion—power.”

William rose; for the first time some agitation showed through the composure of his manner.

“You offer me what I would not stoop to pick up, my lord,” he answered.

“I thought you a Prince desirous of reigning,” said Arlington.

“Not at the price of my honour, sir.”

Buckingham struck his gloves across his open palm.

“Whatever you do the country is lost,” he sneered.

“If it be I will not connive at it,” replied the Prince. “Nor make my profit out of that misfortune.”

The Duke was contemptuous.

“Your Highness dreams of resistance—a second Hannibal!”

William coloured and breathed deeply.

“I do think I might do even as he did.”

“Press not the parallel too close, Highness. This is our second Punic war, and in a week or so M. de Louvois may say—‘Delenda est Carthago.’”

“Rome fell also,” returned William, “and in a less noble fashion by her own corruption. Go carefully, my lord, that the like fate comes not on England.”

Buckingham affected to laugh.

“We get no nearer the matter.”

“I must ask for Your Highness’ final decision,” added Arlington.

William stood with his back against the table, looking from one to the other with slightly narrowed eyes.

“My lords, for what concerns me privately you have had my answer; for what concerns Their High Mightinesses—you must go to the States.”

William Bentinck murmured impatiently—

“I would as lief that a dozen of the States were hanged, so that the war was taken out of the country and Your Highness king of it.”

“Is that your final decision?” asked Arlington, deeply mortified.

“Yes,” replied the Prince firmly; “and nothing will move me, my lord.”

So curt, unfaltering, and stern were his words that the envoys saw no hope of persuading him. They prepared to leave; but Buckingham was too angry to go in silence.

“If you do not put yourself wholly in the King’s hands you are lost,” he declared. “If you have any wisdom you will consider——”

The Prince cut him short—

“My countrymen,” he said, “have trusted me, and I will never deceive nor betray them for any base ends of my own.”

Buckingham, his hand on the door, answered hotly—

“Think no more of your country, for it no longer exists—do you not see that it is lost? If it survive this campaign it will be a miracle—do you not see that it is lost? There is nothing before you but despair; you must see your country conquered.” And again he repeated, “Do you not see that it is lost?”

William’s calm changed into a passionate emotion.

He answered with an air of exaltation; he was so lifted up, he cared little for any of them—

“My lord, I indeed see that the country is in great danger; but there is one way never to see it lost—and that is to die in the last ditch.”

There was a little pause. Arlington glanced at Buckingham, and after a second the Duke answered—

“Very well, Sir, in a short while you will regret this.… I am sorry you are so intractable.”

“We shall have a different reception at Zeyst,” added the Earl. “I must warn Your Highness that we shall there conclude a closer union between England and France.”

“The rearrangement of the terms is between you and the States,” replied the Prince. “As to what touches me—I have answered.”

He moved away towards the hearth, averting his face from them.

The envoys bowed coldly and withdrew, both angry, and Buckingham, at least, his enemy.

William Bentinck stared at the door that had closed after them.

“They have gone, Highness!” he exclaimed, “and in wrath—you have destroyed your last hope.”

“They are shallow men,” returned William calmly.

He came back to the table, coughing a little.

Bentinck appeared alarmed and troubled.

“You were ill advised!—What have you done?” he cried. “What is to become of us all?”

“This is not the language of a friend,” returned the Prince, who seemed little to heed the other’s exclamations.

“The States may accept the terms,” said M. Bentinck, catching at straws.

“Not if I can prevent them.”

William Bentinck answered angrily—

“Sir, you throw away your own advantage wilfully! M. de Buckingham was right—there is nothing but despair before all of us.”

The Prince sat immovable, composed, with an absent look in his eyes, gazing out of the window at the camp.

M. Bentinck, exasperated, went violently from the room.

William glanced round as the door banged, then sat still, taking his aching head in his hand.

There was a thoughtful, absorbed expression on his pale face, a relaxing of the usual disdainful curve of his lips that gave him an air of gentleness.

He was not long alone.

Count Struym and M. Heenvliet entered with more eagerness than ceremony.

“Sir,” said the first gentleman, “here are two burgomasters, two burgher captains, and others, come from Dordt——”

“Dordt?” repeated the Prince; this town, the residence of the de Witts, had always been considered particularly republican.

“Dordt, Highness—they desire to see you immediately.”

“Why? For what reason?”

“Sir, they are confused with haste and agitation, but I gather the town is in such a tumult none save Your Highness can quell it—and to save their own lives the magistrates have sent for Your Highness.”

William answered rather impatiently—

“It is impossible for me to journey to Dordt.”

“They will not return without you.”

“I must remain at my post.”

“Sir, they are afraid of being torn to bits if they disappoint the people——”

“Ah,” said William sharply, “is it as serious as that?”

“I think it is the signal for a restoration, Highness.”

The Prince rose.

“Is it more than a riot?”

“I think so, Sir.”

“They want me—the people want me?”

“The burgomasters say so. It seems they were fired by the example of Ter Veere—which has proclaimed Your Highness Stadtholder with much enthusiasm.”

William flushed.

“But Ter Veere is my own lordship.”

“You will at least see this deputation from Dordt, sir?”

“Yes—I will see them.”

He had reassumed now his usual composure and reserve; he gave no sign that he was moved, yet it was a triumph. Dordt, the home of the de Witts, had risen in his favour——

“Bring the burghers here, Count,” he said.

---

CHAPTER IV
THE WILL OF THE PEOPLE

In the frantic state of angry despair to which the United Provinces were reduced, Holland, the proudest, wealthiest State, was the first to take fire at the injuries inflicted on her, and to turn fiercely on the Government that she conceived had betrayed her into ruin.

The mission of M. de Groot had been vastly unpopular. The submission shown in this embassy was looked upon as a sign of degrading, nay, criminal weakness, and the people violently accused their Ministers of selling them to the French.

They reminded each other that Rhynsberg had not had enough powder to defend the counterscarps; that all the saltpetre belonging to the East India Company had been allowed to be sold to the French, even when war appeared inevitable; that the land forces had been greatly reduced of late, that such soldiers as they had were ill-trained and ill-paid; that tedious difficulties had been put in the way of the election of the Prince of Orange to the Captain Generalship, and even now his power was so restricted as to be almost useless.

They flattered themselves that the King of France would not have had such easy success but for complicity on the part of the governors of the country, and all overtures of peace were regarded as a final attempt to deliver them to the enemy.

The idea of peace became one with slavery and disgrace, and the Government was regarded as vile and infamous in even listening to Louis’ terms; and on John de Witt, the head of the Government and the apostle of peace, all rage and hate were poured. All the disasters of the war were imputed to his charge; he was accused of every crime frenzy could find a name for, and blamed bitterly for having so long kept the Prince out of power and for having clipped such authority as he had been obliged to give him.

On the other hand, the idea of war and resistance was associated with the image of the young Captain General, austere, composed, religious, of the old House, the only man who had dared to show firmness in the face of the overwhelming public misfortunes. He became the idol of the people, who ran frantic in his name.

At Dordt they had broken into open revolt. On hearing of the terms offered by France, and that the States were considering them, and a rumour being abroad that their representatives had advocated peace, a company of burghers marched to the town hall and demanded of the councillors if they were prepared to defend the town, or if they already negotiated its delivery into the hands of the enemy?

The magistrates replied that they would resist to the utmost, but did not succeed in pacifying the citizens, who, suspecting their republican sympathies, demanded permission to inspect the arsenals.

The keeper was absent, the keys with him. This gave the signal for a cry of treason that was echoed throughout the town, and the subsequent opening of the magazines did not suffice to restore order.

Angry cries were started against John de Witt and his followers; the Orange flag was paraded through the streets with shouts for the Prince of Orange, the white flag flying contemptuously beneath William’s colour.

The magistrates assembled in agitation, but no concession would quiet the people. The burgomaster, not daring to act without authority from the Government, endeavoured to escape from the town, but was stopped in a side street by a workman armed with a hatchet, who offered to brain him if he resisted the wishes of the populace.

In this fashion conducted back to the town hall, the burgomaster was forced to again summon the councillors to consult on the situation.

It was an ugly one for them. They had sworn to maintain the Perpetual Edict, and would have to answer to the States General if they violated their oath. On the other hand, they were in immediate danger from the violence of the people.

They discovered, as they thought, an expedient to shift the responsibility, and announced, with sound of trumpets, that they would at once send a deputation to the Prince, begging him to come immediately to Dordt.

The town secretary, Orent Muys, two members of the council, two burgomasters, two burgher captains, and two citizens were chosen, and escorted to the gates by the people, shouting—

“Long live His Highness!”

“Death to the bad magistrates!”

“Down with John de Witt!”

“To hell with the friends of France!”

All night long the town seethed. The magistrates trembled when they considered what the outburst of fury would be should the deputation return, the Prince not with them.

As soon as it was light the people were out on the quays, gazing down the flat, grey waters of the Maas and the Merwede, which stretched almost to the horizon where Rotterdam lay, and spread to right and left encircling the town in a belt of water.

The burgher companies were up and armed, patrolling the streets, clattering their blunderbusses under the windows of Cornelius de Witt’s house, where the Ruard lay sick, and shouting in insulting tones for the Prince, so that he could hear them in his bed.

Others amused themselves with breaking into the town hall, destroying the remaining portraits of John and Cornelius de Witt, and savagely tearing out of its frame Baan’s picture of the Victory at Chatham, which was dedicated to the glory of the Ruard.

About ten o’clock the feeling rose to frenzy; it became known that the deputation had returned in company with the young Prince.

The magistrates hastened to receive William, who was landing at the Groothoofd Poort, one of the finest gates of the wealthy city, situate on the junction of the Merwede and the Maas.

The inhabitants formed themselves into a guard of honour, and the Prince was greeted by a shout of pure wild joy.

The councillors, including among them Jacob de Beveren, the brother-in-law of the Grand Pensionary, greeted him humbly, even kissing his hand.

One offered him a coach.

William declined, and to the great satisfaction of the people walked among them on foot to the town hall.

He was plainly dressed, without armour, wore only a light sword and carried a cane.

He kept his hat on, and took no notice in his solemn entry of the people or of the councillors who accompanied him.

The distance was not great between the Groothoofd Poort and the Stadhuis, but William, as he walked slowly down the Wynstraat, had time to observe both that he could do what he pleased with the people and that the magistrates intended to thrust on him all responsibility.

They followed him with heads uncovered, but they made no suggestion.

The enormous crowd gathered as they advanced through the Groenmarkt, and considerably impeded their progress to the fine Gothic Stadhuis. The canals were choked with boats laden with armed citizens, and people came crowding up from the ship-building yards, from the barges and timber-yards, till the streets could hold no more.

On the Stadhuis steps William paused.

“Mynheer Hallingh,” he said to the burgomaster, “I acknowledge my reception—but what object do I serve by entering your town hall?”

The burgomaster bowed very low, for the eyes of thousands were on him.

“We hope Your Highness may do us the extreme favour of taking a seat in our council.”

“To what end, Mynheer?” asked William steadily.

M. Beveren answered, with his eye on the expectant crowd—

“Has Your Highness any proposal to make us?”

The Prince saw clearly by this that they hoped to delude the people by an outward show of deference, managing that the Prince should return without any further concession to their revolutionary wishes.

On William’s part it was not his desire to put himself at the head of a mob, and neither his nature nor his policy to encourage sedition. He was as prudent as the councillors, and as resolute not to commit himself to their intention that if there must be a revolution it should be laid to him.

At the same time he was angry that they should send for him merely to fool the people of Dordt.

He answered with composure—

“Mynheer, I must remind you that I came here at your request—your urgent request—to hear what you had to say to me.”

The councillors refused to be drawn; with many protestations of respect they invited him to inspect the arsenals and fortifications of the town.

William looked at them, at M. Bentinck, at the crowd, and he smiled.

He could not help being amused at the cunning with which these republican magistrates were endeavouring to keep the law and please the people.

“Very well, Mynheer,” he answered gravely. “I shall be pleased to see your fortifications.”

Followed by the eager crowds, the Prince set out for the ramparts and the powder magazines.

M. Beveren, the husband of John de Witt’s sister, galled by the position in which he found himself, ventured to put on his hat.

It was instantly knocked off, with threats that it would be his head next time if he did not treat the Prince with proper respect.

William affected neither to see nor hear. He conversed with M. Bentinck, and occasionally with the burgomaster, his manner showing the same calm as if no mob clamoured at their heels. He passed interested comments on the beautiful architecture of the wealthy town that he had never seen before.

Outside the Latin Grammar School, where John de Witt had studied the history of his country with a joyous and ambitious heart, and not far from the house of Jacob de Witt, where the Grand Pensionary, in the days when he wore a sword and love-locks, had written French verses to Wendela Van Bicker, the people closed round the Prince and his escort and demanded that he should not leave the town until the magistrates had proclaimed him.

M. Van Beveren murmured something about the Perpetual Edict, upon which one, Henry Dibbets, a Calvinist minister, levelled a gun at his head and shouted to the Prince that he would soon have his father’s offices restored to him.

The Prince himself put the musket aside.

“My friends, I am content,” he said gravely.

The burgomaster, thrust up against the wall of the school, shouted lustily—

“Long live the Prince!”

But the magistrates, still resolved not to yield, hastily invited William to a repast at the Peacock Inn.

“In truth,” said the Prince, regarding them with smiling eyes, “I am a little fatigued.”

The angry crowd demanded if he had been proclaimed Stadtholder.

“Thou old, fat villain!” cried Henry Dibbets to the burgomaster. “Thou art deceiving us! Hast thou brought the Prince here to walk him up and down the town?”

He was seconded by furious cries of—

“Knipperdolling!”

“Traitor!”

“Down with the MM. de Witt!”

They swarmed after the Prince to the Peacock Inn, where the frightened landlord, overwhelmed at the honour, prostrated himself before His Highness.

In the fine dining-room on the ground floor a meal was hastily but sumptuously prepared.

William, still wearing his hat, took the head of the table.

The magistrates, white and flustered, seated themselves, giving anxious glances towards the door and the long windows that overlooked the street.

“Your citizens,” said William to the burgomaster, “seem to be of a noisy disposition.”

It was his first allusion to the nature of his reception.

“They are very fond of Your Highness,” answered Van Hallingh fatuously.

“Ah?” The Prince spoke dryly. “It seems as if they might be dangerous, Mynheer, to any they were not fond of.”

And he gave the councillors a sarcastic look.

The magistrates winced; they became every moment more uncomfortable. They had only inflamed the popular feeling by sending for the Prince, who they now perceived was too wise to commit himself by any illegal act; nor were they at all reassured by the shouts and tumults without and the excited faces at door and window.

In truth the landlord had had orders to lay the repast at the back, but that personage could not bear to serve His Highness in the worst parlour, which was not, he declared, large enough nor fine enough for so distinguished a company. In defiance of his orders he had arranged the dinner in the great oak chamber, with its shelves of brass and pottery, its fine pictures, its handsome clock, Indian carpet, and tortoiseshell mirrors that were the pride of his heart.

It was a fine dinner, including such delicacies as spinach tart, stuffed heron, jellied venison, the famous sweet cakes from Deventer, ale thickened with honey, and a variety of gorgeous puddings; but the councillors at least did not enjoy it, even the splendid wines could not raise their spirits.

The Prince, who saw fairly clearly the end of the comedy, and could not but enjoy the discomfiture of his enemies, was composed and gracious.

He commended the fare and praised the wealthy appearance of the prosperous town, but his words could hardly be heard for the clamour in the streets.

“Our friends without make converse difficult,” he remarked.

M. Bentinck laughed. The prospect of the present triumph had driven his disappointment at the Prince’s cold dismissal of the English envoys into the background of his thoughts. He was young enough to carry himself haughtily, and kept one hand on his sword-hilt and another on his yellow moustaches, with a fine martial swagger.

Towards the end of the repast the crowd drove back the burgher captains stationed on guard at the door.

M. Van Beveren could contain himself no longer. He sprang to his feet.

“For God’s sake, Your Highness——!”

The Prince glanced at him sideways.

“What is the matter, Mynheer?”

The burgomaster rose also.

“Sir,” he cried in agitation.

“Well?” asked William calmly, setting down his glittering tankard.

“Your Highness—these people——”

“They show an inclination to enter, do they not, Mynheer?”

“Cannot Your Highness speak to them?” implored M. Beveren.

William smiled coldly.

“I have no authority, Mynheer, the burgomaster——”

“They will listen to no one but you, Your Highness.”

“Not even to their own magistrates, Mynheer?” inquired William maliciously.

Meanwhile the people were pressing into the hall of the inn, uttering shouts and threats.

“You do not seem very popular,” said the Prince dryly, surveying the unhappy councillors.

“Death to the friends of France!”

“Down with de Witt!”

“Down with the Ruard of Putten!”

The magistrates all rose to their feet.

“Do not spoil your dinners, Mynheeren,” said William.

“Your Highness——”

“For Heaven’s sake——”

The crowd broke into the room.

They were armed with muskets, swords, pistols, and hatchets, and headed by the resolute Henry Dibbets.

William pushed back his chair and looked at them steadily under the brim of his beaver.

“What do you want, my friends?” he asked calmly.

“Tell them to disperse, Your Highness,” urged the burgomaster.

A mass of people blocked the entrance into the room. They turned threateningly to the councillors.

“We are here to see justice done to His Highness,” they declared fiercely.

“You seem very well disposed to my House,” said the Prince, laying down his napkin.

The pastor pushed forward, flushed and triumphant.

“If there is anything His Highness wants,” he cried, addressing the Prince, “let him ask for it—and we will see that he gets it.”

William’s eyes flashed under his lowered lids.

The bearing of the crowd confirmed the pastor’s promise, proved that they were not mere words.

“Tell them to go home, Your Highness,” pleaded the burgomaster; “this is against the laws——”

“This may alter the laws, Mynheer,” answered the Prince proudly.

“Your Highness sides with this revolt!” cried M. Van Beveren.

William turned his powerful glance on the brother-in-law of M. de Witt.

“I do nothing, Mynheer,” he answered coldly. “I wait for you—who sent for me—you who have the authority—to act——”

Henry Dibbets broke in—

“If they are at a loss, Your Highness, we will soon teach them what to do.”

The magistrates stood nonplussed, overwhelmed; for the people were plainly in earnest, plainly dangerous.

The town secretary, Orent Muys, whispered to the burgomaster that they had best yield.

The crowd, by now filling the room, caught up the words; with much violence they swore to massacre the councillors did they not at once proclaim the Prince as Stadtholder.

William sat immovable. It was obvious that he would neither pacify the crowd (if indeed he could) nor so declare himself or his wishes as to shift the responsibility to his from the shoulders of the magistrates; they, seeing that they could never leave the inn alive without submitting to the outcry of the people, and, indeed, in their hearts yielding to the general enthusiasm, consulted together.… How should they combine dignity with concession?

The Prince, without any attempt to influence them, remained silent at the head of the table.

The people did not give them long.

Urged forward by the pastor, two of them seized the burgomaster and presented a pistol to his forehead.

“You have played the fool long enough,” they declared angrily, “it is time to come to a decision.”

Finding himself in this pass, Van Hallingh called out lustily to Orent Muys, “Let him draw up a paper declaring the Prince elected as Stadtholder.”

“What of the Perpetual Edict?” asked William. “You have, I think, sworn to it.”

“We will absolve them of that oath!” shouted the citizens.

They commanded the landlord to bring pens, paper, and a standish, which he hastened to set down on the table among the plates and tankards.

With fingers a little trembling, Orent Muys wrote out an article by which the Council of Dordt elected His Highness as Stadtholder and commander of the land and sea forces for life.

He was continually urged on by the crowd, who considered that he dallied in his task.

It was finished at last, amid yells of joy, and one after another the magistrates hastened to sign.

No one dared hesitate with a loaded blunderbuss at his head.

The only protest came from the Prince himself.

He rose.

The crowd instantly hushed.

He addressed equally the burgomaster, the councillors, and the citizens pressing round the table.

“Mynheeren,” he said, “I am very sensible of the honour that you do me, but I have taken an oath—as Captain General—never to attempt the Stadtholdership.”

The magistrates paused, astonished; but the people were not in the least confounded.

“Your Highness took no oath to refuse the office if offered to you?”

“I took an oath,” replied William, “nor can I lightly break it.”

He spoke with no emotion, with the cold precision of a statesman, a manner that sat curiously on his youthful appearance; it did not chill his supporters.

The magistrates themselves were driven to plead with him.

“For the good of the State we must ask Your Highness to yield.”

“Ah,” said the Prince, “you urge me?”

“In the name of the people——”

“Whose will is above the law,” added Henry Dibbets.

“I swore before God,” replied William.

“Then God shall absolve Your Highness,” returned the pastor. “The usurper forced you to take an oath against justice … and I solemnly absolve Your Highness from it.”

With one accord councillors, pastors, and citizens set William free of his vow to the Republic.

He yielded coldly, and the first act of the revolution was complete.

There is an emotion that bears the name of no one feeling because it is composed of all—it is the passion that shakes a crowd when it is witness of any great event; this seized the people of Dordt.

They shouted, laughed, wrung each other’s hands, rushed in a mass to float the Orange flag from the belfry of their great church, drank the Prince’s health and confusion to the French, and swarmed and pushed round the door of the Peacock Inn, where the councillors were still imprisoned.

The resolution, signed by the seventeen councillors present, the seals of the town affixed, was snatched up by the pastor Dibbets and displayed to the townsmen. Loud cries rang out—

“Long live the Stadtholder!”

“Long live His Highness!”

William looked at the magistrates—so they had been forced to return him the power they had taken from his father William II.

Many of them, indeed, were one and the same with the men who had defied him.

“Dordt is fortunate for Calvinists, Mynheeren,” he said, smiling. “They were successful in 1618; they win a victory to-day in me.”

It was his sole revenge on them for twenty years lost from his birthright; they received it in silence.

“If it be possible,” he added, “I should prefer now to return to Newerbrugge;” for he hated all display and commotion, and though this was a proud moment for him, he sighed for the quiet of the camp.

But it was not permitted.

He must hold a reception in the inn and receive the homage of the whole town of Dordt. Every one wanted to kiss his hand, to swear loyalty, to see the popular hero for himself.

At a moment when the unbridled enthusiasm was at its height a burgher captain chanced to notice that one name was missing. Seventeen councillors had signed for William.

There should have been one more.

One man in the whole of Dordt had not subscribed to the will of the people—

“Cornelius de Witt.”

In a moment the crowd was on fire with this new idea—the eighteenth councillor must also sign. Here was a splendid opportunity for humiliating one of the hated family of the Grand Pensionary.

M. Beveren ventured to protest—

“The Ruard is ill—unable to leave his bed.”

He was answered with derision.

“Not too ill to hold a pen—shall the worst traitor escape!”

M. Beveren appealed to the Prince.

“Highness, these men are miscalling M. de Witt.”

But William answered coldly—

“Mynheer, the faction of M. de Witt have miscalled me for a good many years.”

“But they will murder the Ruard.”

“Let him sign,” said William.

The crowd took up the cry.

“Let him sign!” they yelled.

The councillors hesitated. The Ruard would not subscribe, to force him to refuse would be to deliver him over to the fury of the mob.

But William decided for them.

“I think I have some weight in this town now,” he said, with his immovable air of authority. He took the paper from the hand of the pastor and gave it to the town secretary. “Take this to M. de Witt, his signature is lacking.… You also,” he pointed his cane at the captain of the burghers, “accompany him with some of your men. I am sorry M. de Witt is too sick to be present. I shall be pleased to see his name to this resolution.”

---

CHAPTER V
CORNELIUS DE WITT

The agitated secretary, the triumphant captain, and a vast crowd of excited citizens whom the civic guard could scarce restrain, proceeded to the house of M. Cornelius de Witt.

All day the Ruard’s family had been in a state of acute alarm.

The late attack on the Pensionary, the popular feeling in Dordt, the burning of the pictures in the Stadhuis, the menacing aspect of the streets, all combined to render them grievously uneasy.

Only a few days previously three suspicious-looking strangers had demanded to see the Ruard, and on being refused, on account of the lateness of the hour, had attempted to force a way in, and had only been repulsed by the promptitude of the servant in calling help. Madam de Witt firmly believed that this was a murderous plot—a counterpart to that to which her brother-in-law had fallen a victim, and her fine courage could not subdue the terror inspired by the surroundings of hate, malice, and fury against which her helpless husband had no weapon.

To-day she had listened to the shouts that proclaimed a restoration, and showed that the magistrates, their sole protection, had been overawed by the people, and that no one in Dordt had dared to stand firm to the Government of John de Witt.

She could only hope that her husband might be forgotten in the general excitement, and with this quieted her cruel anxiety.

But when the servant came to tell her that a vast, armed crowd was advancing down the street she knew her hopes had been illusions. Her proud spirit, that had always supported her husband’s dangers with high courage, sank before what she was called upon to face.

With yells, cries, and shouts for the new Stadtholder, on came the crowd, and surged about the door of the house. Let the town secretary get the signature of M. de Witt or they would enter and try for themselves.

Leaving some of the civic guard at the door as a concession to law and order, Orent Muys the secretary, the captain, and three of his soldiers entered the house.

Maria de Witt, pale and cold, outwardly calm, received them in the dining-room.

Her black eyes were full of tears, but she kept them fixed resolutely on the secretary.

The two men uncovered and bowed.

“What do you want?” she demanded, gripping the back of a chair.

“Your husband, Madam,” answered M. Muys.

“You cannot see him.”

“Madam, we must.”

“He is ill——”

“The business is important.”

“Mynheer, it is impossible——”

Captain Hoogewerf interposed—

“Madam, do you hear that noise outside?”

“Yes—yes.”

“The people of Dordt—they are waiting to see the signature of M. de Witt to that paper M. Muys carries.”

“What is it?”

“A resolution declaring His Highness William of Orange, Stadtholder of Dordt.”

“My husband will never sign it.”

“Do you think so, Madam?”

“I do”—this with instinctive pride.

The captain pointed with his gloved hand to the window.

“I should not care to answer for what that crowd may do, if disappointed, Madam.”

“My husband,” answered Madam de Witt, with a look of agony, “has sworn to the Perpetual Edict.”

“So had the other councillors.”

“Have they signed?”

“The signature of M. de Witt is the one lacking, Madam.”

She tried to rally herself.

“This is a revolution——”

He corrected—

“A restoration.”

“It has nothing to do with my husband——”

“He is a councillor of Dordt.”

“Mynheer,” she appealed to the secretary in great agitation, “I swear to you M. de Witt is ill——”

“We only want his signature, Madam.”

“He cannot hold a pen——”

“We must see that for ourselves,” replied the captain.

She drew herself up—

“I will not admit you to his chamber—he is too ill.”

She was desperate to forestall her husband’s inevitable refusal to sign.

But Captain Hoogewerf was not to be moved from his purpose.

“Madam,” he asked, “are not your children in the house?”

She shrank.

“What of it?”

“For their sakes, advise your husband to sign.”

“What do you mean?”

“Madam—the people——”

She interrupted—

“Is the town delivered over to the mob?”

“It is in the hands of the friends of His Highness.”

“I think that means the same thing,” she flashed.

The captain became impatient.

“The paper—Madam—we must see M. de Witt.”

“What if he refuse?” she asked in a desperate voice.

“He will not refuse.”

“Before God, he will!” she cried, knowing him.

“You must persuade him——”

“To his own dishonour?”

“For his own safety.”

“I cannot——”

“Think of your children, Madam.”

She was silent.

“Madam,” urged the secretary, “I entreat you do not make delays that must further inflame the people.”

Madam de Witt dared resist no longer; she heard the furious din without, she saw the immovable face of Captain Hoogewerf, and, through her open door, the scarlet coats of the soldiers in the corridor.

She did not think her husband would sign; she made the anguished resolve that she must persuade him to it—even against her conscience.

“I will take the paper to him,” she said, with the instinct to soften the humiliation of her husband’s consent.

But Captain Hoogewerf saw her motive.

“No, Madam, it must be in our presence.”

She passed in silence to the door, the sunlight on her dark velvet gown, the deep lace collar on her shoulders not more white than her face.

The secretary followed her reluctantly; he hated his task; he had been overawed. Hoogewerf, however, an ardent Orangist, had no compunction.

He bade his soldiers follow him.

“Is this necessary?” asked Maria de Witt proudly.

“Such are my orders, Madam.”

“My husband is no criminal, Mynheer, that soldiers should enter his bedchamber.”

“You lose time—you will regret it,” he answered.

A delicate colour rose into her beautiful, still face.

“This tone is new among us,” she said, “we—who have always boasted of our liberty——”

“Take care what you say, Madam,” Captain Hoogewerf warned her, “the Prince of Orange is master now.”

The republican lady paused, her fingers on the handle of her husband’s chamber door.

“One may know it,” she replied coldly, “by your change of front, Mynheer—even yesterday you would not have dared to insult a de Witt.”

“Madam!” pleaded the terrified secretary.

She opened the door and passed before them into the darkened and lofty bedchamber.

The valet had been before them, and had warned his master of what was happening.

They found him standing by the great bed with its gold and crimson hangings supporting the Ruard, who, weak and faint with suffering, was endeavouring to sit up against the pillows.

At the first glance round his simple privacy, the instant impression of a sick and helpless man, the secretary fell back, but Captain Hoogewerf strode forward.

The eyes of Cornelius de Witt shone in his worn face with as proud a light as they had shown when he kept his place on the deck of The Seven Provinces amid the hurry of battle.

“Captain Hoogewerf,” he said in a feeble but resolute voice, “what means this unruly entrance?”

“It means,” he was answered, “that this town is now under the government of His Highness the Stadtholder.”

Cornelius de Witt frowned haughtily. His wife stepped to his bedside, and stood with her hand on the curtain looking from him to the captain, from him to the secretary.

Just inside the door the three soldiers waited.

Orent Muys, speaking with more consideration, informed the Ruard of the revolution in Dordt, and produced his paper with the hanging seals.

“This is against the law,” said M. de Witt

“Mynheer—it is the law—all the magistrates have signed.”

The secretary held out the document as he spoke.

“Then they are perjured,” replied the Ruard proudly.

“Do you use that word of His Highness’ friends?” demanded Captain Hoogewerf in a loud voice.

Cornelius de Witt drew himself up higher in his bed—

“I use that word of any one who has sworn to the Perpetual Edict and then declares His Highness Stadtholder.”

His wife turned to him quickly.

“Cornelius—His Highness is master in Dordt—M. Muys hath come to read you the act so proclaiming him.”

He glanced at her rather curiously, and she, reading some reproach in his eyes, sank down on the chair at his bedside and hid her face in her hand.

M. de Witt pushed back the long dark hair from his ravaged face, and fixed the secretary with a cold and undaunted look.

“Why are you come here to read me that?” he demanded.

The soldier replied—

“We desire your signature.”

“I think,” said the Ruard scornfully, “ye do not find it necessary.”

“As collector of taxes, superintendent of the dykes, magistrate of Dordt, and Ruard of Putten—your signature is indeed necessary.”

Maria de Witt raised her face.

“Do you not hear them in the street?” she whispered.

Her husband neither answered her nor looked in her direction.

“Read this document,” he ordered curtly.

The secretary obeyed.

When he had finished the Ruard stole a glance at his wife, who sat with averted face; he seemed to be listening to the impatient and angry cries without, that, mingled with snatches of St. Aldegonde’s hymn, and curses on the Grand Pensionary’s name, came clearly through the curtained window.

“Cannot that be worded less positively?” he asked slowly.

“Mynheer, it is impossible,” answered the secretary.

“We came for your signature, not for your amendments,” remarked the soldier.

“I would rather be killed in my bed than sign,” answered the Ruard, with a flush of colour into his face.

Hoogewerf stepped forward threateningly.

“I have sworn an oath to the Perpetual Edict,” said M. de Witt, “and I will keep it—even if you strike off my head with the sword you have there at your side.”

“I have not come as an assassin,” replied the captain.

“Well,” answered the Ruard, “there are plenty of vagabonds and ruffians below who would not hesitate—call up some of them.”

“Oh, Mynheer!” cried the distressed secretary, “those you hear are friends of His Highness—respectable people—they only clamour for your signature.”

M. de Witt turned away his head as if in weariness.

“Whatever happens,” he said shortly, “I cannot sign.”

His wife put out her hand and clasped his that lay on the coverlet.

“Cornelius,” she urged in an unsteady voice, “it is not safe to refuse.”

“As a citizen of Dordt I cannot do otherwise,” he answered briefly.

“There are the children,” said Maria de Witt.

The Ruard flashed a stern look at the secretary.

“Are you incapable of protecting my house and family?” he demanded.

Orent Muys answered in great agitation—

“Mynheer, His Highness has been proclaimed Stadtholder—he is now at the Peacock Inn receiving the homage of the crowd—and I have to take your signature back to him—otherwise—really, Mynheer, I could not answer for it—they are all worthy people, such as your own baker or butcher might be—but they are … excited——”

He paused as the fierce sounds of a tussle between the mob and the burgher guards rose from the street.

Maria de Witt sprang up and went to the window.

She was seen from below and greeted with a yell of fury and a shower of pebbles.

“Cornelius—” she came back breathlessly—“they will break in——”

“And if they do?”—the Ruard questioned Captain Hoogewerf.

“Then, I think,” was the answer, “that they will serve you as they served your portrait in the Stadhuis.”

Madam de Witt gave a little cry, and her husband’s eyes flashed.

“Then make an end now,” he exclaimed passionately. “I would rather be stabbed in my bed than be torn to pieces by the mob.”

“Oh, my dear Mynheer, if you would only sign!” cried the secretary.

“I cannot.”

Maria de Witt went on her knees, clasping her hands against the coverlet.

“Oh, Cornelius—I must entreat.”

He turned his sad brown eyes on her with an expression of gentle reproach.

“Ah, you!” he said. “You have always been so brave—so careful of my honour.”

“I cannot face this,” she answered desperately. “I cannot—they will murder you—and the children are in the house.”

“You must send them away.”

“It is impossible—there is a crowd back and front.”

“Maria,” he said in an anguished tone, “I cannot sign.”

He turned his face from her, and she sprang to her feet with her hand to her brow.

The lace on her bosom rose painfully with her agitated breathing, the pearls pressed tight round her swelling throat; her countenance, framed in the long black ringlets, was suffused and trembling.

“Have you no regard for your wife?” asked Captain Hoogewerf.

“I have some regard for my honour,” replied the Ruard, wiping his forehead, damp with anguish of mind and body.

The sound of blows and splintering wood told that the door was being forced.

Bloodthirsty cries of rage and triumph pierced the din of the attack.

“Down with the friends of France!”

“Show us the signature!”

“Down with the enemies of His Highness!”

“Death to the friends of King Louis!”

“I did not show myself friendly to France in Southwold bay,” said Cornelius de Witt grimly.

“Sign, Mynheer,” begged the secretary, “or we shall all be murdered!”

A stone hurtled through the window and struck one of the posts of the bed.

“Oh, God help us!” exclaimed Maria de Witt. She flung herself on her knees again. “My lord—for the sake of the children——”

A musket was fired below, and one of the servants shrieked.

“Well, Mynheer,” asked Captain Hoogewerf, “how much longer are we to wait?”

“Put your pistol through my head,” answered the Ruard hoarsely, “for I will not be torn to pieces by the mob.” He repeated—“That is a horrible death—to be torn in pieces by the mob.”

Maria de Witt was bitterly weeping.

“If you will not sign,” she said in despair, “then I must leave you—God help me, I must see to some means of safety for my children.”

The secretary had snatched up a pen, and now came to the bedside and forced it into the Ruard’s fingers.

“Oh, you are a father before you are a citizen!” exclaimed Maria de Witt “This is not perjury—you are absolved by the actions of the others.”

Slowly Cornelius de Witt took up the quill in his feeble fingers.

He bit his full under-lip and his eyes narrowed.

“What will be said of a man who was vanquished by his wife’s tears?” he muttered.

He could scarcely hold the pen.

He looked at his wife—

“Maria, Maria, dost thou think this compliance can save me from the inevitable?”

There was a silence as he dipped his quill in the ink and reluctantly traced his name—the last on the list.

Then, as the secretary took the paper, Madam de Witt rose with a breath of agonised relief.

But Orent Muys, looking at the writing, cried out—

“What is this, Mynheer?—what have you put after your name—two letters—V.C.?”

“That means Vi coactus,” replied the Ruard shortly; “if you have forgot your Latin the translation runs—‘constrained by force.’”

“This is but playing with us!” exclaimed Captain Hoogewerf.

“I implore you, Mynheer,” urged the secretary. “You will only rouse the fury of the people—scratch out those letters.”

“I shall not retract them,” he answered. “‘Constrained by force,’ otherwise I should not have signed.”

The secretary looked at the captain and the captain at the soldiers.

Orent Muys tried persuasions and Hoogewerf threats.

But Cornelius de Witt was immovable; he turned away his face on the pillow and was silent.

Maria de Witt dropped the red curtain of the bed, and, unseen by her husband, drew the paper from the secretary’s hand.

With her finger on her lips she silenced them, and withdrawing to the back of the chamber hastily effaced the two letters—“V.C.”

“You are very scrupulous, Mynheer,” said Captain Hoogewerf.

“It seems I am the only one in Dordt,” returned the Ruard, “who remembers his duty.”

Captain Hoogewerf clapped on his hat.

“You will be sorry, some day, that you spoke so recklessly,” he said, and strode out of the room, followed by the soldiers and the secretary.

Maria de Witt leant heavily against the bed-post, pressing her handkerchief to her reddened eyes.

A loud, triumphant, and insulting shout told the joy of the crowd when they heard that the Ruard had submitted, and with a mighty turmoil, and sound of singing and cheering, they swept away up the street to the Peacock Inn.

Cornelius de Witt clenched his hand on the coverlet.

“I had better have died,” he murmured.

His wife came and bent over his pillow.

“Do you blame me?” she asked, shuddering. “Ah, you think that I have been weak.”

“No,” he answered, “there were the children … but nothing can save us, Maria.”

“They have gone,” she breathed.

“Yes, now,” he answered mournfully; “but what can protect us, John and me, against the whole country’s hate?”

She cried out passionately—

“They cannot hate you—it is impossible!”

He leant back exhausted.

“You have heard to-day, dearest, how they hate me—the Prince is master now.”

“The Prince,” she said in terror,—“he would not allow any harm to come to you.”

“I should not ask for his protection; he is not my master—nor shall be.”

She went on her knees beside the bed and laid her lips to his hand.

“God Almighty guard us,” she whispered. “He who is greater than princes has us in His charge, Cornelius.”

“Amen, amen,” cried the Ruard. “And may He give me courage to meet the exceeding bitterness of my inevitable end!”

He laid his free hand on her bowed black head, and the tears welled up into his eyes for the ruin of the ideals to which he had given his life.

---

CHAPTER VI
THE RESTORATION

M. Gaspard Fagel, excited, rather better dressed than usual, with an orange ribbon in his button-hole, arrived early in the afternoon at the Grand Pensionary’s house in the Kneuterdyk Avenue.

He found M. de Witt seated languidly at the open window of his library, wearing a loose Japanese robe and gazing out at the sunny garden and the doves in the trees.

On the chair beside him lay an open portfolio of sketches.

“You are recovered, Mynheer?” asked M. Fagel, with some embarrassment.

The Grand Pensionary smiled sadly.

“I hope to be able to resume my duties very soon.”

He roused himself and sat up.

“Be seated,” he said. “Will you move those drawings—they are M. Van der Welde’s sketches of Solebay battle, made from his galiot—His Highness is fond of pictures, he had best commission the paintings.”

It was said gently, without a trace of bitterness.

M. Fagel coughed.

“I am come,” he said, “to tell you of a restoration.”

“I knew,” answered John de Witt, “that it must be so.”

Gaspard Fagel drew himself up with some importance.

“The Deputies of Holland have proclaimed His Highness Stadtholder and Captain General of the Republic for life, with all the dignities formerly belonging to his ancestors.”

In these pompous words sounded the death-knell of the lifelong labour, hopes, policy, and ideals of John de Witt.

He looked out again upon the doves in the trembling elm boughs.

“They have kept me short of news, for I have been very ill,” he answered quietly, “but I have known how it must end.”

Gaspard Fagel was full of his subject.

“The Deputies left two days ago for Bodegraven, that they may acquaint His Highness and bring him to the Hague to take the oaths.”

“Something I heard of that.”

M. Fagel was exultant.

“It is not a fortnight since Dordt gave the signal—Rotterdam was the next. We had the whole country in a flame—the peasants took possession of Delft—it was irresistible—irresistible! The States were swept off their feet—the inexorable conditions imposed by France helped—the Perpetual Edict was repealed—even Amsterdam clamoured for the Prince. I tell you, Mynheer, he is King, though without the name.”

“The people have overawed the magistrates,” remarked M. de Witt. “What need for the details?—the Prince is Stadtholder.”

He was still looking out of the window, and the reflection of the green trees gave a ghastly hue to his worn, colourless face.

“What of the war?” he asked.

Gaspard Fagel lifted his shoulders.

“The Bishop of Munster overruns Groningen—but the Elector and the Spanish troops are expected soon. The people are wonderfully heartened, they can think of nothing but the Prince.”

“How did he take this change of fortune?” asked the Grand Pensionary.

“He met the Deputies of Rotterdam with cold reserve, and said he would not have the people force the magistrates—he would have his rights by law, not violence. He met the States at Bodegraven in his carriage, and asked them first if he was relieved of his oath; they said Yes, and then he merely told them he took the office for the good of the country. M. Beuningen was there all the time.”

John de Witt answered quietly—

“The Prince never lacked for prudence, he will not perish by his father’s fault.”

“He is the idol of the people—M. Beuningen says the soldiers worship him.”

“He has great qualities,” said M. de Witt, “and I have educated him to be a patriot,—I hope he may fulfil the expectancy of the people.”

M. Fagel looked uneasy.

“Well,” he said, “I do not know why I talk of this so much. I came about your business, Mynheer.”

The Grand Pensionary flushed.

“My memorial to Their High Mightinesses?” he asked.

“Even that, Mynheer.”

The Grand Pensionary roused himself.

“I trust,” he said proudly, “they have been pleased to consider how very bitter it was to me to have to stoop to justify myself against the attacks of a pamphleteer.”

Gaspard Fagel answered hastily—

“It was, of course, malicious folly.”

“There were many who believed in it, therefore I was forced to reply.”

“Their Noble Mightinesses declare there is no truth in the charges.”

“I am glad they do me that justice,” said John de Witt simply.

Gaspard Fagel frowned.

“But I am obliged to add, Mynheer, that what Their Noble Mightinesses say carries no weight now whatever—and I fear these charges against you are as eagerly believed as ever.”

“They must be refuted,” replied the Grand Pensionary with energy. “I will not have these hideous stains upon my name.”

M. Fagel shook his head.

“There is only one man whose voice can be heard now, Mynheer.”

“The Prince?”

“Yes, His Highness the Stadtholder.”

“Then,” declared John de Witt, proudly and calmly, “I will write to him. He will have the nobility to see justice done. He knows that I have not taken the Secret Service money—or——” He made an impatient gesture, “I cannot repeat them—but the Prince knows what manner of man I am.”

“The people will listen to him—but to none other; what he says I think they will credit.”

John de Witt gave a little sigh. The Secretary of the States was slightly uncomfortable in his presence; disconcerted before his utter serenity.

Gaspard Fagel had an uneasy feeling that de Witt’s was the calm of a heart-broken man. He sat looking at the Minister whom he had followed, envied, rivalled, and now supplanted, and his triumph was by no means unalloyed.

The Grand Pensionary turned his full brown eyes on him.

“What will the Prince do with his power?”

“One cannot tell. Frankly, he makes no confidant of me or any; it is thought he will break off the negotiations with King Louis. He still hopes to detach the English.”

“Yet could not come to terms with them at Newerbrugge——”

“It is not known what passed there. M. Beuningen thinks they made him secret offers and that he refused them—at least, he is hot against M. de Groot. Some say he will be arrested on the ground of having exceeded his commission. M. de Montbas’ action has not helped his case.”

“What hath M. de Montbas done?” demanded John de Witt.

“Joined the French,” returned Gaspard Fagel laconically.

“M. de Montbas—has deserted to the French?” exclaimed John de Witt.

“He was, you know, a prisoner, arrested for gross failure in duty, and when he saw the Prince was resolved on his life, he became desperate and, contriving to escape, fled to the enemy. King Louis will forgive him, doubtless, for the information he is able to supply now.”

The Grand Pensionary was silent.

“You must see,” added M. Fagel, “that this does not improve your credit with the people.”

John de Witt raised his tired eyes.

“I do not know, Mynheer,” he said quietly, “why you have come to tell me all this.”

Gaspard Fagel rose restlessly.

On a table near by was a white china pot full of tulips; he stopped beside this and stared into the flame-coloured cups, where the dusty, black pistils showed.

“I should advise you to leave the Hague,” he said.

“I cannot leave my post,” answered the Grand Pensionary.

“Your illness is a fair excuse.”

John de Witt shook his head.

“The country still needs me,” he said. “In a few days I hope to be again in the Assembly.”

Gaspard Fagel pulled at the tulip petals.

“I am your friend,” he declared.

The Grand Pensionary gave him a quiet look.

“Yes, your friend,” Fagel repeated defiantly. “Do not think because I follow the Prince that I am no friend to you. I have much, very much to be grateful to you for. I—” he hesitated a second—“I should like to do you a service now.”

By now John de Witt had turned his eyes from him to the pattern of blue sky to be seen through the intertwisting leaves and branches of the elms and limes.

Gaspard Fagel stuck his fingers into his sash.

“In this state we are in,” he said, “we cannot afford internal dissension.”

The phrase sounded trite to M. de Witt; he raised his long hand on the arm of the chair and let it fall again.

“I am ambitious,” continued M. Fagel, “to be a mediator——”

“Well?”

“Between you and His Highness.”

The Grand Pensionary answered without turning his head.

“In what manner?”

M. Fagel was rather at a loss to express himself.

“His Highness is Stadtholder,” he remarked.

“Nevertheless, I am still Grand Pensionary, Mynheer.”

“The office remains—yes,” replied M. Fagel. “But it must be filled by a man who will work with His Highness.”

John de Witt showed some signs of agitation.

“M. Fagel,” he said, sitting erect, “if you are here to suggest that I work under His Highness, the mere secretary of his ambition, the servant of his designs—I beg you, say no more.”

“This is not reasonable.”

“It is very reasonable.” John de Witt’s voice was stern. “For twenty years I have stood at the helm of this Republic. I have guided her through storms and perils; through God’s help I have always maintained her dignity and prosperity. An uncorrupt, free Republic was my ideal. Well, I served it, I have fallen, I have failed—I have been repaid with hate where I worked for love—but I will never be the tool of the Prince who has destroyed my work, nor help the people set a yoke again upon their necks.”

“Mynheer, you talk rashly—we are as free as ever we were.”

John de Witt’s eyes flashed.

“You deceive yourself. You have put at the head of the State a young man with a temper as imperious as any of his House—a Stewart for pride, a Nassau for firmness. Were we free in the days of Prince Maurice? We shall not be free under this youth. For twenty years we have tasted real liberty, and now he will make us pay.…”

Gaspard Fagel replied vehemently—

“Indeed you wrong His Highness … he is the sole hope of the country.… I believe that he will save us.”

“Others could have saved you, had you permitted them.… If he be a patriot, he is not the only one in the United Provinces.”

“This attitude is dangerous,” said Gaspard Fagel.

John de Witt looked at him with an air almost of pity.

“Do you think that I will alter the whole aim of my life to buy a little favour now? Do you imagine that I will trim my course to please this youth who was my pupil?”

“And now is your master.”

“I do not admit it, nor ever will—there is no master in this Republic.”

M. Fagel answered with some impatience—

“So—you are not tractable—you will not work under the Prince?”

“I will work with him, when I agree with him.”

“Very well—you cannot expect, Mynheer, to find the Stadtholder friendly.”

“I expect,” said John de Witt proudly, “to find him just.”

“This attitude of yours will not please him.”

“I cannot care for that.”

“He is all powerful——”

John de Witt interrupted—

“I do not think that he will use his power to gratify his political dislikes. He knows my principles, he knows that I am likely to abide by them; he cannot be either surprised or angered that he does not see me swell the crowd gathered to do him homage.”

Gaspard Fagel frowned.

“That is your decision—your final decision?”

John de Witt bent his head.

“Yes.” Then he added keenly, “Did the Prince send you?”

“I have not seen him since the opening of the war, nor has he mentioned this question in his letters, but M. Beuningen says he remarked to him that you must bend or break.”

John de Witt faintly smiled.

“I also can be inflexible,” he said. “I can serve my ideal as steadily as His Highness serves his ambition.”

Gaspard Fagel seemed troubled.

“If you continue to oppose the Prince,” he said bluntly, “you will scarcely be safe at the Hague.”

“Are you trying to frighten me?”

“I am warning you. Join with the Prince, or resign and leave the Hague.”

The Grand Pensionary replied firmly—

“Neither one nor the other, Mynheer. I will not forsake the policy I have adhered to all my life, nor will I leave my post until I am relieved of it.”

M. Fagel bit his forefinger. He had a sincere regard for M. de Witt, and his conscience troubled him because the Grand Pensionary had given him this secretaryship he now held, and did not utter a word of reproach.

“It is like a great storm,” he said, “sweeping everything before it; they who fling themselves down may escape, but they who remain erect are certainly carried away—and perish.”

John de Witt gazed at him steadily.

“You are an able man, Mynheer Fagel. I think you will be of great service to the Prince and the country, but for me you can do nothing … there is no more to be said.”

The Secretary smoothed the bands at his wrists, slightly coloured, and bit his lip.

Hesitating, he glanced sideways at the Grand Pensionary once or twice.

John de Witt had turned his eyes away, and by his demeanour seemed not to know there was another with him in the room.

At last Gaspard Fagel gathered up his hat and cane and left the quiet library without another word.

John de Witt kept his gaze still on the sky.

The leaves, and the chinks of it seen between them, took on a thousand different, changing shapes—gold, green, and blue.

The sun reached the glossy box hedges in tendrils of spangled light and gilded the tulips (over-blown now and ragged) with a keen yellow.

The Grand Pensionary’s vision was bounded by a deep red beech tree, through whose heavy branches the sky appeared bright and pale, and in the shadow it threw, two ash-coloured doves were walking on the smooth sweep of close grass.

John de Witt felt so weary that there was a pain even in resting, a disquietude in gazing at the pictured peace of the high-walled garden.

It seemed that only oblivion could give ease to his languid body and aching soul.

In a breath had gone the labour of a lifetime.

He had worked incredibly, with sincerity, with passion, with unsparing patience and energy; and for reward he was thrust aside with hatred and curses for the sake of the heir of the old House from whose tyranny he had saved his country.

No one believed in him, no one trusted in his honour.

He had always been of an integrity above suspicion, but it did not save him from being accused of the vilest crimes. He had given his life to his country, and was reproached with having sold her to her enemies.

He had always lived as simply as an ordinary citizen, nevertheless it was laid to his charge that he had appropriated large sums from the public funds.

Calumny was triumphant; there was no stain she did not try to cast on the name of a man who had never committed a single unworthy action.

His former good fame availed him nothing; the prosperity of the country under his rule was not remembered to his credit now.

Malice would not listen to reason nor justice.

And there was no one who dared speak for him save those helpless in a like case. There were a few faithful, his brother-in-law, Vivien, Pensionary of Dordt, Peter de Groot, Colonel Bampfield, but their voices could not be heard above the shrieks of the factions. They had their own several lives and honours to look to; if they could no longer support him he could no longer protect them.

He laid his hand on the bandage round his right arm, that covered a still aching wound.

The little senseless chatter of the birds in the branches, the faint murmurs of the wind, were not so strong as a tumult of imaginary sounds that beat loud and threatening on the inner senses of John de Witt.

The cries of an angry crowd, the beating of alarm bells, the hurrying of eager feet, swelling in volume, coming nearer.…

Through the green and gold and blue glimpsed a vision of these people: furious faces, threatening gestures, brandished weapons; dangerous, powerful, irresistible; a hymn of triumph, of hatred, on their lips, and their hearts hot for blood.

John de Witt rose and held out his hand before him as if sound and sight were real, and so stood for a moment, in the attitude of an orator, pleading before his enemies.

Then he turned quickly from the window and walked up and down the long, sunny room.

After a few moments he stopped and took down a gilt-clasped Bible from the shelf.

He opened it; but before his eyes were still the furious faces of his countrymen, and in his ears the ominous sound of their greedy, oncoming hate.

---

CHAPTER VII
“I WILL MAINTAIN”

The new Stadtholder took his seat in the Assembly, accepted the position offered him, swore the oaths to the Republic, tactfully abstained from any speech, and merely expressed his intention of returning to Bodegraven at once.

The Hague was in a frenzy. The hero of the moment was offered a triumph, a banquet, a ball.…

He declined all, something coldly, and reminded the Deputies the Republic was in no condition for rejoicing.

He intended obviously to avoid as much as possible the demonstrations of the crowd. He refused a public entry; but he could not prevent the people from drinking his health at every street corner and sending up fireworks as soon as it was dark.

As he left the Assembly M. Fagel advanced to speak to him.

“Is Your Highness satisfied now?” he asked eagerly.

“I am pleased with the title,” answered the Prince; “see to it I have the substance—I will be no Duke of Venice, Fagel.”

The Secretary could not but remember M. de Witt’s words of that morning.… Certainly they would find no puppet ruler in William of Orange.

Already his manner had changed. As cold, as composed as before, it now showed openly that imperious haughtiness he had often had to conceal under mere reserve or enforced graciousness.

He bore himself as if a king. His excessive pride might not deign to express itself in any outward show, but he revealed clearly enough that if he was to be the deliverer of his country he would also be her master.

Secure in the support of the people, he could do as he pleased with the magistrates. The whole country was at his mercy.

Those who had been in opposition to him trembled; his enemies were in despair.

Now, as he paused on the stairs to speak to Fagel, M. de Groot came out of the room of the Assembly.

“Mynheer,” William called him.

Gaspard Fagel shivered.

Pale, tired, but erect, Peter de Groot came forward.

“Your Highness?”

The Stadtholder was drawing on his gloves.

“I advised you, Mynheer, not to undertake that journey to Zeyst, you remember?”

“Perfectly, Your Highness.”

“Well”—the Prince, having finished with his gloves, removed his cane from under his arm and tapped the baluster—“I now advise you to leave the Hague.”

M. de Groot was undaunted.

“I am aware that Your Highness blames me for the terms of peace I brought from the King of France—I would rather die than accept them—but as an ambassador it was my bare duty to carry them to Their Noble Mightinesses—who had sent me.”

“M. de Groot,” replied the Prince unpleasantly, “we will have no discussion, if you please. Again—I should recommend the Spanish Netherlands.”

M. Fagel moved instinctively a step aside, but Peter de Groot stood his ground. He saw himself a fallen man, a ruined man, and a slow paleness overspread his countenance, but there was no alteration in his proud demeanour.

Followed by Mynheer Fagel, William III. turned away without a salute, and, with the curtest acknowledgment of the councillors and nobles gathered about him, passed out into the courtyard of the Binnenhof.

It was too late to return to the camp, against his will he found himself obliged to stay overnight at the Hague.

His own Palace being closed, William was lodged in the splendid house, almost adjoining the Binnenhof, where Prince John Maurice had gathered all the treasures collected in his travels.

No attendants following, the Stadtholder crossed the courtyard and gained the mansion without being observed by any.

Dinner was already served in the gorgeous dining-room, where the old Prince’s parrot from Brazil (who could distinguish a black man from a white, could swear nicely in Spanish, and knew his master for a great man) swung in his glittering ebony ring.

M. Heenvliet was in attendance, and a few of Prince Maurice’s servants.

“Has Mynheer Bentinck arrived?” asked the Prince.

“Not yet, Your Highness.”

Bentinck had been sent to the Princess Amalia with the news of her grandson’s triumph.

“Nor the messenger from Sir Gabriel Sylvius?”

“No, Highness—but there have been many to wait upon you——”

“I will see no one save those two.”

On the dark bureau a heap of congratulatory letters had already accumulated. The Prince picked some up, glanced at the writings, and laid them down unopened; a few were from his friends, many from his enemies, some from people he did not know at all.

He put aside his violet velvet cloak, his cane, hat, and gloves, and opened the window regardless of the breeze that set the candles guttering.

It was a beautiful evening, clear, not warm for July, the sky cloudless and a fresh wind blowing.

William stood holding back the heavy curtain and looking out at the dark shapes of the houses above which now and then a shower of light from bonfire or rocket rose into the sky.

The excited murmurs from the crowds filling the Plein came distinctly to his ears; he could almost hear them shouting his name.

M. Heenvliet had withdrawn, for the moment he was alone, but there came no change into the perfect calm of his face and bearing.

An observer might have well thought that he felt no emotion, and concluded that to feel no emotion at such a moment was indeed to show himself incapable of being roused by any feeling ever.

The Groote Kerk struck seven.

William left the window and went to the table glittering with glass and silver, the sheen of china, and the sparkle of the candles in the gold and crimson wines.

The parrot gave a low scream and eyed him in friendly fashion.

William looked at it thoughtfully. It had a drooping air, as if it knew that its master was shut up with the garrison in Maestricht, far away from the luxury of this comfortable room with its Persian carpet, rich hangings, valuable pictures and statuary.

It had also an air of self-containment that moved the Prince’s admiration; he crossed to its ring and gently stroked its head. The bird swung itself in violent agitation of some kind, dropped headlong from its perch, and with a sweep of its gay wing cast several of the letters on the bureau at William’s feet.

He stooped to pick them up; the writing on one caught his eye.

He stared at it a moment and flushed; then quickly broke it open.

It was matter of only a few lines; when he had read it he took up his hat and mantle instantly and left the room.

M. Heenvliet saw him passing hastily down the wide stairs, and could hardly credit his eyes.…

He ran after him.

But the Prince crossed the courtyard without looking back, and as M. Heenvliet gained the gate he saw the slight figure disappearing in the shadows in the direction of the Plein.

His Highness’ gentleman was utterly bewildered. As he stood irresolute, hatless, at the gate, a horseman galloped up and dismounted.

M. Heenvliet knew him for Florent Van Mander, the expected messenger from Sir Gabriel Sylvius.

“The Prince——” began the newcomer.

“Sir,” cried M. Heenvliet, “he has this moment left the house alone—leaving no message——”

“And the Hague in this commotion!”

“He was about to sit down to dinner—he but waited M. Bentinck——”

“He was armed?”

“With only a sword.”

“I will go after him.”

“Dare you?”

“If I can be of any service to him I dare anything, Mynheer.”

“It is the strangest thing.”

Florent was already resolved.

“What was he wearing?”

“A violet coat and mantle—a black hat and feather——”

“See to the horse, I will go after him.… He is rash … the streets are not safe to-night.”

While M. Heenvliet was still half urging, half protesting, Florent started at a run across the Plein.

But his progress was soon stopped by the crowd, the coaches, horsemen and soldiers who thronged the square.

Many of the people were dancing by torchlight before their houses, and handing out wine to every passer-by to drink the health of the new Stadtholder.

The crackling of fireworks mingled with the murmurs and the shouts; hawkers were selling copies of pamphlets against John de Witt, and the dying speech of Jacob Van der Graef who was held up as a martyr to the Orange cause.

It was a riot of enthusiastic joy. Every one wore an orange ribbon, and from every house, steeple, booth, and coach waved the Orange flag.

Florent, forced to pause, remembered that he had absolutely no clue to the Prince’s destination, but as he made his way on through the press, as best he could, he reminded himself that William would also find crossing the Plein a difficult matter.

He looked eagerly round through the confusion of twilight, torchlight, and the steadier gleam of lantern, and presently noticed a gentleman in a violet mantle making a slow way through a group of burghers gathering round the open door of a tavern.

Van Mander forced himself as near as he could get—not near enough to be sure.…

Finally the violet cavalier turned down the Houtestraat, with Florent not far behind.

It was less crowded here, and by the time they had reached the Kalvermarkt Van Mander had his man clear. But suddenly the gentleman in violet stopped to ask his way of a man seated outside a grocery shop, and upon receiving the answer turned so quickly down an ill-lit side street that Florent lost sight of him.

Breaking into a run, he plunged down the dark turning, his spurs clattering on the cobbles.

The street was almost empty, the houses dark; for the inhabitants were gathered in the principal thoroughfares.

Florent was brought to a stop in a lonely little square planted with chestnut trees. He looked up and saw an orange flag projected from a gabled window, from which issued the ruddy light of a lamp that stained the folds to a deep brilliance against the purple colour of the evening sky.

At the door of this house stood an old man in a white ruff, smoking.

Florent addressed him.

“Has a gentleman wearing violet been past here, Mynheer?”

“A moment ago—yes.”

“Which way did he take?” Florent asked eagerly. For the square was divided by a canal.

The old man was laconic.

“He asked the way.”

“To——?”

“The Heeren Gracht.”

“Which is round the corner is it not?”

“Yes.”

“Did you see this gentleman’s face?”

The other began to grow suspicious.

“What did you want with him?”

Florent did not hesitate.

“I am a servant of his—at least, if it be he whom I think—and am come after him with a message.”

“Well,” said the old man, “he was not tall nor stout—he was young and thin, with a hooked nose like his Highness the Stadtholder has——”

“Then he is my master,” said Florent, and hurried on.

As he turned the length of the dark canal he saw by the light of the lamps with which it was set the violet mantle not far away from him.

Its owner appeared to be hesitating, and endeavouring to distinguish the signs displayed on the tall house-fronts.

Van Mander, rather breathless, ran up to him; there was no one else in sight.

“Your Highness——”

The Prince turned sharply.

Before he could speak, Florent went on—

“Sir, you must forgive me, it is I, Van Mander.… I rode up as you left the Marithuis.… I followed you.”

Somewhat to his surprise the Prince seemed neither astonished nor angry.

“Why?” he asked in an absorbed fashion.

“Sir, it is dangerous.… If you knew what I know—what I heard at Zeyst.…”

“I am safe enough,” said William, still gazing up at the houses.

“There are plots abroad to assassinate Your Highness.”

“Without doubt,” the Prince replied absently. “I wish to find a house that hath for sign a pair of scales—it is somewhere near here, I think.”

“On what adventure is Your Highness engaged?” demanded Florent anxiously.

It seemed to him that William neither knew nor cared who spoke to him. He showed no sign of remembering that he awaited news from Sir Gabriel; he appeared to be entirely engaged in the matter on hand.

“Now, how may we find it?” was his sole comment, as he turned impatiently along the canal.

“It is too dark to see the sign—a few houses have lamps above the door,” said Florent.

“Help me to look. I would rather charge a thousand men with a hundred than lose an hour now.”

The Prince took Florent’s presence as a matter of course, neither desiring nor resenting it.

They proceeded in silence along the stone causeway.

Florent was the first to catch the gleam of a pair of gilt scales dangling over the low portico of one of the doors.

“Shall I wait here for Your Highness?” he asked.

“You may enter if you will.”

Still the Prince gave the impression of being so absorbed in some particular affair that he did not know to whom he spoke.

But as they waited on the winged steps, after having hastily knocked, he suddenly explained himself.

“My old tutor, Mynheer Cornelius Triglandt, wrote to me that he was lying ill here. I did not even know that he was at the Hague.”

Florent looked sharply at the Prince. After all, despite his gravity, reserve, and caution, William had then an honest simplicity; … and, with all his pride, the frankness of single-mindedness, and the winning modesty of youth and quick affection.

The door was opened by a girl wearing a garnet necklace, a white cap, and long gold earrings glimmering in the lamp-light.

“Mynheer Cornelius Triglandt is here?” asked the Prince quickly.

“Yes, Mynheer.”

She opened the door wider and they passed into the cedarwood hall.

“Is he very ill?” questioned William.

The maiden looked at them with a faint surprise.

“I do not think that he expects any one to visit him, Mynheer.”

“No?” the Prince’s voice was gentler than Florent had thought it could be, “but he will be glad to see me.”

The girl hesitated with her hand on the newel post.

“Who shall I say is here—to M. Triglandt?” she asked.

The Prince stood in a slightly awkward fashion, holding his hat across his chest; he fixed the speaker with his luminous eyes in a bewildered manner.

The girl glanced over him; took in his velvet mantle, his fringed gloves, his square-toed shoes with the stiff satin bows.

“M. Triglandt is a friend of the Stadtholder,” she said half defiantly; “and you look to me like one of M. de Witt’s men.”

“Is he alone?” asked William abruptly.

“Yes. The doctor has been and gone; he says he cannot live the night. I have been sitting with him.”

“You are a good girl,” said the Prince. “Now I will relieve you.”

Her face brightened.

“Ah, I can go to the fair on the Plein!… I had promised to go—but could not, when a poor old man lay dying.… There are great rejoicings, are there not? … because of His Highness.”

The Prince gave her an absent look.

“Yes, you can go—though this is no time for rejoicing, with the French on the border. Tell M. Triglandt it is his pupil come to see him.”

“His pupil?” she echoed, and went lightly up the stairs.

William turned to Florent.

“I am glad the people are good to him,” he said impulsively. “He escaped from Arnheim just before the French—entered.”

The girl called softly over the banisters—

“Will you come up, Mynheeren?”

They ascended the smooth, well-worn steps, and on a landing where a brass lamp burnt she pointed them to a door.

“I will go out now—not for long,” she said, excusing herself. “My mother is below and our servant, and there are other lodgers.”

She smiled, and with a little courtesy pattered down the stairs.

William pushed open the door.

It led into a chamber lined with cedar, and empty save for a few chairs.

Directly opposite, a second door stood open upon a bedroom full of candlelight.

The Prince went forward, but Florent hung back and remained in the unlit shadows.

William stepped breathlessly into the light. He found a lofty apartment, illumined by a row of candles set on a black bureau.

The windows were flung wide on to the summer night, the canal and the lime trees, the stars, and a great moon that hung low above the silent houses.

Close to the candles stood a blue bowl of sweet-peas and roses.

Sideways to the window was a bed curtained in patterned chintz, and on it lay an elderly man whose firm face was turned expectantly towards the door.

“Mynheer Triglandt!” exclaimed the Prince, casting down his hat and gloves.

“Your Highness!”

The words came with a deep note of joy and passion; the sick man’s face utterly changed into an expression of rapture.

“Ah, why did I not know before?” William exclaimed. He came to the bedside and pulled back the curtains.

M. Triglandt held out his thin hands and grasped the Prince’s.

“I have not been here long.… Arnheim was sacked … they killed most.…”

He tried to kiss the Stadtholder’s hands. William prevented him and dropped on his knees beside the low bed.

“You are ill—how do I find you!”

“That your Highness should think of me!… It is nothing.… I tried to do what I could for the people, out there … you would not believe, the cruelties!”

William ground his teeth.

“I took the fever … there was not enough food.… They mutilated the people … as in Farnese’s day.”

The Calvinist pastor drew himself painfully up.

“I have seen our churches burnt and heard Mass sung.…”

He gasped, and stared down into the agonised face of the young man kneeling at his bedside.

“It seemed God had turned His face from us … but I knew that He would raise Your Highness up to be our deliverer.”

William coloured and trembled.

“That you should come here to see me,” whispered M. Triglandt in a tone of infinite tenderness. “Now I shall die very glad.”

“You must not die,” replied the Prince. “I have so much to say.… How many years since we saw each other and you taught me of the ancient saints,”—he caught his breath eagerly, “and how they endured—and the true happiness they had?”

“Not so long,” said the tutor. “But now Your Highness has moustaches and a sword—and is a great man.” He smiled faintly. “Yet you are still like your mother.… I did not hope to see you again—to-night of all nights. I have heard the people shouting for the true House restored.”

The Prince answered passionately—

“What is their rejoicing to me? This is rather a time for prayer … the country is almost lost.… Oh, God who hears me, almost lost!”

He pushed back the hair from his forehead and looked up into the white face of the pastor. His coldness had left him completely; he was all fire and eagerness, passion and agony.

Florent, motionless in the outer shadows, stared at him in an enthralled amazement.

“Mynheer, you used to tell me that my ancestors had been heroes—that God had appointed them to guard His faith.… I want to do as they did.… I want to save the country and the Reformed religion.… The odds are fearful … no one understands, not even Bentinck.”

The suppressed emotion of years strove to express itself; but long silence had put it well-nigh beyond expression. William, speaking to the man to whom he had given his rare love, had to force the very soul of him into words.

“You know, you told me—it seemed possible I might do this thing. No one understands, if they did they would laugh; but you know. M. de Witt never trusted me, he thought I meant to play the traitor with France; it was the last insult—they all believed. You saw how utterly unhappy I was. I would have died, gladly. But now, three Provinces gone! You have heard the terms?—but never!—Not slavery again, no Romish rule for us!”

M. Triglandt looked at him with sparkling eyes.

“You have refused?”

“Yes,” breathed William; “the negotiations still hang, but now I have the power—I shall refuse. Ah! you will not laugh at me.”

He caught the sick man’s hand in his cold fingers.

“I am not quick nor clever,” he said, with his soul in his voice, “nor a soldier like M. de CondÉ nor a statesman like M. de Louvois; but I can endure, and wait, and take any hardship so that I attain my end—and do you not believe that God will help me, Mynheer Triglandt?”

“With all my soul I do believe—that He has set Your Highness in this place to be His soldier.”

The pastor raised himself still higher; his haggard features glowed with an earnest rapture.

“You have before you a long and difficult task—but a holy one; you will need to be strong, and resolute, and calm—you have half Europe to hearten, half Europe to defy.”

“Speak to me!” cried William. “Speak to me like that!”

The old man stared at the row of candles on the black bureau; his pale blue eyes were clear and shining.

“This is a dark hour, a time of misery, of bitterness, of despair. The tyrant triumphs; vanity, lust, and blood walk hand in hand across our land! But God, who planted in your breast this fervour, will not patiently endure the blasphemer. You can save His faith, you can raise His land from bondage, you can be the captain of His armies; you can humble the arrogant, break the power of France, and establish a freedom the world has never yet known.”

He turned his luminous gaze on to the upturned face of the young Prince, who seemed to have hushed his very breath to listen.

“Your way will not be easy; there will be dangers, disappointments, sneers, oppositions, failures. You must taste humiliation, you must endure sickness, you must have great patience and great courage. When you long for peace you will be driven into the combat. Very few will understand; there will be railing, calumny—factions to be met and silenced. I see ahead down the years, and I see this: struggles, bitterness, despair—but in your heart you will know that you are the elect of God, and that you fight His battles.”

There was a tense silence. Slowly, in a low voice, at last the Prince answered—

“I will try to be worthy.”

He dropped his face into his hands and hid it against the coverlet. M. Triglandt lightly stroked the long brown locks.

“And I see something of your reward too. I see this land a refuge for God’s people, I see them bless your name. In sickness and defeat it shall comfort you that you have so protected the Reformed religion that she shall never be in danger again; you will have opened the floodgates of liberty, and no one shall close them more.”

He gasped, struggling with his breath; then his clear, inspired voice went on—

“Maybe you will die before this reward comes, maybe you will never see the result of your labours. Men may never give you the honour; but yours will be the glory if now you dare what no other man does dare—or will!”

William looked up; his face was changed, almost distorted.

“I will do it. I am often ill, but I can put a good face on it—I shall live long enough … to do my task.”

“People will misunderstand—you must not care—to this one thing be true. You must forego pleasure, ease, popularity, friends.”

“I will do it,” repeated the Prince in a choking voice. “Speak to me—bless me—there is no other who understands.… Nevermore shall I speak to any as now I speak to you … to—you—who leave me.”

“What more can I say? Your own soul will guide you. Be tolerant, be just, be true to your word, be patient and be brave.”

“I will not falter—I will not despair—even though I go forth alone and never reach the goal.” The Prince’s voice failed him; he covered his face and his shoulders heaved.

M. Triglandt lay back on the white, fragrant pillows.

“I can speak no more,” he said faintly. “You know the way.”

William spoke without raising his head—

“Stay with me a little—for I love you.”

“William.”

“Ah, Heaven pity me, I am so lonely!”

“God—God has set you apart.”

The Prince looked up; the hazel eyes were full of tears.

“I will be resolute—I will be calm—only if you could stay.”

“I am dying; but you will not forget me nor how—I spoke.”

The tears ran down the young man’s cheeks; he trembled violently.

“I love you—no one else—I think. If you could stay—and see—how I obey you.”

The pastor smiled faintly.

“I am very happy.”

William caught his hands.

“Mynheer Triglandt,” he cried in a tone of terror, “I am afraid! Can I do it? They all look to me—to save them. M. de Witt passes on to me his hopeless task—to save them!”

He cowered against the bed.

“I feel as if my soul fainted—but I will not fail them. Ah, heart, heart!”

“God will inspire you,” gasped the pastor. “He—alone.”

“I trust in Him; if He should try me with bitternesses I will try to submit—but sometimes——Yesterday I saw an old man on the Rhine—struggling with a barge—and as it advanced a little it was swept back; and he strove again—and once more gained an inch—and was driven back; and as I watched he made a little desperate headway. My affairs are even as that poor man’s—I must strive and strive, and be content if with much labour I gain a little.”

He staggered to his feet and bent low over the pillow.

“What can I do for you?” he whispered. He was sobbing bitterly.

“Nothing—do not weep.”

The old man caught his coat and arm.

“I am content,” he said. “I dreamt of this—when M. de Witt divided us because I taught you who you were.”

There fell a soft, meaning silence. There could be heard the faint peal of the joy-bells coming through the summer dark.…

William supported the old man in a trembling embrace.

M. Triglandt caught one of the loose curls that hung over the Prince’s shoulder and pressed it to his lips … then his hands clasped tightly on his breast.

He nodded like one falling asleep.

Then suddenly his eyes opened wide.

“Say—‘God bless you,’” sobbed the Prince desperately.

“God bless you—God be with you always.”

He gathered sudden energy; he smiled and raised his right hand.

“Thou art King, O God; send help unto Jacob. Through Thee will we overthrow our enemies, and in Thy name will we tread them under that rise up against us; for we will not trust in our bow.”

The dying man’s voice swelled with exaltation—

“It is not our sword that shall help us; but it is Thou who savest us from our enemies and puttest them to confusion that hate us.…”

He fell into soft, yet triumphant accents—

“We will make our boast of … God … all day long … and will … praise Thy name … for ever.”

His hand sank.

“William … my child.…”

M. Triglandt closed his eyes … his breath was almost stilled.

Outside the joy-bells rang, and the Stadtholder cast himself across the homely bed in a passionate agony of bitter tears.

“God—be merciful—to me—a sinner—and alone!”

---

CHAPTER VIII
THE STADTHOLDER

A heavy mist of sun-filled vapour lay over the camp at Bodegraven.

The vivid green meadows lay flat to the dun-coloured sky. A white cottage with painted shutters, a vine-covered porch, and a garden full of sweet-peas and roses, poppies and herbs, stood by a clump of alders amid the tents and pickets.

Above it floated the Orange flag. In one of its small rooms the young Stadtholder sat, his elbow on the table, his brow in his hand.

M. de Zuylestein and William Bentinck stood by the open window; and Florent Van Mander was speaking with a force and an energy to which he had never before been roused.

“If Your Highness would consider.”

His Highness would consider nothing. Cornelius Triglandt had died in his arms at dawn that day, and already time was closing over the event—but not over the pain.

Van Mander addressed himself to the two gentlemen in the window embrasure.

“I swear to you these overtures were made to me in Zeyst. Will you take no heed of them?”

M. de Zuylestein frowned.

“What you say amounts to this—that some agents of King Louis have broached to you a scheme for the assassination of His Highness.”

Van Mander answered firmly—

“I journeyed straight to the Hague to inform the Prince—I have had till now no opportunity of speaking.”

Inwardly he was referring to the past night. He could have cried out the great pride and joy he felt in serving a Prince who had revealed himself at the death-bed of Cornelius Triglandt, a master whom he knew at last.

He longed to prove his devotion, to die for the Prince and the country. He burned with shame when he recalled that he had once tampered with France.

“Madame Lavalette is at the bottom of it.…”

He continued his narration.

“And one Hyacinthe St. Croix.… She hath a spite against His Highness.… M. de Louvois thinks there could be no greater disaster to the country than the loss of the Prince.… They approached me—” he paused, “because I had formerly dealings with St. Croix,” he added with an effort.

The Stadtholder raised swollen eyes.

“Let it be,” he said wearily.

M. Bentinck interrupted—

“Sir, you must take some notice of this plot.”

“It is beneath me to consider my own safety,” said William in the same tone.

Van Mander approached the table earnestly.

“This is deep—there is one Michael Tichelaer in it—a Dutch barber; a higher name than his——”

“I will not hear it,” replied the Prince with impatience.

“This is mere bravado,” exclaimed M. de Zuylestein.

“We have other things to occupy us,” replied the Prince.

“Sir,” declared Van Mander ardently, “I must insist that you listen to me.… Once more the French will send you terms … should you again refuse them—they have resolved to compass your death.”

The Stadtholder was still indifferent.

“These plots are hatched against every man of position.”

“There is danger at home as well as in the French camp,” insisted Florent. “A great name was mentioned.”

“Whose?” asked M. Bentinck eagerly.

“That of M. Cornelius de Witt.”

The Prince looked up sharply, roused at length by this.

“Impossible!” he exclaimed.

“I spoke with the fellow he had confided in,” Van Mander answered; “this Michael Tichelaer, who saw him soon after Your Highness was proclaimed in Dordt.… He was very precise: M. de Witt railed against Your Highness, said you would marry a foreign Princess and make yourself absolute in the United Provinces—and to prevent this and to bring the republicans back to power he desired this Tichelaer to go to the camp and kill Your Highness——”

The Stadtholder interrupted.

“I believe none of it.”

M. Bentinck, however, was not so sure.

“At least investigate the story.”

But all further speech was arrested by the announcement of the expected envoys from the Allies.

M. de Zuylestein drew Van Mander aside.

“I will see you afterwards; your tale requires looking into—particularly as regards M. de Witt. The Prince is too rash.”

It was Sir Gabriel Sylvius who brought the final answer from King Louis; the terms that William III. hoped, through the intervening influence of the English, might prove more reasonable.

Sir Gabriel was accompanied by Mr. Jermyn and an Englishman very different from either Buckingham or Arlington, Sir Edward Seymour, of the proudest name in the three kingdoms.

The young Stadtholder received them with perfect composure; all trace of weariness left his manner.

“Your Highness,” began Sir Gabriel, “I bring to you the final conditions of peace of the Kings of France and England.”

He handed the Prince a letter.

“I would advise Your Highness not to look at it till you have dined—I fear it will not please you.”

William swept a glance over the assembled faces, then tore open the envelope.

It contained a letter from the two English Ministers, and a copy of a treaty recently drawn up at Heeswyck between Charles and Louis, in which the two monarchs agreed to press their demands in concert and not to enter into any separate treaty with the Republic, whom they thus hoped to reduce to extremity.

Turning from this document, which destroyed all his hopes of detaching Charles from the French alliance, William cast his eyes over the Articles of Peace.

They stood the same as before, save that to the haughty demands of France were added the immoderate claims of England.

A passionate colour rushed into the young Stadtholder’s thin cheek.

He gave a stifled exclamation, and for a second it seemed as if he would tear the papers across and fling them in the face of the envoys who had brought them.

But he controlled himself, and made a movement as if he would have thrust them into the breast of his coat, forgetting he wore a cuirass.

Recollecting himself he flung the documents down on the table.

“Your Highness,”—Sir Edward addressed him, coming forward—“we are directed to ask for your answer, and the answer of the States, within ten days.”

William looked at him, and saw a high-bred gentleman, handsome and proud, with languid brown eyes; and dressed richly in a murrey-coloured travelling costume.

“You are Sir Edward Seymour?” queried the Stadtholder.

The Englishman bowed.

“Why are you sent here, Sir Edward?” demanded William. “Sir Gabriel could have brought the dispatch alone.”

The bluntness of this slightly discomposed Sir Edward’s stateliness.

He made a little motion with his riding-whip towards the Dutch nobles—

“These are in Your Highness’ confidence?”

“Oh, say what you have to say, Sir Edward,” cried the Prince impatiently.

Seymour was considering him curiously.

“My lord Buckingham made an offer to Your Highness——”

“Which I refused.”

“—in the hope of detaching the English from the French alliance,” added Sir Edward. “You now see, Sir, that such a hope is useless.”

“Well?”

“It is my embassage to repeat that offer to Your Highness. To show the consideration in which their Majesties hold you—they again offer you the sovereignty of Holland—in exchange for the towns not yet in King Louis’ possession.”

William III. looked at him straightly.

“I thank you and your master for these proposals,” he said coldly, “but they are renewed twenty-four hours too late.… Yesterday I took an oath of fidelity to the States as Stadtholder.… You have my answer.”

Sir Edward bowed.

“I may remind Your Highness that you stand in a desperate—almost a hopeless—position.”

The Prince answered proudly—

“I am not by nature timorous, Sir Edward, and do not fear to have to fight for liberty.”

“Have you well considered——”

William interrupted—

“Sir, I would rather spend the rest of my life hunting on one of my German estates than sell my country for any price that could be offered.”

Sir Edward was not as Buckingham, nor even as Arlington; he bowed again, this time with an air of respect.

Every one was silent, holding himself with reserve.

The slanting ray of sun that fell through the open lattice window, laden with the scent of the roses and sweet-peas, seemed incongruous with this contained and grave assembly.

The Prince turned about as if considering something. They felt that he was going to speak, and waited for it. Seymour regarded him keenly, with the air of a man who knows and values what he sees.

The Stadtholder paused by the table, and rested his beautiful hand upon the papers his messenger had brought.

“You shall have an answer in less than ten days,” he said. “I will take these terms myself to the Assembly——”

He paused, and drew himself erect with something of an effort; his reddened eyes flashed with an intense expression of dauntless defiance.

He spoke again, and with irresistible force—

“The King of France considers it a fine amusement to ruin an unoffending country—he thinks it will be easy to crush a petty Prince. You, my lords, doubtless pity me my vain resistance—but you know not what you smile at. The French insult us with outrageous terms. Not CÆsar to the Gauls, nor Alexander to the Persians was more haughty; but we are not as Darius—France will repent this insolence. We will, from this little spark, blow up a war shall see Europe in arms and shake the Continent! No peace, they say; but they shall come to sue for it, be it thirty years or fifty years hence! There is a force can hold back CondÉ’s blood-flushed cavalry and keep in check the battalions Turenne leads; there is a strength can pit itself against these servitors of the Pope and match itself against the pride of France; and from this conquered land it springs. Long and bloody the struggle may be that forces the aggressor back across his frontier; but it will break his pride, and he shall come to wish that he had taken our honourable terms—for, by my soul! as I am Captain of my country’s hopes, and of their faith the Protector, I shall not sheathe the sword until this presuming arrogance is tamed and Europe breathes in liberty!

“We are not vanquished yet! Though they reckon we are beneath their heel, yet we will show them otherwise. We are no nation of weaklings, nor am I a puppet ruler.

“I am the guardian of this Republic, and I will be worthy of the charge—so help me God!

“My lords, there is no more to say.”

A long minute’s stillness followed. Then Sir Edward Seymour spoke.

“I do not trespass on my duty if I say that I admire the temper that Your Highness shows; I should be pleased to be as fortunate as King Louis, but better pleased to be as courageous as Your Highness.”

“Thank you, my lord,” answered William. “I hope that we may meet again under fairer conditions.”

He held out his hand and Sir Edward kissed it, bowed, very courtly, and withdrew, followed by M. St. Jermyn, his suite, and the Dutch nobles who formed his escort.

The Stadtholder, coughing, turned to the mantelpiece and put his hand over his aching eyes.

“Bentinck, I must return to the Hague—at once.”

“With these dispatches?”

“Yes—the States must assemble——”

M. Zuylestein stepped forward—

“This assassination plot——”

“Can I think of that—now?”

“M. Cornelius de Witt is involved——”

“I do not believe it.” This impatiently, with a frown.

Florent Van Mander came from the window embrasure and went on one knee on the red-tiled floor.

William looked at him and hesitated to speak harshly.

This young man seemed to him a link with the past night; he had been witness of his tears.…

William bit his under-lip and listened.

Florent told his story hurriedly but clearly. Madame Lavalette, under the guise of a traveller from Brussels, accompanied by St. Croix and Michael Tichelaer as her servants, was to take up her quarters in some village near the Prince’s camp.…

Florent broke off.

He looked at M. Zuylestein.

William was not attending.

“The matter is serious!” cried Van Mander desperately.

The Stadtholder did not seem to know that the narrative had ceased.

“Highness,” said M. Bentinck.

William was looking at the dispatches on the table.

“I will hear it presently,” he said.

“Presently may be too late——”

Florent was again interrupted.

A messenger from the Hague with a letter from M. de Witt.

The Prince flushed at sight of the writing, and was breaking the seal when an officer entered to say that a private messenger from King Charles desired a secret audience of the Prince.

William cast down the letter and listened eagerly.

It had always been his passionate hope to detach his uncle from the King of France.

“Who was it?”

“A Frenchman, who had his passport and credentials and had shown them to Count Struym.”

The Stadtholder would see him—at once. He turned all save Bentinck from the room, he knew that Charles liked to act under a mask of secrecy.

“Though you may,” smiled William, “listen at the window.”

He was all animation, hope, and eagerness. If Charles should come to secret terms the Republic was saved.

Florent, very pale, still urged his interrupted tale—

“This may be the very man!”

“Afterwards,” said William,—“afterwards!”

The messenger was introduced; a Frenchman of commonplace exterior, his demeanour very humble. The Stadtholder, alone with him save for M. Bentinck, spoke with impetuous frankness.

“What does my uncle want of me? I will do anything consistent with my vows to the Republic.”

Arlington had sent an extraordinary proposal. Lord Halifax was in the King’s confidence, he said, and was now in Holland.… Would the Prince meet him, unknown to the French—secretly?

William gave an immediate consent, but Bentinck interrupted.

“You are dangerously rash, Highness; this man’s tale is strange, and his errand still stranger for a Frenchman to have come upon. Sir Edward Seymour gave you no hint of this.”

But the Prince was dazzled by the bait.

“I can refuse no chance of coming to an agreement with King Charles.”

He turned to the messenger, but before his first word the door was opened and Florent Van Mander entered, his hand on his sword and his face resolute.

“Sir, that man is Hyacinthe St. Croix—a tool of M. de Pomponne—a spy of M. de Louvois—an assassin!”

St. Croix saw himself betrayed by a man whom he had been very sure of; his face lowered with the rage of it, but he had his answer.

“Does Your Highness allow your private business to be thus interrupted?”

The Stadtholder looked from one to another. M. Bentinck came nearer to him.

“This is the plot of which I warned Your Highness—the attempt to get you into the power of your enemies—to compass your death!” cried Florent hotly.

St. Croix affected to sneer.

“I do not know the man—will Your Highness listen to these children’s tales——?”

“Do not know me?—I have some letters of yours.”

William marked St. Croix’ expression.

“By your leave, Monsieur,” he said, “I will look into this.”

The Frenchman saw the game was up; he seized his last, flying chance.…

Quick his little, keen dagger was out, and he made a swift movement to thrust it above the armlet of the Prince’s cuirass; there, where, by a little unguarded space, the heart might be reached.

Florent threw himself upon him.…

With a passionate sound of rage against the stolid Hollander who had roused at last, St. Croix turned. There was a second’s struggle; the sunlight winked along the steel.…

Florent pitched over backwards with closed eyes and an open mouth; St. Croix tore the door wide and fled.

The thing had not taken two minutes—it was less than ten since St. Croix had entered the room.

The Prince and William Bentinck caught Van Mander.

“He was right!” cried William fiercely; “the man was one of Louvois’ spies.”

“Murderers,” said M. Bentinck; “he has stabbed the fellow.”

The handle of the dagger, silver and ivory, stuck out horribly from the breast of Florent Van Mander, who gasped thickly and beat his heels on the tiles.

“Ah, poor fool,” muttered William, supporting him, “he was saving me. After the Frenchman, Bentinck!”

Florent clutched at the dagger-hilt with convulsive fingers.

“Take care—M. de Witt—Tichelaer——” He struggled; but the Prince, for all his frail look, supported him easily enough.

“I am sorry for this,” he said. “I am sorry.”

Florent Van Mander, selfish place-seeker, careless of his country, and in the pay of France once, has died for a sentiment of honour in the Stadtholder’s arms, even as last night he had seen Cornelius Triglandt die.…

Can William of Orange so inspire one man?—then he may so inspire a whole nation with the last desperate courage. If Florent Van Mander will die for him there will be others also reckless of their lives if they may serve Nassau by laying them down.…

It is calling to horse now, riding to and fro, excitement rising up, reined in.… The last defiance has been flung to France!… The States must refuse these terms.…

The Stadtholder thrusts the dispatches and the letter from M. de Witt, unopened, into the pocket of his mantle, mounts his grey horse and spurs off for the Hague.

The last rays of the sun that peep over the tiger-lilies and sweet-peas at the dead face of Florent Van Mander shine also in the harness of the Stadtholder and his suite, as they ride along the smooth road, between the canals, the locks where the water-lilies rest, the deep, thick-grown meadows where the cattle graze, the little homes with the coloured shutters, the thatched windmills, the poplars and alders, the low fields where the storks sit, through the silent twilight towards the Hague.

---

CHAPTER IX
IN THE ASSEMBLY

In the old Palace of the Princes of Orange, that had been the dwelling of the Counts of Holland when the Hague was merely their hunting estate, and now for twenty years the meeting-place for the Government of John de Witt, Their High Mightinesses, the States, were assembled.

The sunshine filled the great chamber, showing the tapestry on the walls, the marble chimney-pieces, the painted ceiling, in the full dazzle of their gorgeous colours.

In the centre, within a space enclosed by a balustrade, sat the nobles and the Deputies of eighteen towns.

At the end of the table at which they sat stood the Grand Pensionary’s chair—empty during a debate for the first time in twenty years.

Behind this chair were the benches, filled by the councillor deputies; next them a table belonging to the Deputies of Haarlem, Delft, Leyden, and Brill.

Opposite were the tables belonging to Amsterdam, Rotterdam, Gouda, Gorcum, Schiedam, and Schoonhoven.

Either side the western fireplace sat the secretaries of the towns, and directly facing them was the raised velvet arm-chair of the Stadtholder.

An air of expectancy and gloom lay over the whole Assembly. The white, anxious faces of the States were in sharp contrast to the peaceful scene visible through the fine tall windows; the sparkling water of the Vyver, the swans sailing round their green islands, the stately avenues of chestnuts and elms beyond.

Every one in the chamber was looking at the Stadtholder.

He stood on the step before his chair and held the dispatches brought him yesterday by Sir Gabriel Sylvius. He wore the habit he had travelled in: cuirass, high boots, dark velvet, and a purple scarf.

He wore his beaver with the long black plume; across his chair were thrown mantle and gloves.

His bright glance swept the silent, agitated faces turned towards him. He opened the dispatches and read the terms of France:—

William paused, and again looked round the States.

“These are the final terms of France,” he said. “You have heard them before, my lords—they are not softened nor abated, and to them now are added these, which His Majesty of France demands for the King of England.”

Consternation and anguish showed in every face.

The senators of Rotterdam were weeping. Some sat rigid, with clasped hands and fixed eyes; others drooped with hanging heads, bowed by the bitterness of this humiliation.

No one spoke.

The Prince read from the next page—

The Stadtholder raised his head and once more surveyed the Assembly.

“My name is mentioned here—not my friends but my enemies desire for me this infamous honour.… France and England have had my answer—what do you say, my lords?”

He sat down, still looking at them, grave, reserved, and stern.

The States remained dumb and helpless; they dare not decide. The utter bitterness and hopelessness of their situation robbed them of their courage and their resolution. They felt themselves already slaves; they saw their country already a province of France. They were mute, and in most eyes the tears glittered.

Gaspard Fagel rose. He pressed for the opinion of His Highness.… The States flung themselves on the wisdom and valour of His Highness … the people had elected him to be their Captain and guide.

“Most noble lords,” answered the Stadtholder, “your decision is required.”

They joined in persuading him to give his advice; they turned to him desperately as the one spark of hope in all the black prospect.

He rose again.

The sun was streaming through the window at his side, and made a star in his cuirass; the little silver-gilt chains round his ankles, that held his spurs over the soft riding-boots, gave a pleasant clink as he moved.

He held his left hand on the great basket-work hilt of his sword, and his right on the scarf across his breast.

“Your Noble Mightinesses ask for my advice. I will say to you what I know you all have in your hearts.

“There is but one answer to these terms—the coldest, most contemptuous refusal.

“Who but an abject wretch would subscribe to such conditions while he had breath in his body?

“By Heaven! I would rather be torn to pieces than consent to any such humiliation and shame.”

A stir ran through the Assembly.

“I do not despair,” continued the Stadtholder passionately. “Though we seem reduced to desperate extremity, yet is our case not hopeless if we make our answer to France sword in hand.… To die honourably is better than a miserable safety.… It is not possible for us to be the slaves of France. My lords, you will reject these shameful conditions.”

They sat mute. They had placed their fortunes between his hands; he was the master of their destiny—the destiny of the United Provinces.

Most of them were learned men of much experience who had been long in office; all of them were older than the man they looked to, by many years.

He and they could remember when he was a mere name in the State, the prisoner of Their Noble Mightinesses. Some of them had slighted, all ignored him.

Yet now this young man’s voice, calm, decisive above the tumult and the anguish, swayed them all. They caught desperately at his words, and trusted themselves to the power of his dominant will.

For he alone stood resolute and undaunted before such dire straits as could cause the guardians of the State to weep aloud.

He spoke again. If he had been schooled to silence all his life he did not lack expression now, nor a natural eloquence and passionate force.

Some of the fire that animated him crept into his listeners’ hearts; they could not listen to him and still despair.

“Are ye afraid of war? What greater ills can it bring than this peace that makes us slaves?

“Is your trust in God so little that ye fear He will forsake us?

“This is not our downfall, but rather the downfall of the French. They, intoxicated with success, have refused the concessions we made them; and now they shall have no concessions, but lose all they ever gained.

“We have still enough men to defend the frontiers of Holland; Spain and Brandenburg hasten to our aid.

“Break off these negotiations, my lords! They degrade us and dishearten our allies. Shall we feed the pride of France by considering these high mounting terms?

“By my honour, there is nothing I would not rather do than subscribe to such a peace as this offered us!

“Sooner would I be an exile at the Elector’s court, dependent on his bounty, than be a King at the instance of France.

“My lords, I have no fear that I shall fail. God, who set apart Samson and raised up Gideon to smite the Midianitish host, will strengthen me.

“Even if the country goes—even if we lose the United Provinces—our Faith is stronger than our country and may survive it. If we are the only people in Europe true to the pure Church, still may we save her from the tyranny and corruption of the enemy. There is another land, a wider continent, where we may worship in peace and live unmolested; where we may raise another Amsterdam as rich as this. As we have built our cities here on land reclaimed from the sea, so may we build others there in the wilderness.

“My noble lords, in your ports is shipping sufficient to carry two hundred thousand people to our colonies.

“In the Indian Archipelago we may rear other churches in which the Mass will never be heard, and found another commonwealth in which liberty will be secure.

“Even if we are driven from Europe, in Asia we may still seek a refuge. This were better than submission; but first, there is one ally to whom we may turn for aid.”

He paused, breathing a little hurriedly, and flung off his hat as if it irked him.

His composed, inspired, and courageous face was fully visible now to the States gazing at him. His eyes clear, bright and unflinching as an eagle’s, took in the Assembly at a glance.

No one wept now.

Enthusiasm rose high, swelled, and gathered. They began to forget that they had ever despaired. The weakest was braced by inward fire, the throb of pride, the uplift of patriotism and piety.

The Prince smiled.

“One ally,” he repeated, “who saved us once before.”

He loosened his grip on his sword, and the gilt steel slipped with a rattle.

“The sea,” he said, “the sea!”

A sound like a muffled sob broke from the Assembly.

Some of the Deputies rose to their feet.

M. Beuningen hid his face in his hands, and his shoulders shook.

“My noble lords,” said the Stadtholder, “we can open the dykes.”

The burgomaster of the famous city of Amsterdam held out his hand.

“I will answer for Amsterdam, Your Highness!”

“You know what it will mean,” returned the Prince. “Ruin to many—villas, farms, pleasure gardens buried beneath the water—a sacrifice! I ask no light thing of you—but is it not better than foreign dominion?”

“We will set the example,” cried the burgomaster of Amsterdam.

The Deputies of Rotterdam and Gouda spoke in voices dry and choked—

“Our vote for that—rejection of the terms of France—and cut the dykes!”

William coloured brightly.

“Our troops are within the province of Holland, which will be turned into an island; but many of the enemy are on low ground, and nothing but a swift retreat will save them—they do not suspect us of this desperate course and will be utterly unprepared. I have the reports of the superintendents of the dykes.… A complete inundation would take five days,… When King Louis receives our refusal of his terms he will march immediately on Amsterdam and the Hague—and I see no way but to perish or open the sluices.”

He stooped and pulled some papers from the pocket of his mantle.

“M. de Witt suggested this at the beginning of the war as a possible resort—he had instructions drawn up and reports made—we thank his foresight that there is much done. There must be no delay now.

“I know the objections; what many of the magistrates will say. The hay stands, the corn is uncut, the cattle will starve without pasturage, the waters becoming foul may cause the plague—I have thought of it all.

“But there is no other way.

“Better be at the mercy of the sea than at the mercy of the French.

“This price we must pay for our liberty.”

“My noble lords, I leave you to deliberate on what I have said. As you are patriots and believers, you will sacrifice yourselves to your fatherland and your faith, than which no nobler things to die for can be found.”

The dusky-coloured sunlight rested on his face and covered his slight figure in its appointments of war; it picked him out against the background of dark panelling and gleamed dimly in his cuirass.

His eyes were solemn but his lips smiled proudly.

The Assembly stirred and breathed—

“Open the sluices; cut the dykes!”

---

CHAPTER X
THE VICTOR VANQUISHED

The Duke of Monmouth and the King’s brother were playing tennis in the green courtyard of Zeyst.

Near them, close to a wall bright with coloured roses, walked Madame Lavalette and the Marquis de Pomponne.

She wore a habit like a gentleman’s military coat, blue, braided with silver, and a beaver with a plume of feathers azure as her eyes; her long skirt brushed the grass backwards into a resemblance to ruffled velvet as she stepped.

In her hands was a riding-whip that she bent across the stiff skirts of her coat.

“Marquis,” she said, “Monsieur Cornelius de Witt has been arrested.”

“I heard—last night.”

“Well?”

She looked at him searchingly.

“Well?” he echoed, and smiled.

“You know the facts?”

“Scarcely, Madame.”

“It is on Michael Tichelaer’s accusation Monsieur de Witt has been arrested,” answered the Duchess sharply.

“On the charge of a conspiracy to murder the Prince of Orange, is it not?”

“Yes.”

“The attempt that failed at Bodegraven,” said de Pomponne. “Well, it does not touch us.”

The Duchess’ whip made havoc with M. Van Odyk’s roses.

“That is what I wondered,” she said. “M. de Louvois does not like those he trusts to be clumsy.”

“In brief, you fear a lettre de cachet, Madame, eh?”

The curling petals swept on to the grass from the August roses.

“We failed,” said Madame Lavalette.

“Mon Dieu, yes! but St. Croix is not alive to tell tales—he was safely shot by the Dutch soldiers as he strove to escape. Sir Edward Seymour told me—he had hardly cleared the camp himself.”

“There is Tichelaer.”

“He has chosen his part——”

The Duchess interrupted impatiently—

“What part does he play?”

“He wishes to please the mob and ruin the de Witts—why not?—an obscure ruffian!”

“But he knows something.”

De Pomponne shrugged.

“Are you afraid?”

She frowned.

“M. le Marquis, that man knows that we hired St. Croix to put the Prince of Orange out of the way.” She spoke very low. “That it was M. de Louvois’ scheme; and that he, Tichelaer, was to give out M. de Witt was in the plot, so as to crush the Grand Pensionary as well as the Stadtholder. Van Mander, the fool who spoilt it all, thought M. Cornelius, at least, deep in; and now—the Prince escapes, St Croix is shot—the design fails—but Michael Tichelaer persists in his part, accuses Monsieur Cornelius, and rouses Holland against the de Witts with his false oaths.”

“He hath a personal spite against Monsieur Cornelius—that is why we selected him——”

Again she broke in—

“What if he says a little more?—if he declares M. de Louvois hatched this scheme, and that you and I were his agents?”

“He will not.”

“You think so?”

“Mon Dieu, yes! We paid him well; and what object would he serve? He poses as a patriot, remember, and finds himself very popular; he would not care to admit he tampered with us. Besides, it would damage his fabrications against M. de Witt.”

“Then—we are safe?”

“From Michael Tichelaer.”

“M. de Louvois would never forgive us if it got blown abroad he was at the bottom of this.”

They walked for a way in silence; then the Duchess spoke again—

“And Monsieur Cornelius?”

De Pomponne raised his eyebrows.

“It seems to me that there is not much hope for M. Cornelius. Some such excuse as this was only needed to give a vent to the popular fury against him and his brother—can you imagine a better one? He has tried to murder the young hero of the moment! No, there is no escape for M. de Witt.”

“They will discover this man Tichelaer’s falsehoods.”

“The Dutch are not in the humour to be just.”

She fingered her whip.

“And no one knows the truth save ourselves?”

“No one.”

She laughed, rather desperately.

“We shall not speak!”

“I think—no!”

“Mon Dieu!” sighed the Duchess, “I recall the younger de Witt; if ever a man was a saint he is one.”

“He will meet with a saint’s fate, I do not doubt, Madame.”

“Unless His Majesty reaches the Hague in time to save him from the mob,” returned the Duchess; “the King would be generous. When shall we be at the Hague, Monsieur le Marquis?”

“In two—three days.”

Monmouth came running across the grass towards them.

He was flushed and panting.

He flung down his racquet and got into his crimson coat.

“Did you see my lord Arlington?—passed by but now—such a face! La! something amiss.—You Frenchmen are too deep for us, Marquess.—The Duke of Orleans plays a good game—I’d like to race him, he is very light.”

He paused, and suddenly laughed in a wholly pleasant, conciliating way he had.

“You play yourself out of breath,” said Madame Lavalette, speaking in the soft tone all women used to Lord Monmouth.

“Save me!” he cried, “but it is a question of politics—I swear it, Madame, I was not meant for a statesman.—Here comes my lord Bucks.—He is very clever, Marquess, but though he made a war nearly as easily as he writes verses—he does not find making a peace as easy as playing the fiddle.”

At this his idle eye was caught by the roses and the drifting petals beneath them.

“Ah, Madame, you have slain the flowers—cruel! I would like to stick them together again—roses are rare in Holland, Madame, and the summer is nearly over.”

He gave her his sweet smile, and she answered it by one slightly mocking.

“Your Grace is very deceptive—you talk like Sir Calydor and look like the Red Cross Knight—but I fear you are but a worthless rogue after all.”

“I vow,” he replied, “I have been absolved from all my sins.—I carry with me,” he touched his breast, “the document by which His Majesty pardons me all murders committed before this May—absolved and pardoned!—See, a fine butterfly!—Could I scale this wall with my hands tied, think you?—Madame, do you love wrestling?—Ah, sure, George is purely annoyed.”

And he pointed to Buckingham, coming across the smooth, level turf towards them.

De Pomponne went to meet him.

Buckingham laughed.

“The terms rejected!” he said.

“Rejected?”

“M. de Louvois has the news.”

De Pomponne was surprised.

“In what manner is the refusal sent?”

“The most contemptuous possible—the Prince deigns no answer at all, but merely sends a copy of the resolution of the States by which the proposals of peace are rejected.”

“Insolence!” exclaimed the Marquis.

Buckingham smiled sourly.

“Louvois is furious, of course—this defiance is unlooked for.”

He laughed again.

He was fast tiring of his last hobby of politics. The Dutch war had lost its novelty, and the attempt to seduce the Prince of Orange disgusted by reason of its failure. He was tired of the sights of war; and Whitehall, which had lately sated him, appeared again delightful to the Duke’s changeful mind.

The matter was more serious for M. de Pomponne.

“M. de Louvois was furious?”

“Absolutely.”

“And the King?”

“Surprised too, I think—they are in conclave now.”

“I will go in.—I suppose we shall march on the Hague at once?”

“The Hague?” repeated Buckingham. “It is the most beautiful village in the world—I hope His Majesty will not burn it, Marquis.”

Monmouth approached, his racquet in his hand, all eagerness for the news.

“Peace rejected—war to be continued!”

The thoughtless soldier is pleased: his quick fancy sees the green tennis-court, the roses, the placid sky exchanged again for the charge of the cavalry, the attack on the bastions, the English flags against the smoke of the noisy cannon.

He sees himself commended, flattered, praised by the great King, complimented by the great CondÉ again, as he was before the trenches of Nymwegen.

He catches up his hat, and slips his arm through my lord Buckingham’s blue velvet sleeve; laughing together they go into the castle.

The Marquis and Madame Lavalette follow; the tennis-court stands empty; the rose-petals drift over the smooth grass and cling in the nets.

A wind rises, and it is chilly for an August twilight.

The sun sets behind the flat, misty horizon in a dun and blood-coloured vapour; the camp-fires of the French, which may be seen from the towers of Amsterdam, spring up in the low meadows.

Other lights, softer, more delicate, appear in the windows of the castle.

A ball is to be given in the great rooms looking on to the ramparts.

The sentries keeping watch hear the music of the contre danse falling through the silent air.

M. de Rochfort is expected with his cavalry regiments—has been expected all day. He does not come; the King is a little vexed.

He has become of late impatient if every hour does not bring a fresh triumph.…

My lord Monmouth steps the minuet as well as he wrestles or runs; he dances till the moon sets.

There is much talk of the coming conquest, of the balls to be held in the Orange Saloon, and in the winter on the ice—a novelty!

His Majesty will return to Saint Germains after his entry into the Hague; but he will come back in the winter for these new festivities.

Tales are told of the wealth of Amsterdam. Her meanest streets make the proudest walks of London and of Paris appear paltry; her houses are like palaces.

Buckingham was amazed at the Hague; the width of the roads, the height of the houses, the avenues of trees, the wealthy shops.…

This is a conquest worth the making.

So they dance to the dawn.

As it grows light, Monmouth leaves the castle.

He has his quarters at another chÂteau not far distant, and as he steps out on to the ramparts he lingers a little to watch the dawn.

My lord is twenty-five, and full of joyous life. He can take as much pleasure in watching the sun rise as in a brawl in Whitefriars. He can stick a man through and never think of it again, but he listens to a little bird singing in a lonely fashion and would not harm it for another dukedom.

He lingers, dallying with the cool loveliness of the moment. He sets his elbows on the battlements, and leans on the stone, where blush-roses trail as beautiful as himself, and he looks over the expanse of half-revealed country lying beneath him.

As the sun brightens it glimmers in a curious streak of silver, there on the horizon.

My lord is a little puzzled. Were it not that his reason tells him it is impossible he would think he saw water—saw the distant line of the sea.

He wraps his grey mantle round his brocaded ball-dress and leaves the castle, saluted by the silent sentinels.

He has missed his friends.

A sudden silence succeeds the gaiety of the night.

He crosses the moat and enters the meadows; the air is unaccountably cool. He follows the raised causeway between the thick grass, crosses a bridge over a canal, and stops, amazed.

The meadow before him is flooded; spikes of grass and branches of trees rise from placid grey water.

“The river has overflowed,” thinks Monmouth—yet there has been no rain.

He follows the causeway hastily. The next field is under water, and the next under water. It seems to him it rises; as he watches a clump of alders, high enough, are nearly submerged.

The duke stops and stares about him.

The brightening sun discloses a cottage buried to the roof beneath the water.

The camp!

Monmouth turns about quickly. The tents are on higher ground—but this—it is a flood.…

He hesitates, daunted and dismayed.

The water is certainly rising; now it is lapping against the causeway—soon it will cover it.

Monmouth retraces his steps, turns towards the camp. He has to cross a corner of one of the meadows; here the water is over his ankles, his light shoes are soaked, his finery wetted.

Bewilderment and terror clutch at his heart; he quickens his steps along the cobbled pathway.

The canal is one with the fields now; a swirling current hurries against the trees. Monmouth stops again; the sun sparkles on the gleam of harness; a drowned horse—a soldier’s horse is swept against a clump of willow.

Beyond—another glitter and something blue.… A man.

Monmouth bends over, pulling aside the tangled grasses and leaves.

He stares down into the dead face of a French soldier.

A soldier in the brilliant uniform of M. de Rochfort’s regiment.

With a little exclamation the Duke drops to his knees.

He reaches his hand into the water and carries it to his lips.

Salt!

His wild surmise is confirmed. He gives a quick cry—

“The sea! the sea!”

Suddenly the French trumpets break into the stillness; they proclaim alarm, confusion, terror, a retreat.…

The water is rising; covering the causeway.

The gleaming cuirass and blue uniform are tangled in the alders; the soldier’s head jerks as if he heard the trumpet-call.

My lord gets to his feet. His mantle slips back from his splendid dress; he claps his hand to his sword, though no sword shall avail against this.…

The grass, the weeds, the trunks of the trees disappear.

Drifting wreckage floats by: a beam, a hat, a French colour.…

As my lord hurries, the water on the causeway is over his feet.

“My God!” he cries. “They have opened the sluices and let in the sea!—They have cut the dykes, and let in the sea!”

---

CHAPTER XI
THE FALLEN STATESMAN

The courage and resolution of one man had saved the country from the conquest that would have terminated her existence.

The sea swept back the invaders. Heroism, springing from extremity, had by a great outburst of patriotism preserved the liberty of the United Provinces and raised the Protestant Faith to a security it would never lose again.

It had taken five days to cut the dykes; Amsterdam had set the example. The wealthiest merchants were the first to dismantle their pleasure gardens, their picture galleries, their splendid country villas; farms were razed to the ground and turned into fortifications, the mills alone being spared.

Many thousands of guilders were voted by the town council for the carrying out of the inundations. Every one helped; arms, food, powder, were taken into the town.

The great city stood almost impregnable; a vast fort rising above her own rich property, sacrificed by herself to her ally the sea.

The sailors from the Fleet were employed to defend the dykes; the frigates guarded the Zuyder Zee; the citizens enrolled themselves into militia companies under the command of the noblest families.

The manufacture of powder was carried on day and night. Every town exerted itself to send supplies of wheelbarrows, shovels, and pickaxes to the frontier to assist in the fortifications.

Armed sloops and gunboats sailed down the rivers to prevent the enemy advancing in boats; levies were raised all over the country, one man in every two being obliged to serve. Hope and courage rose high in a nation lately reduced to despair.

The Stadtholder set his soldiers to the work of demolishing the dykes. The sea rushed over his country palaces, burying in their hot-houses his beautiful collection of exotics and ruining his parks and gardens. All the meadow-land became marsh; the army of the States was obliged to camp where they could find ground higher than the sea; almost the only means of progress was by boats.

But Holland was saved!

Zeeland, animated by the example, turned with fury on the vainglorious conqueror. Aadenburg, the key to the province attacked by NancrÉ, flew to arms, and, small as was its garrison, not only resisted the French but, issuing from the town, inflicted on them a severe defeat.

Groningen beat back the invaders.

The country was at bay. Louis had roused more than he had looked for; his haughty march was checked, and only a hasty retreat left him. Louvois was furious; he had thought to see the Hague pillaged in a matter of days.

The King, mortified and enraged, returned to Saint Germains; yet he had the greatness to admire the heroism that had sent him back.

The French army found itself disconcerted, bewildered. Spain was arming, the Empire and Brandenburg.

Fortune turned swiftly.

The utter agony of shame, bitterness, despair, gave place to the return of hope. Even the vastness of the sacrifice could not discourage the country that breathed once more in freedom.

The English commissioners returned to Whitehall: Buckingham disgusted with politics; Arlington consoled by the rich bribes from France that had followed on the treaty of Heeswyck; Halifax full of admiration for the youthful warrior who had sprung into fame with his defiance of France.

Buckingham also had something to say of William of Orange.

“He hath not a single redeeming vice, and I like him not—but he will set the world by the ears as surely as any Tamerlane or CÆsar.”

So the English returned from their fruitless errand, and the great King was adored in Paris.

Sweden, Denmark, turned against the French. Europe was shaken from end to end; and in a few weeks, even days, the storm that had nearly overwhelmed the United Provinces became a great war whirlwind enveloping the world.

John de Witt does his part. His heart swells with pleasure at the deliverance of his country; he does justice, too late, to the Prince whom he has always mistrusted.

He is reviled, hated, cursed; the storm has already engulfed his brother.

Cornelius de Witt, who left the Hague with a guard of honour as plenipotentiary of Their Noble Mightinesses, returned to it on foot, a prisoner.

He is accused by one Tichelaer, a barber-surgeon, of a conspiracy to murder the Prince of Orange.

So vile is this man, so weak and improbable his tale, that at first John de Witt is not much concerned; his brother’s innocence, he thinks, is too obvious.

To him, not to the people.

Tichelaer’s story is good enough for them. It is accepted; spread through the country with horrid additions.

The Grand Pensionary finds that all his influence is not sufficient to save his brother. He spares nothing; he toils day and night, but he is a fallen man.

In the Gevangenpoort, under whose dark archway he has so often passed in his splendour, Cornelius de Witt lies expecting death, as he has expected it since the day at Dordt when he resisted the will of the people.

He is sick, and as he lies there in hospital he cuts with a little knife into the wood of his bed a view of his house at Dordt, of his brother’s house, and of The Seven Provinces.

“Ah, is it over, the glory, the peace, the happiness?—must disgrace and shame end a life that was so pure and noble!”

Jacob de Witt is dazed. He cares nothing for the great events that tear the country; he has but one thing to say to his younger son—

“Where is Cornelius?… Why do they not set him free?”

He cannot understand that his once powerful son is helpless.

John de Witt, desperate, tries to save his brother by disarming the resentment of his enemies. He goes to the Assembly and resigns the post he has held most nobly for twenty years.

The States accept it. They ask the Prince if they may thank him for his services.… The Stadtholder, absorbed in the war, sends answer “Yes.”

Still he cannot save Cornelius.

The people want blood.

The elder de Witt is put to the torture, which is a thing beyond credence, horrible; no confession is extorted from him. The unjust judges are defeated in their endeavours to please the mob.

John de Witt is distracted by the agony of Maria de Witt, the fears of his own children, the piteous bewilderment of his father, the dismay of his friends; his very trust in God is almost shaken.

In the bitterness of his despair he appeals to the man who was once his pupil.

The day before the final verdict on Cornelius (and his brother does not doubt that it will be death) the Stadtholder returns unexpectedly to the Hague.

Such a tumult of passionate, fierce joy greets him that for a moment even the accusations of Michael Tichelaer and the hate of Cornelius de Witt are forgotten.

He has come to ask the consent of the States to the removal of the Fleet from the Texel. He is received by the Assembly with more submission than ever his uncle obtained from his Parliament, they humbly recommend to him the necessity of restoring order in the country.

He reminds them that all the troops are needed on the frontier; he refuses to employ force. It is not likely that he would turn on the people who have put him where he is.

M. de Groot has fled to Brussels, Colonel Bampfield and other republican officers are dismissed the Army.

But the young Stadtholder takes no revenge on his enemies. He even publishes a proclamation commanding that no violence be used against the members of the fallen party; this is denounced as a forgery by those who are resolved to seal their triumph with blood.

John de Witt’s resignation has not appeased the violence of his opponents, nor are they moved by his modest speech in the Assembly; afterwards some are haunted by these sentences—

“Great and Noble Lords—it was nineteen years ago on the 30th of July last that, for the first time, I took the oath in your Assembly in the capacity of Grand Pensionary of the Province of Holland.… It has pleased God, in His anger, to bring down upon the States those misfortunes in which they are now involved, and that in a manner so difficult to understand … that posterity will find it hard to believe.

“What is most distressing at this unhappy conjuncture is, that these sudden disasters and misfortunes have produced in the minds of the people not only a sentiment of general fear and dread, but a sinister feeling against their magistrates.…

“Unjust as these suspicions are, I, at any rate, am overwhelmed by them, though I cannot but think that I might have been spared, since, as a humble servant of the State, I have only been bound to obey implicitly the commands of my masters.

“But whether it is that I am thought not to have properly carried out the functions of my office, or that ignorant people imagine that I have appropriated what never passed through my hands, I am so furiously inveighed against that I can in conscience come to no other conclusion than that my services must henceforth be prejudicial to the State.… I have, therefore, thought it would be best to beg your Noble and Great Mightinesses, as I very humbly do, that it may please your goodness to relieve me of the exercise of my office.”

Thus John de Witt, speaking for the last time in the Assembly, a few days before the States informed the Prince that the Perpetual Edict had been torn leaf from leaf, and each town returned the signature of its Deputies.

His resignation had been granted with grudging. There had been talk of an inquiry first; more than a hint of suspicion.

Yet the man who was accused of enriching himself from the public funds, left after a lifetime of office so poor that he was forced to remind the States of their oft-repeated promise of a seat in the High Court, in order to have a livelihood for himself and his family.

And he had to endure the humiliation of this post being reluctantly given him; for the six hundred guilders it was worth, piteous sum as it was, would be his principal fortune.

The clamorous cries of the crowd assailing the very clouds with the name of William of Orange came to his ears even through the peace of his beloved garden.…

Cornelius was in the Gevangenpoort expecting death … and his brother must see the Prince.

He took from his desk the letter the Stadtholder had sent him in answer to his appeal about his own affairs, and read it through again, as if he hoped to gain some knowledge of the writer’s real feelings towards him. It had been delayed until Fagel had made known to the Prince John de Witt’s refusal to serve under the new Chief of the State.

It was written from Bodegraven.

John de Witt read and re-read the letter. It was cold, reserved he thought, well turned as was all the Prince indicted; as friendly, perhaps, as he could have expected.… It meant, possibly, that the Prince refused him all protection, but he could not hesitate at scruples of pride now.

He must appeal to the one man who could save his brother.

He took his hat, his cane, and mantle, and left the house, alone. His always modest establishment was already reduced to two servants and one clerk.

He was now merely a private citizen, and had neither means nor occupation for more.

Calling this one clerk, Van Ouvenaller, to him before he left, de Witt gave him a letter of hope and comfort for Maria de Witt, Cornelius’ wife, bidding him see that it caught the post for Dordt.

Once in the streets he pulled his hat over his eyes to avoid the hostile recognition of the crowd thronging the streets to give a reception to the Prince, who had just left the Assembly and was returning to the Marithuis.

John de Witt mingled with the others who filled the Stadtholder’s chambers, and waited, with them, at the head of the fine double staircase.

The sound of cheers and shouts, that seemed as if they would never cease, was borne from without as the Prince entered the Palace.

He came slowly up the stairs, accompanied by a press of people carrying their hats in their hands.

He wore a dove-coloured suit and a black sash, a pink velvet mantle and a beaver with black feathers; there was a gold ribbon on his cane and gold cords on his right shoulder. M. Fagel was speaking to him, and he listened unsmilingly.

At the head of the stairs he paused and glanced round the people gathered to meet him.

Instantly his eye fell on John de Witt and he blushed violently.

He said nothing, but raised his hat. M. de Witt did the same, and those about them were silent.

“Highness,” said John de Witt calmly, “will it please you to grant me speech with you?”

The red still lingered in William’s cheek. He hesitated; a slight thing in most, in him, always so decided, a marked one.

M. Fagel fell back.

“I am glad to see you, Mynheer,” said the Stadtholder. He seemed very mindful of the spectators. “Will you go into the cabinet … perhaps you do not know it.…”

He moved forward and opened the door on his left.

John de Witt followed him. The others, even William Bentinck, remained without.

Prince John Maurice’s cabinet was a beautiful room filled with treasures from the East Indies, fine pictures, Persian rugs, and inlaid furniture; the high window looked straight on to the end of the Vyver, and the walk by the side of it where the people gathered to catch a glimpse of the Prince.

It was late in the day, and the sun had left the cabinet, filled now by a cold, dusky light.

The Prince took off his hat as John de Witt uncovered.

They had not met since William’s departure for the war, a matter of weeks in time but a period full of great changes. Three months had served to cast down John de Witt, to make of him a reviled and hated man, and to exalt William of Orange into a hero.

There was little of the boy left about the young Stadtholder; his gravity was no longer the disguise of youthful passions but the seriousness of manhood.

He had put off his scholar’s air of retirement and wore a composed manner of authority and alertness.

“You have changed,” said John de Witt, looking at him steadily.

“Mynheer, I have been remodelled by my duties,” answered the Stadtholder, “and altered by the necessity of the times.”

He stood against the light arch of the window; his profile was towards John de Witt, who still gazed at the keen, thin face tanned by out-door life, the brilliant eyes cast down, and the heavy, waving hair falling on to the lace collar.

“We did not part lovingly, Highness, but it was with more ease we spoke then than now, I think.”

The Prince looked up.

“What can we have to say to one another, Mynheer John de Witt?”

“Not much, perhaps, but something.… I think we meet for the last time.”

There was a difference also in de Witt. His late illness and his distresses had left him wasted, lined and worn; his old stateliness remained, but at times his voice shook and broke a little.

As he spoke he seated himself with a fatigued air.

“I cannot frame into sentences what there is between us, Highness.”

The Prince spoke suddenly, almost fiercely—

“Do you know me now, Mynheer? Do you see what manner of man I am? You need not have feared.”

John de Witt looked at him earnestly and sadly.

“I do admit that you have nobly belied what I once thought of you.”

“Why did you think such things of me? You imagined I should become the tool of France, a traitor; you always mistrusted and disliked me. Why do you come to me now? I think you wronged me.…”

He turned his face away sharply, and gazed at the glittering waters of the Vyver glimpsing through the window.

John de Witt answered slowly—

“I was the fool of my own desires, the dupe of my hopes.… I dreamed to make you a great citizen of a great Republic.”

The Prince did not look round.

“You chose the wrong material, Mynheer; you cannot trim a Nassau into the compass of burgher virtues.”

“I was at fault.… I did not allow for your ambitions.”

William turned now.

“My ambitions are to save my country and the Reformed religion.… When I was a child I desired my birthright.… I could never serve.… I was not schooled in ways of love and gentleness.… You did your duty to me as you conceived it, and taught me much,—for one thing the bitterness of a long humiliation, and the lessons that may be learnt in loneliness. I cannot make a parade of gratitude—I cannot thank you—I cannot forget what will influence all my life; but I understand you as you never understood me—and so I can forgive.”

John de Witt bent his head.

“I did what I thought right, what I must think right still.… I taught you to be a patriot and to fear God. I acted for the love of my country and for no vile motive of my own.”

He looked up.

“And for my temerity in opposing a Nassau I am very bitterly punished, Your Highness.”

William put his hand on the back of the chair behind him.

“You could have stayed in office if you would have served me.”

“The States are my master, and I resigned while they were still my master.”

The Stadtholder interrupted—

“You shall be unmolested in your retirement, Mynheer.”

“I do not think of myself.”

“Of whom then?”

“My brother.”

A shade crossed William’s face.

“Your brother,” he repeated.

John de Witt rose.

“My brother—unjustly accused, unjustly tried; a victim to the fears of the magistrates, the passions of the crowd.”

William faced him.

“I cannot believe your brother guilty,” he said; “yet he has failed to clear himself on his trial—and the man who was killed at my feet in the camp mentioned his name—yet—I do not believe it.”

“Then,” cried M. de Witt, “save him, for you alone can!”

“Hath he not a fair trial?” demanded the Stadtholder.

“By Heaven, no!”

“I have heard very little of it.… I have been so occupied with the war.”

“Your Highness has the civil administration also.”

William glanced at him quickly.

“If your brother is innocent will he not be acquitted?”

“He will be condemned to death unless Your Highness interferes—he, my brother, on the word of a man whom he once ordered to be fined for beating his maid-servant.”

The Stadtholder did not answer.

John de Witt spoke again, his cheek pale but his eyes burning.

“My noble lord—if you ever hated me, you are avenged. I would never have wished you a tenth of what has befallen me. You have your father’s dignities; the people have placed you where he sat, and my Republic is swept aside—is a mere interlude in the reign of the House of Orange. If ever you wished me evil consider that I see my life-work come to nothing, that I hear myself cursed by the people I have toiled for, that I am accused of being a thief and a traitor—and be satisfied.

“If ever I have humiliated you or angered you—and never did I so wantonly—consider that I have had to ask the States to give me a position that will bring me bread; consider that my family is ruined, that I leave nothing but a heritage of failure to my sons—and again be satisfied.

“I shall not trouble you—I am not made for intrigue; had I been I need not have stood before you now asking for my brother’s life.… After my great labour I shall be content to take a little idleness in which to prepare me for death.… I shall not trouble you.

“Give me my brother’s life.… He is an innocent man; you, who have looked on him, must know it.… He is a man who has given all to his country; he has been great … and … they tortured him.… Oh, God forgive Your Highness if you knew of that!…”

The Prince moved towards the window.

“I only heard to-day.”

John de Witt put his hand over his hot and aching eyes.

“He is also sufficiently punished for having withstood your Highness.… I ask, nay, I demand, his life.”

William turned; he too was pale.

“Were he guilty, Mynheer, he should not die by virtue of your honourable family.… I blame myself that I did not sooner interpose—and greatly am I ashamed that he was put to the torture.… But the mob rules here, not I. I have a task so manifold before me that I might well despair—the country under water; the peasants rising; the enemy but just repulsed; the towns in a state of revolution.… My amnesty is scarcely heeded.… Yet I will save M. Cornelius de Witt.”

“I do not need to thank Your Highness, for you would injure your own honour should you have refused.”

William coughed.

“I will do what I can … at least, they shall not take his life.… But if they banish him, you must not blame me.”

“I know there is an astonishing fury against us.… Banishment! I have lived here twenty years, but all now has changed; with Cornelius I will gladly go into banishment, if it must be.”

The Stadtholder’s large eyes rested on him gravely.

“Mynheer, as I can judge the temper of the people, you are scarcely safe at the Hague. I would advise you leave it soon—to-morrow, you—and M. Cornelius de Witt.”

“My noble lord,” said John de Witt proudly, “you know me guiltless of these charges laid to me?”

“My letter told you so.”

“It was not warm in my defence.”

The Stadtholder answered straightly—

“I think you made mistakes, I told you so when our positions were reversed. I think the defences of the country shamefully neglected—your peace policy fatal—your embassy to Louis calculated to give colour to vile reports; but I know you, Mynheer, for an honourable man.”

John de Witt very slightly smiled.

“I thank your Noble Highness for so much,” he said.

William coloured in response to the tone of it.

“Have you ever held such worthy opinions of me,” he asked, “that I should bear warm testimony to your virtues? Your policy is not my policy.”

“You have saved Holland; with you rests the glory of her deliverance, as with me the odium of her fall; but I would no less have saved her had hatred given me time to speak or malice allowed me space to act—I still, Highness, defend my policy.”

He rested his eyes full on the Prince’s face, but William kept his eyes averted.

“I would do justice to you, Mynheer—had I known you in any capacity save that of gaoler I might have loved you.… I always hated speech, and am not skilled at explanations.… If I have been ungracious let circumstances be my excuse.…”

John de Witt answered ardently.

“If you love your country I will forgive you that you hate me,—nay, if my fall be of advantage to the State in raising up a stronger protector, one that the people trust and love, I am thankful for it.… They trusted me once, and shouted for Cornelius when we rode our galiots in the Thames.… Beware of popularity, my noble lord.”

William pressed his handkerchief to his lips, still looking away.

“Do not fear that I will not serve my country—I bear an unfinished motto, when I was a boy I completed it proudly ‘I will maintain the power and glory of the House of Orange’—now I would add ‘Liberty and the Protestant Religion’ to those words of mine.”

John de Witt was silent a moment, then he said slowly—

“I grieve the chance that makes us enemies, for we should have shown well as friends, my lord.”

The Prince turned and fixed at last his bright glance again on de Witt.

“Mynheer, when King Mithridates Eupator came to the throne, he sent a message to his enemies telling them of his accession.… No more was needed, they understood and destroyed themselves.… So between us; you will not serve me, and I need not tell you you must go.… Leave the Hague, Mynheer—and soon.”

“When my brother is set at liberty, Your Highness.”

“That shall be to-morrow.”

“You are staying here?”

“I quit early to-morrow for Woerden, Mynheer, to inspect the fortifications of the town.”

“Then will you leave some soldiery behind Your Highness, for I have a fear of the unchecked violence of the mob. The Gevangenpoort hath been twice attacked, and I think my brother’s life in danger.”

“Count Tilly’s dragoons shall remain to keep order in the Hague.”

“I thank Your Highness.”

Mechanically John de Witt fastened together the clasps of his black velvet mantle.

The Prince still stood, his aristocratic figure in the dove grey in keeping with the rich, quiet, and sombre room.

They were looking at each other, and there was more in the eyes of each than any words could have touched.

M. de Witt moved slowly towards the door.

“I cannot leave you—” he said in a low voice, and with a simple air of grandeur, “you who have been my pupil—I cannot leave you for ever without saying how I shall ever pray for your prosperity, and that, though you cannot be more zealous, you may be more fortunate than I have been in serving our country.

“You have begun very nobly, may God keep you faithful to your ideals, guard you from your enemies, and make you worthy of the trust reposed in you by this unhappy land. Good-night, my lord.”

William made a half movement towards him.

“M. de Witt!” he said in a stifled voice. “M. de Witt!”

The fallen Minister smiled, almost tenderly.

“You have a hard task before you—as I well know.”

William held out his hand.

“Forget I am Nassau and take my hand as that of one who should be grateful to you.…”

John de Witt responded instantly; the fine fingers clasped. It seemed as if both men must speak, but no word passed.

“Good-night, Mynheer,” the Prince said at last.

“Good-night, Your Highness.”

John de Witt passed through the crowded antechamber and out into the street.

For the first time in twenty years he found himself without the cares of government, without the routine of pressing business to attend to.

His body obeyed the new condition of his mind; he found himself wandering with no set purpose, a thing he had not done since his student days in Dordt.

He realised as he went on his way that it was pleasant to walk aimlessly in the last glow of an August sun … perhaps he was a little stunned, weakened by illness and misfortune; his thoughts travelled back to early hopes and interests. He was a free man at last—at last he could find rest.…

At last.

He and Cornelius and their old father could live peaceably in the Spanish Netherlands. He would grow peaches and tulips, translate Horace, and watch his daughters spin or play the guitar.

It would be harder for Cornelius, for he was ever a man of action; but for himself he could not deny that he was utterly weary and that repose seemed sweet.

Leaving the crowded streets, he walked along the side of the canal that led to the Nieuwe Kerk.

He sighed with a pleasurable sense of the peace to come as he watched the slow barges pass down the bright water.

Some were laden with flowers and fruits; from the tall trees came soft scents and delicate sounds of the branches.

John de Witt sighed again.

A stork with a fish in its beak, looking like the very arms of the Hague, stood on the bank a moment, then flew off to one of the red roofs mounting like double steps to the highest stone of painted brick.

The sun was setting behind Ryswyck; the sight of the clear sky purged with celestial fire from all vapours and clouds animated the heart of John de Witt like prayer or music.

He bared his head.

It was quiet here, no one to molest or insult the melancholy, divine dignity of evening.

He crossed the little bridge before the church, walking lightly like one who does not think of the earth on which he treads.

It was over; his life-work done; nor was he afraid of God’s judgment on his actions though man had condemned them all.

He advanced to the church thinking to pray there, for his mood was exalted.

As he opened the door a paper pinned to it caught his eye.

It bore bold writing, and he stepped back to read.

The light of the sunset was still bright enough for him to see.

“Lucifer calls from Hell, ‘When is Cornelius de Witt coming? I grow impatient—let him come at once, let him bring his brother but leave his head!’

“Lucifer calls from Hell, ‘When are the de Witts coming?’

“The burghers call from the Hague, ‘Expect them to-morrow!’”

John de Witt stood on the church step staring at the paper.

The rapture died from his face; his eyes widened and his cheek paled.

Rapidly the sunset faded.

Another barge went by, a shadow in the dusk; it brought no image of peace now to the man at the door of the church.

What is brewing—what is enmeshing us?

He did not enter the church, but turned back to his own house slowly.

“Lucifer calls from Hell, ‘When are the de Witts coming?’

“The burghers call from the Hague, ‘Expect them to-morrow!’”

---

CHAPTER XII
AUGUST 20, 1672

He was still dressing when Johanna de Zwyndrecht came to him.

“The gaoler’s maid from the Gevangenpoort, John——”

She could say no more.

“From Cornelius?”

He had just finished shaving, and stood with his collar untied and the strings in his hand.

“Yes.”

“Ah, he sends for me?”

“Yes.”

John de Witt stepped up to her and put his arm about her.

“Johanna—my dear—has he been sentenced?”

“To banishment—the councillors, the maid says, read him his sentence in the prison this morning.”

She dropped her head on his shoulder and a sob broke from her full heart.

“Oh, John!”

“My dear, my dear, he has his life and his liberty. I will go fetch him from the prison—at once.”

His sister shuddered.

“Yes, and yet——”

“What?”

“Ah, they have been rioting all night—I wish we were away from the Hague——”

“We shall be—to-day.”

He drew her gently downstairs.

There his daughter Anna waited in the dining-room.

It was not yet nine, and the early sun had not touched the cool chamber.

The gaoler’s maid had gone again, simply leaving this message, that M. de Witt was to be set at liberty, and had, on hearing this, at once requested that his brother might be sent for.

“I will go,” repeated John de Witt, “at once—and bring him away.”

His daughter, who held her hands clenched and pressed upon her heart, looked at him with a wild expression.

“Father—must you go? Cannot Uncle Cornelius be brought here? Must you go?”

“Anna!”

“Do you know what the streets are like?—the maid said every one was furious because my uncle was not condemned to death.”

She rose, and her pale eyes brimmed with tears.

“Do not go——”

“Cornelius sent for me.”

“He did not understand——”

“Dearest, the Hague is safe enough——”

“No, no!”

“There are the burgher companies——”

“They are Orangist.”

He was not to be persuaded.

“Cornelius sent for me.”

Johanna also was fearful.

“You will, at least, not go alone?” she said.

“I will take the clerk and Van den Wissel if it please you.”

“Yes—I will tell them.”

Anna was not to be comforted. What she had seen and heard these last weeks at the Hague had utterly unnerved her; she clung to her father convulsively, dumb with the swelling sobs.

Agneta sat in the wide window-seat, her head bowed on to her knees.

M. Van Ouvenaller, who had been abroad that morning, had repeated to her, in his agitation, some of the remarks he had heard in the streets.

“Michael Tichelaer,” he declared, “is running up and down telling every man he meets that M. Cornelius is as good as acquitted, and that he must by no means escape his punishment.”

The presage of unimaginable evil conveyed in this held Agneta speechless; her spirit was so chained with terror that she could not even join Anna in her vain entreaties.

John de Witt strove to quiet and console them all by speaking of homely things; he desired his sister to prepare a meal for Cornelius, who would have had but a prison breakfast, and to lay out some garments for him, for he intended to take his brother at once to his country-house, where Maria—his wife—and her children stayed.

Jacob de Witt, he knew, would wish to accompany him, but the old man was sitting happily in the garden with his little grandson John, who had rushed to tell him that Cornelius was safe, and he would not trouble him, so commanded them not to let him know of his departure.

Not waiting for the coach, he bid the man bring it round to the Gevangenpoort in half an hour’s time. The prison was but a few yards away. As he gave this order the women were silent, and averted their eyes from one another.

They knew it meant that Cornelius would not be able to walk, or perhaps even to stand.

The day before he had been tortured … by the rack, the pulley and the cord.

Johanna felt as if the screws were turned on her own heart as the hideous image of her brother in agony flashed before her; she turned aside with gulping tears.

At about half-past nine John de Witt gently left their sorrowful company and set out on foot for the Gevangenpoort.

He had with him the two clerks, M. Bacherus and M. Ouvenaller, and his faithful servant, Van den Wissel, who had nearly been slain in Van der Graef’s attack on his master.

It was a warm, lovely morning; little flakes of gold lay in the ripples of the Vyver, and there was a shimmering of light and shade in the chestnuts and elms.

John de Witt noticed nothing warranted to rouse the fears his sister and daughters entertained.

There were the women going to market, the farmers drawn by their dogs in their little painted carts, the usual passers-by; one saluted him, for the rest he was unnoticed.

He passed the spot where John Van Olden Barnenveldt had been executed, and thought of it, as he had continually done of late when he crossed the Plaats.

Many times had he looked at the old gate prison, now with a horrid interest and a painful shrinking.

The plain brick building, with its high, tiled roof pierced with two gabled windows built over the low, dark arch, above which the arms of Holland were set, had always been a place of awe to him, because it had witnessed the imprisonment and agonies of those early Reformers who had been martyred by the Inquisition, but now its association made him quiver to his heart.

Cornelius had been tortured here … yesterday.

De Witt went very pale as he traversed the passage of the arch.

At the door of the prison-house, on the right, a small, mean entrance, were two soldiers of the burgher guard.

They had been placed there ever since the attempt of the mob to carry forth Cornelius de Witt.

John de Witt set his lips.

The moment cost him something.

M. Van Ouvenaller rang the heavy iron bell.

The gaoler opened to them, and almost immediately.

“Which way?” asked M. de Witt.

The gaoler stared.

“Come,” said M. Van Ouvenaller, “you know M. John de Witt.”

The man pulled off his cap at that, and M. de Witt followed him across the narrow threshold and up a narrow stairway, worn, old and dark, that wound up to a long, dark corridor lit by small windows giving on the inner courtyard.

Opposite one of these windows the gaoler stopped, slipped back the bolts from a low, heavy wooden door, and stood aside for M. de Witt to enter.

He stepped into a fair-sized room with a rough-beamed ceiling, plaster walls, a low-arched, brick fireplace, and one window overlooking the Plaats and barred lengthwise and across with iron.

There were a few chairs, rush-bottomed, a handsome carved table, and opposite the fireplace, and sideways to the window, a simple wooden bed, on which lay Cornelius in his nightgown, a red coverlet over him; near him stood a second, smaller table, on which were a few books and a shining, brass candlestick.

Seeing the door open, Cornelius raised himself on his elbow expectantly.

John de Witt crossed the room, the clerks, servant, and the gaoler behind him.

When the brothers had parted, four months ago, one had been the governor of his country at home, the other the guardian of her honour at sea; they had been treated with deference, surrounded with respect; the greatest men in the land … four months ago.

They were both stately and of austere manners, both mindful that they were not alone.

“How are you, brother?” asked John, advancing to the bedside. “I have not seen you since your return from the Fleet.”

Cornelius was equally resolved not to show the feeling that was too deep indeed for expression.

“Nor I you since your wounds and illness,” he answered.

He fell back again on his hard pillow. John glanced at his bandaged hands, at his grey and drawn face, and the colour rushed into his own and ebbed again.

“I am come to take you away, Cornelius,” he said faintly.

The Ruard’s brown eyes flashed with their old fire.

“Not yet, I do not submit to my sentence.”

John seated himself on the rush-bottomed chair beside the bed.

“What was the crime your sentence accused you of?”

“None—that is my point; by a flagrant breach of the law the sentence made no accusation, but merely condemned me to banishment.”

“It was read to you here?”

“Yes—though I claimed it should be delivered at the bar of the court … it was for fear of the riots, they said.”

John looked at him in a troubled, earnest way.

“Forgive me,” said Cornelius, breathing heavily with pain. “I was under torture for two hours yesterday, and as my rheumatism made me sensitive … it has left me weak.… I cannot explain it all to you as I should wish.”

John wiped his brow, and then clenched his handkerchief in his hand.

“I must get you away; you are at least free, Cornelius.”

“No—I will appeal to the Grand Council against this unlawful sentence.”

“I dare not consent to any delay in your release.”

Cornelius answered proudly—

“Shall I leave this prison a condemned criminal when I am innocent?”

“Alas! I fear you will never obtain justice—only through my personal appeal to the Prince have the people been disappointed of your death.”

“The Prince!” repeated Cornelius fiercely. “I do not wish the pity of the Prince, but the justice of the States.”

“That is,” said John, “what you will never obtain in these wild and passionate times.”

“What we shall neither of us obtain under William of Orange,” replied Cornelius.

The gaoler had left them, yet even before the two clerks the remark was rash.

“The Stadtholder,” said John de Witt, “did what he could—he warned me to leave the Hague soon.”

But Cornelius was ever the more fiery and unyielding of the two; he had a warlike pride not easily subdued; with the same unshaken firmness with which he had endured the rack he protested that he would appeal to the Grand Council.

His brother represented that it would be in vain, as the decision of the court was held to be final.

“I wonder,” said Cornelius, “that you try to persuade me against my honour. Why should I submit to tyranny?”

He looked at his hands, through the linen bandages of which the blood was oozing.

“Have I not borne enough?” he demanded proudly.

John de Witt rose in agitation.

“I think of your safety … let us get out of the Hague——”

“Not banished, and dishonoured,” said Cornelius firmly; “and ruined too. They have taken all my offices and dignities from me, and ordered me to pay the costs of the trial. Shall I go to my children a useless, degraded man?”

“Ah, Cornelius, but you cherish a vain dream when you imagine that the Grand Council can or will do you justice. I wish to save your life—for that is all that we can save.”

“See my sentence,” answered Cornelius eagerly; “it is so full of flaws, of breaches of the law, that they would not dare to refuse my appeal.”

John saw his brother was resolved; that he must, at least, humour him.

“I will see the sentence,” he said. “Go to the Record Office and fetch me here a copy of my brother’s sentence.”

The clerk left the room.

John de Witt went back to the bedside.

“I am in anguish till I see you out of this,” he said.

“I will appeal.”

“Cornelius, the coach waits below—to take you home.”

“Home! Am I not a banished, outcast man?”

“There are Maria and your children.”

Cornelius was silent.

“You think I give cowardly counsels,” said his brother, “but I am but too well convinced that we need hope for nothing more in Holland.”

He turned away abruptly to hide his agitation, and crossed to the window.

Little groups of people were gathered on the Plaats, mostly looking towards the prison.

The Groote Kerk struck half-past ten.

John walked up and down the rough boards, looking on the ground.

Cornelius watched him with dark and resolute eyes.

Both were very pale.

“What of Maria?” asked Cornelius at length, very low.

“She has written to you?”

“Every day—but was always so eager to hearten me, poor soul, that I know not much of herself.”

“She is well; she hath kept up a wonderful courage.… She is coming to the Hague to be the first to greet you on your release.”

Again Cornelius was silent, then he said—

“She will hardly know me.”

John could not answer.

The Ruard spoke again—

“John, I am innocent of even the shadow of what is imputed to me.”

“This to me!” cried his brother reproachfully.

“A man might well get bemused with all their lies,” said Cornelius wearily.

Silence again. An unaccountable uneasiness possessed John de Witt; he longed to see his brother at his side in his coach, the open country before them, the Hague behind.

“Bacherus is very long.” He broke the pause at last.

The Record Office was only a few moments’ walk distant.

John looked from the window again.

The crowd had increased.

“Van Ouvenaller,” he said, “go and see what hath become of M. Bacherus.”

The second clerk left.

The window commanded a view of the Plaats, the Vyver, and the Kneuterdyk Avenue, with John de Witt’s house at the corner, and the window in the narrow corridor looked on to the court enclosed by the prison building, but they were without any means of discovering what was happening in the Buitenhof opposite the prison door.

In a few moments M. Ouvenaller returned, pallid and trembling.

“Ah, Mynheer,” he exclaimed, “there is an angry crowd gathered—they have sent away your carriage, and I fear that M. Bacherus will not be able to return.”

“What is this?” cried Cornelius, starting up. “John, you must go at once—I should never have sent for you!”

“What do they say?” asked the younger de Witt.

“They say that they will not have Mynheer Cornelius leave in triumph, but that he must go on foot.”

“Is Tichelaer there?”

“Yes, among the ringleaders—calling horrid names on you both, Mynheeren!”

“John,” said Cornelius firmly, “you must leave me while you—can.”

“Yes,” answered his brother, catching up his mantle, “I will leave you, because I will go to the States and complain of these disturbances; but I shall return very shortly to liberate you.”

“I trust to your advice,” answered Cornelius. “I will go with you on your return, if you think it fit. Good-bye—brother.”

“Good-bye, for a little while.”

Putting on his hat, and accompanied by Van Ouvenaller and his servant, John de Witt descended to the mean passage from which the insignificant door gave straight on to the street.

The gaoler, Van Bossi, opened it for his exit, but as de Witt made to step out of the prison the two burghers on guard crossed their muskets before him.

“No one can leave,” one of them said, and roughly motioned him back.

John de Witt surveyed him sternly.

“Why not?” he demanded. “You know very well who I am.”

Others of the burgher company came running up to where M. de Witt stood in the narrow doorway behind the crossed muskets.

“You cannot leave without an order!” a soldier shouted.

“Whose order do you require?” asked John de Witt.

“That of our officer.”

The crowd began hurrying up from all quarters; seeing who stood in the doorway, they raised a shout of—

“Fire! Fire!”

A musket was discharged.

John de Witt coloured with anger, and was in the act of forcing his way out, regardless of the threatening yells, when the gaoler thrust him violently back and quickly closed the door.

John de Witt had been handled with such force that he stumbled and fell at the foot of the stairs.

As he rose again he lifted the long, disordered hair from his face, on which was an expression of horror, as if he had seen an image of hideous death.

“I wish I were out of this,” he muttered. “How can I get out of this?”

The gaoler stood dumb and terrified.

Quickly John de Witt composed himself.

“Take me back to my brother,” he said.

He had not ascended half the stairs before the bell of the prison rang.

Two burgher captains stood without: Van Os, a postman, and Van Asselyn, a bookseller.

John de Witt was called down to speak to them; they were moved by his composed, serene demeanour, and promised to persuade the captain of the guard to let him pass.

He waited for their return, but in vain; the other burghers prevented it.

“I wish I were out of this,” repeated M. de Witt. “How shall I get out? Is there no other way but this?”

“No, Mynheer.”

“No other exit at all?”

“None whatever, Mynheer,” admitted the frightened gaoler.

John de Witt bit his lower lip.

“Very well, I am going back to my brother,” he said

He had already been in the prison nearly two hours.

As he mounted the stairs he could hear, clearly enough, the shouts and cries of the mob.

Johanna’s fears and the tears of Anna—the placard of last night—were all very clear in his mind. He shuddered despite himself. There was an atmosphere about the dull, confined spaces of the prison sufficient in itself to depress the heart and check the delusions of hope.

The gaoler, alarmed by the turn things were taking, confided to M. de Witt that Michael Tichelaer, before his release that morning (he had been in prison during the trial of Cornelius) had uttered the most horrid threats against the brothers, so that he, Van Bossi, had sent to ask the judges to keep him in the prison until the Ruard was in safety.

But the judges had ordered Tichelaer to be released, declaring that they would see that order was preserved. But all the morning Tichelaer had been going up and down the Hague, inflaming the people by saying they were like to lose their victim through the foolish clemency of His Highness.

Van Bossi added that he would send his servant to the States, who were now sitting, asking them to dispatch a force to hold the people in check.

“Is the Stadtholder still at the Hague?” asked M. de Witt.

“Mynheer, he left for Woerden at half-past eight this morning.”

John de Witt entered in silence his brother’s room, leaving his clerk and servant below. He found Cornelius reading a little Elzevir Horace, which he held awkwardly in his bandaged hands.

“Cornelius.”

“John—returned!”

They were alone now, unwatched; their one care to conceal their uneasiness from each other.

“I cannot leave the prison,” said John, seating himself beside the bed, “the streets are too disordered——”

“Trapped!” muttered Cornelius, “trapped!—that rogue Tichelaer means my death.”

“The gaoler has sent his servant to the States,” answered his brother quickly, “to demand protection for the prison.”

“Ah!—it is as serious as that?”

Cornelius laid down the Horace.

“I wish I could stand,” he said through his teeth.

John turned his eyes away.

“I should never have sent for you,” continued his brother, reproaching himself.

“I am safe enough—the Prince left Count Tilly behind——”

A sudden roar from the Plaats broke off his speech.

“Tilly’s dragoons!” cried Cornelius, who heard horsemen.

John was at the window.

“No—the burgher companies.”

Not the forces of the States, but the soldiers of the people were arriving at the Plaats; perhaps fifteen hundred of them already surrounding the prison.

The company of the blue stationed itself by the Vyver; four other companies marched out of sight; while the division of the white, orange, and blue took up their position in front of the Gevangenpoort.

John de Witt could see them exchange pleasantries with the crowd, while many among them echoed the popular cry—

“Up with Orange, down with de Witt!”

“Heaven guard us,” he muttered, “if we must trust to these!”

Van Bossi returned.

The message had, he said, been taken to the States, who had ordered out the cavalry, and dispatched a messenger to the Prince of Orange, as he was the only man, they declared, who could restore order in the Hague.

“Have the magistrates no power?” asked Cornelius scornfully.

Very little, it seemed—since the arming of the burgher companies they trembled for their own lives.

“How far is the Prince’s camp?” asked John de Witt.

“Eight leagues, they say.”

The gaoler added that the Hague was in a hideous state of ferment and passion, and that the States feared a general riot, in which every one of republican sympathies would be massacred.

John de Witt rose with an uncontrollable sound of anguish, for he thought of his family separated from him by only a few yards, yet at the mercy of the mob.

“O God, my God,” he cried, “spare me that at least!”

Cornelius struggled into a sitting position.

“Van Bossi,” he said firmly, “desire some of these burghers to come and speak with us.”

John turned eagerly.

“Yes, bring these men before us—let them state their grievances to our faces.”

“Mynheeren, I dare not bring any of them into the prison.”

“We are not afraid,” said Cornelius calmly.

Van Bossi looked from one to the other.

“I wish you both out of this, Mynheeren,” he declared.

“Has any one been to the States?” cried John de Witt, walking up and down. “If they would let me out that I might speak to the States myself.”

He could not believe that the Assembly he had swayed for twenty years would be deaf to him.

“Have a little patience, Mynheer,” answered Van Bossi, “and I will speak to Van Ruysch, the colonel of the burghers, who is outside the door.”

“We thank you,” said Cornelius. “And, my friend, since my brother is like to be detained here will you send us some food?”

The man stared at him, confounded at his calm.

“It is past midday,” said John. “Bring us what you have.”

The gaoler left in silence.

Cornelius took up a book with an air of unconcern; it was a volume of French plays, but he did not look at the pages; his eyes could not leave his brother, who was standing by the barred window gazing out on to the Plaats.

“What are they doing?” asked Cornelius after a while.

“Gathering in great numbers—armed, all armed,” answered John. “There comes Tilly and his men.”

He could not repress a little sigh of relief as the guards, three hundred strong, swept through the crowd and took up their position before the prison.

A cry of “Long live His Highness!” broke from the people, and “Down with the de Witts!”

“We are of the same opinion!” some of the soldiery shouted back.

“They too are disaffected,” muttered John.

“But Count Tilly is a brave and loyal officer,” said Cornelius.

Each was very careful not to show the slightest sign of inward uneasiness; they did not dare speak on intimate subjects for fear they should betray themselves.

John left the window and came back to the bedside.

The sun was blazing full across the bars and throwing their likeness on the rough floor. The maid who had brought the message to John de Witt’s house entered with a homely meal of bread, cheese, and dried fish.

“Why are you crying, my child?” asked John gently.

She pressed her apron to her eyes.

“Oh, Mynheer,” she said in terrified sobbing, “the people! … outside … they grow every moment more excited.…”

“What do they want?” asked Cornelius calmly.

“To kill you!” she answered in a burst of terror. “Oh, Mynheer!”

The Ruard’s dark eyes flashed.

“Very well,” he said, “I am here—let them come—but they have no excuse to detain my brother.”

“They will not let Mynheer John escape,” the girl sobbed, shivering. “Some of them are searching the houses next door to see if there should be any secret passage, and there has one climbed on to the roof with a gun—if you try to escape.”

“We have no thought of it,” said Cornelius proudly.

The maid gave him a wild look and hurried out of the room.

The brothers avoided each other’s glance. John surveyed the window, stoutly barred, the iron-clamped door giving on to the narrow corridor … certainly they were in a trap.…

He set the meal himself on the smooth polished table, and his thoughts were in his home on the Kneuterdyk. He pictured Johanna’s piteous preparations for their return; her anxious arrangement for dinner—which was standing now untouched in the dining-room—her setting out of travelling garments for Cornelius; their old father, happy again at the thought of his son’s release; the doves in the trees and the girls in their pale dresses.…

What bitterness were they enduring as the time went on and the threatening crowd spread between them and the prison?

These little trifling recollections were the keenest stabs in the wounded heart of John de Witt.… Not the thought of his useless life-work, not the vision of approaching death were as potent to lacerate his soul as the thought of those waiting in vain … in vain.

Cornelius spoke—

“How is our father of late?”

John did not look at him as he answered—

“Well—but failing. He is engaged on a book of meditations, he writes them down in the evenings.…”

“I should have liked,” said Cornelius, “to see him again.”

He was under no delusions as to his own fate, his one hope was to save his brother.

“You shall see him,” answered John firmly, though his heart swelled with choking anguish. “We shall get out of this. Why, these people are our countrymen—they are not murderers.”

“John, I was doomed since that day in Dordt,” returned Cornelius. “How they howl! I wonder why they hate us so?”

His eyes narrowed as he listened to the noise rising from the Plaats.

Neither spoke until they had finished their meal, each eating to maintain this show of calm before the other.

At the end, John rose and went again to the window.

He could not forbear a start.

In the centre of the Plaats a section of the burgher company of the red was putting up the scaffold, always erected on this spot for an execution.

Cornelius could not but perceive his agitation.

“What are they doing now?”

“Nothing—only it is such a vast crowd.”

He was absolutely composed again, though he could not doubt for whom the scaffold was intended.

He was saved from further question by the entry of Van Bossi.

The gaoler was almost inarticulate with fear and dismay.

They gathered from his broken speech that two of the burgher captains had scaled the walls of the prison-yard and, in company with Ruysch, who had been admitted, demanded to see the brothers.

Before he had finished speaking, noisy voices were heard in the corridor, and the three men pushed rudely into the chamber.

They were armed with swords and muskets, and wore flaunting orange favours.

The gaoler stepped aside, and the intruders found themselves face to face with John de Witt, who had turned full towards them.

Seeing a tall gentleman of a princely carriage, erect and stately as any soldier, with a pale but perfectly composed countenance of a handsome nobility, looking at them with the eyes that had faced Europe, their mere violence was abashed.

“What is your authority?” asked John de Witt.

“I come from the States,” said Ruysch sullenly. “To see you do not escape before we hear what His Noble and Mighty Highness proposes to do with you.”

“Did the States send you on that errand?” demanded Cornelius.

“Would you rather be left to the citizens of the Hague?” said one of the other men, avoiding his eye.

“If you have been sent to protect us from the violence of the mob, I thank you,” said John. “But we are neither answerable to the States nor to His Highness, but are free men.”

“We do not deny it,” replied Ruysch, who wished to keep on the side of the law.

“Very well.” John took up his hat. “I will go to the States, while you guard my brother, and procure an order for his release.”

His calm air of authority overawed them, but they stepped before the door.

“By what right do you detain me?” he demanded.

Ruysch, who had no pretext, could only say, “Wait a little longer, sir, the people are too excited.”

John de Witt looked at him a moment in silence, then he said—

“Will you let my clerk and servant depart?”

They could not in decency refuse.

Ruysch gave ungracious acquiescence.

“Will you send one of your men with them to see them through the crowd?”

M. Ruysch hesitated, then saw a chance of ridding himself of an onerous duty.

“I will go myself,” he said.

John de Witt perceived his motive, but did not quarrel with it, since it equally well served his turn.

There were pen and ink on the table; tearing the fly-leaf from the French volume he wrote on it an urgent message to Van Ouvenaller, entreating him to conduct his children into a place of safety. He handed it to M. Ruysch.

“Give this to my clerk who is below,” he said; and with an earnest look of nobility that brought the blood to Ruysch’s cheek, he added simply, “I know very well what is ahead of me, and I ask you, as you fear God, to see my children safe.”

“I will do it,” answered Ruysch awkwardly.

He left, meanly glad to escape the task of protecting the brothers.

“I wish,” he said as he stepped from the prison, “that I had never seen the MM. de Witt.”

John now turned to the two burgher officers; with a disarming courtesy he bid them sit at the table, and Cornelius offered them wine.

“You are brave men and honourable citizens, my brother is innocent—you will defend him, you will assure the people he is innocent.”

The statesman who had guided his country through the storms of European politics for twenty years found no trouble in influencing a couple of ignorant burghers whom he employed all his arts to gain.

They protested their goodwill and went out to keep guard in the corridor.

John de Witt’s hope now rested in Count Tilly, who with the utmost firmness was sweeping the crowd back across the Plaats.

A goldsmith named Verhoef, in company with Michael Tichelaer, had taken the head of one of the burgher companies, and was practically master of the moment.

John de Witt could hear him threateningly order Tilly to retire; he saw Tilly ride out from his troops to answer them.

His words came with a faint clearness to the prison window.

“Burghers of the Hague, do you wish to fill your streets with blood? If you do, possibly you may be the first to suffer for it.”

Wild shouts answered him—

“Withdraw your troops!”

“No. I obey my orders.”

“Tilly stands firm,” said John to Cornelius.

Verhoef, mounted on a white horse, rode up to the cavalry of the States, an Orange flag in his hand.

“Very well,” he shouted fiercely, “if it is orders you want we will get them for you!”

And he and his troop galloped off in the direction of the Stadhuis.

John drew back from the window.

“They have gone to procure an order for Tilly’s withdrawal,” he said in a low voice.

The eyes of the brothers met across the prison space.

“The magistrates will never give that order.”

John put his hand to his breast.

“Oh, pray God they do nothing base, for they were great—my Republic.”

Quickly he composed himself again.

“We will not believe it, Cornelius.”

“No man could be so weak or so wicked,” said his brother, “as to deliver us to certain death.”

“No,” said John. “No——”

But he added almost instantly.

“I would the Prince was at the Hague, Cornelius.”

“The Prince!” answered his brother, “he is too good a politician.… He was very careful not to be at the Hague to-day.”

“Ah, no, Cornelius.…”

The Ruard smiled in an angry kind of scorn.

“They have sent for him—well—he will not come.”

“I believe he will—let him only get the message in time——”

“Ah—‘let him’—that is his skill, to cloak himself with ‘ifs’ and ‘lets’.…”

“You never liked him,” said John de Witt, “but I cannot believe him vile.”

Cornelius dragged himself painfully into a sitting posture.

“Hark to that!”

He listened to the manifold and surging noises of the crowd without, held only at bay by Tilly’s dragoons.

“Some devil’s arts have struck this fury out of them.”

“It is Michael Tichelaer,” answered John, staring from the window.

“Michael Tichelaer! a boor!—who is behind Michael Tichelaer?”

John was silent.

“I will answer you—William of Nassau—I think his agents are there now below urging the people on.”

“Cornelius—I do not credit it—ah! do not let us fill our thoughts with such images.”

He moved away from the window, his hand to his brow.

“Not now,” he added—“not now.”

Cornelius looked at him with a fierce tenderness. He had never from the first alarm thought to save himself, but he had not anticipated the horror of involving his brother in his fate.

“I was mad to send for you,” he said bitterly.

John de Witt did not speak.

He sat droopingly in one of the rush-bottomed chairs, his black velvet mantle hanging from his shoulders, his long hair and the silk ties of his cravat falling over his breast; the clear-cut, fine lines of his face were set off by the heavy lace round his throat; his thick brows were slightly contracted; the firm, full lips set resolutely under the slight moustache.

He gazed absently at the rough prison floor and mean walls to which his destiny had narrowed: endeavour, achievement, dignities, honour, labour, the council, the Cabinet, high hopes, noble toil, all come to this paltry square of boards and plaster where he sat forsaken.

His life-work had been over before he entered the humble door, but he had cherished modest desires: some little leisure to teach his son and love his daughters, some peaceful time in which to draw nearer the God he had always served … in the heart his countrymen had broken.

He thought of all the things he had wished to do and had left undone—of his home and the farewells that morning that were never to be spoken again.

His heart seemed to contract, then swell, stifling him.

He turned in his chair with a quick movement of agony and saw his brother’s dark, resolute eyes gazing at him.

“Cornelius!”

“I curse myself that I brought you here,” said the Ruard.

“Even if I had foreseen this I would have come,” answered John. “We are at least together,” he smiled. “Since we have shared everything for so long it is good that we share this now.”

He went swiftly to the door and opened it on the two burgher officers without.

“Mynheeren,” he said courteously, “how go events without?”

The men were both troubled and frightened; one had been down to speak to Tichelaer, who had just returned from a parley with the magistrates, who were utterly in the power of the mob.

Tichelaer and Verhoef had both been deaf to the pleadings of the councillors, and had declared their intention of dragging the brothers from the prison and hanging them on the gibbet, refusing even to wait until the Prince reached the Hague.

“His Mighty Noble Highness is too tender-hearted,” Tichelaer had declared; “the work must be done in his absence.”

Under the excuse that a body of rebellious peasants were marching on the Hague, the burgher companies had ordered Tilly to withdraw and defend the entry to the town. But on his firm refusal to obey any but his masters, the States, Tichelaer, seeing all attempts to gain the prison useless while he kept guard, had gone before the magistrates a second time to extort the written command for his withdrawal.

“But, Mynheer,” said the burgher officer, “they will not give it.”

John de Witt gave him a sweet look never to be forgotten.

“You are a good fellow,” he said, “and have done your best for us … it must be as God sees fit.”

He turned into the room again.

Cornelius was reading in the little Horace, on the fly-leaf of which he had that morning written his name and the date in commemoration of his sentence.

He was about to speak, but such a furious shouting rose from the Plaats that he was silent.

John went to the window.

He saw Tichelaer, the foam whitening his horse, ride up to Tilly, a paper in his hand.

“He has the order!” exclaimed John de Witt; and even as he spoke the command was given, the dragoons wheeled round and galloped away across the Plaats, the triumphant crowd making way for them … howling, yelling.

“Have they gone?” asked Cornelius grimly.

John’s beautiful hand clutched the cold bars.

“Oh, this is a bitter way to die!” he murmured.

He turned his head that he might not see the struggling press below; the ferocious, distorted faces of men and women hastening on with shining arms and glittering knives burning in the sunshine.

“Why were not the bullets merciful at Southwold bay?” exclaimed Cornelius. “I would rather have death any way but this—the life beaten out of me by those curs!”

He made a passionate gesture with his bandaged hand towards the window.

“I would not have believed they would have done it … no … have given that order … not that.…” said John faintly.

He stood with his hand on his breast, his eyes wide.

The refined and beautiful body shrank from the thought of torture and humiliation as the noble soul blenched from degradation and shame.

He was afraid of the manner of his death; drew back from it with loathing as he would from a sight of horror.

A volley of musketry sounded, and violent blows; the crowd were attacking the prison door.

John put his hand over his eyes; an awful, sick giddiness overcame him.

Cornelius struggled to his feet and caught his blue mantle round him.

“Is there no way out?” muttered John. He moved desperately from one side of the prison to the other, and beat his hand against the cruel iron bars—trapped—forsaken.

With a hideous, harsh crash of iron on iron the door below gave way; yells and the crash of weapons came up the narrow stairway, and one of the burgher officers rushed in, crying—

“They are in! They are forcing Van Bossi to give them the keys.”

“There is no need,” said Cornelius calmly, “the door is open.”

He sat on the edge of his bed, wrapped in his blue mantle, a close cap on his head, from under which his brown curls escaped on to his shoulders; his colourless face, marred with suffering, was composed and resolute.

“I will make them listen to reason!” answered the soldier, and went out into the corridor.

“This is the end,” said Cornelius.

John smiled in sudden exaltation.

He took up his brother’s Bible and seated himself in the rush-bottomed chair beside the bed, the pages fluttered a moment under his white fingers, then he began to read—

“‘Howbeit we speak wisdom among them that are perfect—yet not the wisdom of this world nor of the princes of this world, that come to naught——’”

Cornelius bowed his head.

“‘But we speak the wisdom of God in a mystery even the hidden wisdom, which God ordained before the world unto our glory—which none of the princes of this world knew, for had they known it, they would not have crucified the Lord of Glory——’”

Outside their sole defenders were endeavouring to restrain the onslaught of Tichelaer; the corridor was choked with swords and muskets.

John de Witt continued, in an uplifted voice—

“‘But as it is written, eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither have entered into the heart of man, the things which God hath prepared for them that love Him.’”

The Groote Kerk struck four.

With angry curses at the delay, Tichelaer and his men broke across the threshold.

John de Witt laid down the Bible, put on his hat and turned to face the door.

“What do you want?” he asked, and gazed at them with narrowed eyes.

They had all been drinking heavily; they were all roused to the height and very extreme of brutish passions, but they fell back smitten where they stood, their violence turned upon themselves at the sight of John de Witt.

Like a creature of another world, trapped and helpless, yet abashing its hunters, who feared to be laid low by some disguised and hidden god, he stood looking at them, composed, unarmed.

“What do you want?” he repeated.

Tichelaer lurched forward; but made no attempt to touch him.

“We want this villain,” he said, and turned to Cornelius.

More men were forcing into the room, fiercely accusing of bribery the two who strove to prevent them.

Encouraged by sheer numbers, Tichelaer strode to the bed.

“Come, get up,” he said roughly to the Ruard. “Pray to God and prepare yourself, for you must die.”

“What harm have I done you?” asked Cornelius calmly.

Verhoef the goldsmith answered—

“You have attempted the life of his very Noble Mightiness the Prince, and you are an ugly traitor—make haste and get up.”

John stepped towards him.

“You,” he said to Tichelaer, “know my brother is innocent.”

Under the terrible fire of his eyes the false accuser shrank back. Another ruffian, a miller, aimed the butt end of his musket at the head of Cornelius.

John, catching the fellow’s arm, turned it aside, it hit and shattered the bed-post; on this a notary named Van Saenen struck the back of his head with a pike.

De Witt turned and looked at him proudly and calmly.

Again they hesitated; not one of them offered to seize him.

He removed his hat, pulled out his handkerchief and bound it round his head, for the blood was dripping down his curls.

“Is it your intention to kill me also?” he asked.

A murmur came from those at the back.

“Yes, traitor, thief, and rascal, you shall have the same fate as your cursed brother!”

“Dress yourself!” shouted Verhoef, and flung the Ruard’s clothes on the bed.

“What do you want me to do?” he asked them. “Where do you want me to go?”

He was as calm and resigned as he had been before the torture. He tried to draw on his violet stocking over his maimed foot, but was so threatened with a dagger at his throat that he had to stumble to the floor undressed as he was.

“What do you want with me?” he repeated haughtily.

“You will soon find out!” they shouted back; and Tichelaer turned on John, who was advancing towards his brother.

“Do you wish my life?” asked de Witt. “Very well, then take it.”

But Verhoef caught Tichelaer back.

“These traitors must die on the gibbet!” he cried. “Spare them till then.”

Again the hideousness of his death presented itself overwhelmingly to de Witt; he drew back against the plaster walls, sick at heart.

“Are you all less than men?” he demanded. “Give me a sword——”

He made a futile effort to snatch one from the crowd ringing him round.

“Traitor!” shouted Tichelaer.

“Do you dare use that word to me?” answered John de Witt. “Had all done their duty as I did not a town had been lost——Give me a sword,” he added. “Some weapon——”

Tichelaer gathered courage to strike him with the end of his musket.

“God has overtaken you!” he yelled.

John de Witt held up his mantle to protect himself.

“You dare to take the name of God?” he answered. “You have long since denied Him by your villanies.”

As he spoke he saw Cornelius raise clasped hands to heaven as he was thrust violently on to his knees.

“Let me get to my brother!—I could yet make this little room glorious——”

“Do not finish them here!” cried Verhoef. “Take the ruffians to the gibbet!”

They worked themselves up again into the fury the actual presence of the de Witts had cowed. Tichelaer and his followers, among them a lusty butcher armed with an axe, pushed between the brothers, separating them by the width of the room.

Some one struck John de Witt on the face, cursing him.

The insult brought the blood to his cheek.

“Fellow, I will not take that!” he said, and cast the man down.

It was the signal; here was the incentive. A dozen clutching hands laid hold on John de Witt’s mantle.

“Ah, do you lay hands on me!” he cried, and lifted high his mantle to screen his face.

Verhoef gave him a push that made him stagger and fall.

“Behold the downfall of the Perpetual Edict!” shrieked Tichelaer.

John de Witt got to his feet again; there was a look of startled horror on his face. The handkerchief was shaken from his head and the blood ran down his collar.

They were quick to see his anguish, and laughed, seizing him by the arms and dragging him towards the door.

But quickly composure came again; he spoke with a coolness that confounded them.

“I have never betrayed you—I swear to God I have always done my duty——”

Tichelaer threatened him with his sword, but did not dare touch him because of the great brilliance of his eyes.

“Let me get to my brother——”

“Why do not you strike?” shouted Verhoef.

“Our friends below must have a hand in this—they are getting impatient,” the others shouted back; and John de Witt, at the point of a dozen swords, was forced down the close stairs.

Having lost everything else, he was still resolute to save his honour.

“I die by calumny—I am not what you think——” came his clear cry.

They pushed him forward. He drew back as he reached the first landing, for he could see the armed and hideous crowd below filling the open door of the prison, waiting for him; he could see the upturned faces.

He set his lips, and his nostrils distended, as he heard the shrieks of furious triumph which rose as they saw him—at last.

“Make haste!” they cried to Tichelaer. “Make haste!”

Verhoef dragged him forward; at that moment Cornelius, bruised and maimed, scarcely able to stand, was struck with a plank and flung down the first flight of stairs.

John turned and held out his arms across the swords and muskets.

For a second their hands were just able to touch; they looked into each other’s eyes, and even smiled, as they were torn asunder and delivered to the greedy, waiting crowd.…

“Farewell, Cornelius!”

“Brother—farewell!”

---

CHAPTER XIII
WILLIAM OF ORANGE

A coach was drawn by a pair of fresh brown horses, at a gallop through the quiet village of Ryswyck, an hour short of the Hague.

The sun was near its setting, and the peasants leaving their work turned to mark with surprise the haste of the coach as it swung on its leathers along the smooth white road.

It had just reached the little church with the lead cupola when a horseman spurred up from the opposite direction.

“Halt!” he cried.

He spoke with such an air of authority that the coachman drew rein, swerved his vehicle, and stopped.

“Do you ride to the Hague?” asked the horseman, panting.

“Ay, to the Hague;” the man stared at his questioner.

“Then turn back! turn back! … the Hague is no place for honest men … turn back!”

His voice and face were wild, his appearance dishevelled.

“The MM. de Witt have been murdered!” he said hoarsely, “two hours ago—my God! my God! They were to hang them on the gibbet—they dragged them out of the prison for that end—but they had not got them through the gate before they tore them to bits.… There was nought left to tell John from Cornelius save the difference in their height.…”

“Oh, my lady!” cried the coachman, and sat stunned.

The villagers had gathered round and were listening in a bewildered terror. The horseman dismounted, so possessed by what he had seen that he must babble of it.

“I say they cut their hearts out.… They are hanging head downwards on the gibbet—all red … the MM. de Witt!… See, I bought this … for two sous.… They cut off his fingers for he used them to sign the Perpetual Edict.”

He unfolded his cloak from something he carried against his breast and held it out.

“Oh, my lady!” moaned the coachman and let the reins fall.

The coach door was opened, a lady in a garnet-coloured mantle stepped out and came towards the increasing and horrified group.

“What have you got there?” she asked in a strange voice. “Show it to me.”

The horseman turned to her frantically.

“I saw it done—while he lived, too—look!”

He held out a beautiful human hand, torn and bloody, half enwrapped in a length of fine lace.

The lady drew closer.

“I know that hand very well,” she said. “Yesterday it was on the body of my husband.”

A shriek ran round the group. The wretched stranger, finding himself face to face with the wife of Cornelius, fell on his knees in the road and could not speak.

Maria de Witt was quite collected. In that instant when she heard, through the coach window, that she was too late—when she heard what had happened at the Hague—heart and brain had broken.

“I have been very patient,” she said, “for it was God’s will—but I must hasten now, for I wish to accompany him into exile.—I heard at Dordt this morning, Mynheer, that he was exiled.”

She turned towards the coach.

“Why do you not drive on?” she asked, and fell against the dusty wheel.

There was no one with her save the two men-servants; they dismounted and led her to the roadside, themselves incapable with grief.

“Where is his hand?” she asked. “My lord gave me his hand——”

She turned sweet, expressionless eyes on the horseman, who laid the bloodstained relic reverently in her lap; she sat on a heap of stones beneath a tall poplar tree.

“She must not go to the Hague!” he cried. “Find her shelter here.”

“Mynheer John’s children?” gasped the coachman.

“His clerk took them to safety. It is like a fair at the Hague—the magistrates all dumb with dread … and on the Plaats——Oh! I am sick with what I saw.”

It had grown dusk; the villagers crept softly round the figure of Maria de Witt as she sat meekly clasping the hand to her breast.

“He is hurt, hurt!” she said in accents of agony,—“the rack, the pulley and the boot, but I have balsam in the carriage—Ladies, there will be an engagement at sea to-day, and my husband will save us all.”

They appealed to the pastor to take her in; but he was too cowardly to give her shelter, so they led her, unresisting, to the humble inn.

One servant stayed with her, the other embarked for Rotterdam to bring to her her sister-in-law, Maria Hoeuft.

She would not leave the parlour which she had first entered, nor take food, nor leave the fair right hand that she carried against her breast as tenderly as if it were her child.

The village surgeon would not visit her; the peasants stood aloof, fearful of befriending one so unfortunate.

For awhile they thought that she did not know the extent of her misery, but presently she called for a quill and ink-horn, and took from her pocket Cornelius’ little brass-bound diary.

Over a clean page she had written the date, meaning to add beneath it her husband’s release. Very clearly and steadily she made now this entry, it ended the record of the Ruard’s domestic life, kept very carefully by him until his imprisonment—

“This day, August, my beloved husband was horribly murdered at the Hague by the burgher faction, with our brother, John de Witt.

“He was in his fiftieth year, having been forty-nine years old on June 19, 1672. He had been taken on the last day of July to the Court of Justice, and from thence, on August 6, to prison, there to be cruelly tortured on the sole accusation of an infamous person, Michael Tichelaer, barber of Piershill.

“May God preserve all men from such misfortunes as those by which the twentieth of this month has been so sorrowfully signalised.”

When she had finished she looked up with a wild air.

“Is it right?” she asked, “is it right?—we must submit to God!—all my happiness!”

Then she rose.

“Cornelius—you must snuff the candles——”

She sank on to the chair, smiling and unconscious.

They lifted her on to the settle and put out the light.

There was much to do in the little inn, and she was the widow of Cornelius de Witt, so they left her alone.…

When she recovered she sat up in the dark, then rose to her feet unsteadily.

Enough torchlight glimmered through the window for her to see the door; she pulled it open and stood listening.

In the opposite room, across the narrow corridor, men were talking together; their door stood ajar, and a thick bar of yellow fell across the darkness.

“If he had had the first message it had been prevented, Bentinck.”

“I never saw him so moved as when he heard the news.”

“This delay frets him—he cursed the groom for that loose shoe——”

“Yet now it is too late.”

The speakers swung out into the corridor; soldiers both, richly dressed.

They took no notice of Maria, and her useless brain attached no meaning to their presence or their words.

They strode out into the courtyard. The whole inn was full of noise and confusion, sudden lights and runnings to and fro.

Maria stood forgotten, not heeding or caring anything. Then she heard some one say, suddenly—

“The Prince is impatient to be gone——”

The Prince!

Her scattered wits caught at the word. She turned back into the chamber, now bright from end to end with the light of the torches in the courtyard outside; she took up the stiff white hand wrapped in the stained lace.

“The Prince,” she said.

For a moment her clouded brain cleared; she stepped into the corridor, looking about her, drawn erect.

The door of the parlour opposite was open wide now, and she could see, by the light of a tallow candle set on the table, a young man sitting gloomily, his cheek propped on his palm and his face hidden by his chestnut hair.

Maria de Witt stepped into the small, sombre chamber.

“You are the Prince,” she said. “I saw you once in a traineau on the ice—you wore a mask, but I know you.”

William of Orange looked up, and stared across the smoky yellow light.

Seeing a lady splendidly dressed, her black hair on her shoulders, a face horrified, and fierce and desperate eyes keenly regarding him, he gave a little exclamation as he rose.

“You are the Prince,” she repeated.

His violet cloak fell apart over his cuirass and his lace cravat; he made no answer as he moved slightly away.

“I wonder what I should say to you,” said Maria de Witt.

She put the thing she held at her breast down on the table between them.

“That is the hand of your enemy—are you proud of what you have done?”

He turned his head away with a sick look.

“Madame, who are you?”

“I am his wife.”

She looked fixedly at the Prince.

“You are his murderer.”

He put his fingers to his lips and stared at the dead hand.

“Is this the hand of John de Witt?—I clasped it yesterday——”

“It is my husband’s hand.”

His great eyes travelled to her face.

“You are unsettled in your mind, lady. Have you no better shelter than this?”

She struck her breast vehemently—

“I must curse you! Are you content—at last? You hated them so.”

“This is unendurable!—I—Madame,” he pushed his hair back from his low brow,—“I am guiltless of this horror.”

“No!” she said softly, and her eyes flickered with an insane light. “They hang on a gibbet on the Plaats—what shall I wish you? You who let it be?”

She pulled at her long lace collar, staring at the Prince.

The two soldiers re-entered the dim room, and gazed at the half-seen figures in the tawny, fluttering light.

“Bentinck,” said William, “I shall be greatly shamed for this.”

Maria de Witt did not lower her dark eyes from his face.

“If you should ever love and then bear what I now bear,” she whispered,—“would that be punishment?”

The three men stood motionless.

“If you should die childless with your work incomplete—would you be punished then?”

William winced, and caught at M. Bentinck’s sleeve.

“They would have lived for me, Madame.”

Her proud poise relaxed; she fell into the chair the Prince had risen from.

“God, God, God!” she said dully. “We must submit to Him—why did He not save Cornelius?”

M. Zuylestein peered over the table.

“The hand of the Grand Pensionary,” he shuddered.

Maria de Witt slipped to her knees.

“They tortured him!” she cried, clasping her hands, “and my balm is all spent——”

William of Orange gave her a wild glance.

“There are many hearts like to break before this task of mine is done,” he said, “perhaps my own amongst them. Come away—my work will not wait—I think those laggard knaves have shoed my horse—come away——”

Printed by Morrison & Gibb Limited, Edinburgh

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