I Will Maintain

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where are you going?”

John de Witt crossed to his father’s chair.

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

Jacob de Witt sighed.

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

“He knows that already.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No cause?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Jacob de Witt interrupted sternly—

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

“Certainly, I think you wrong him.”

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

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

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

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

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

Jacob de Witt shook his head.

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

John de Witt raised his noble, mournful face—

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

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

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

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

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

“His Highness the Prince of Orange, Mynheer.”

The Grand Pensionary turned and Jacob de Witt rose.

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

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

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

“Good day, Mynheer.”

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

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

The old republican came a step nearer the Prince.

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

Their eyes met.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The moment that the door closed William spoke.

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

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

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

John de Witt advanced a little across the room.

“Will you be seated, Highness?”

The Prince took the chair Jacob de Witt had quitted.

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

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

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

He came, characteristically, straight to the point.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

William read from his list—

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

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

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

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

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

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

William continued—

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

Of these two last the first was a Scotch Calvinist bearing a bitter hatred to the English Government, the second a near relation of the Prince through his grandmother.

“Your Highness has nothing to say against these gentlemen?” asked the Grand Pensionary, with a gentle sarcasm.

William raised his eyes from the paper.

“There are the two commissary generals of the cavalry whom I have not yet named, Mynheer.”

John de Witt’s eyes narrowed.

“Your Highness means the Viscount de Montbas and Colonel Bampfield?”

“Yes.”

“What of them, Highness?”

William coughed.

“Those two positions are positions of great trust, Mynheer.”

“I know it, Highness.”

“I should suggest that they be filled differently.”

John de Witt flushed.

“Why?”

“They are neither of them men whom I should choose to have under me.”

“Your Highness must explain yourself.”

“Briefly, I do not trust them.”

“They were both nominated by me, Highness.”

“I know, Mynheer.”

John de Witt drew back a little from the table, and stood looking down at the Prince with an almost incredulous expression.

He would not have believed that William would have the audacity to take exception to the only two officers of republican sympathies on his Staff.

“They are also my friends, Highness,” he continued with some haughtiness.

“I know that, Mynheer,” said the Prince; “but you are not, I think, of such a paltry nature as to indulge private feelings at the expense of the welfare of the State.”

The tone in which William repeated these words he had used brought the colour into M. de Witt’s face.

“Both these soldiers, Highness, are men whom the country should be proud of—they have my entire trust and confidence.”

“I am sorry,” answered the Prince dryly.

“What have you against them, Highness?”

The new Chief of the Army kept down his glance. “Colonel Bampfield is a good soldier—but——”

“He hath the misfortune to be my friend,” broke in John de Witt with some feeling.

“He is a Swede, Mynheer—a mere soldier of fortune. I do not consider him fitted for a post of importance.”

“And M. de Montbas?—you always disliked him!”

“Yes, I never liked him, Mynheer—and I do not trust him.”

“Not trust him?”

“No.”

“This is intolerable!… Your Highness, in what way do you not trust him?”

“He is a Frenchman.”

“But a Protestant—and since many years in our service.”

“Still, Mynheer, a subject of the King of France,” answered William. “I do not trust, I repeat, the Vicomte de Montbas—and since I am not empowered to choose my own officers, I have come to you to procure his dismissal, Mynheer de Witt.”

With that the Captain General looked steadily at the Grand Pensionary, who was both angered and taken aback.

The Prince’s request seemed to him both bold and insolent, though it was proffered with an almost disdainful quiet.

He curbed the anger that rose to his lips, and kept his glance averted from William’s cool and slightly mocking face.

“M. de Montbas is my friend,” he said sternly, “and in the confidence of Their High Mightinesses.… I will listen to nothing against him—no, nothing,” he repeated in some agitation.

Somewhat to his surprise the Prince replied at once—

“Very well—it is not my affair—I have made my request and been refused.” He lifted his brows. “Well, you will take the responsibility—as you do for every other action of the civil Government.”

Now M. de Witt looked at him.

“Yes, I will take the responsibility, Your Highness,” he answered proudly. “M. de Montbas is as trusty, worthy a gentleman as any under Your Highness’ command——”

“I am glad that you will answer for him, Mynheer.”

“We will talk no more of it,” replied the Grand Pensionary; “he stays.”

William picked up the red rose and looked at it languidly.

“My brother,” continued M. de Witt, “will not accompany Your Highness, as he hath answered the appeal of the States General to go as deputy plenipotentiary to the Fleet.”

The Prince still kept his eyes on the flower.

“I am glad, Mynheer,” he answered. “M. Cornelius de Witt and I are not likely to agree.”

The Grand Pensionary gave him a long and searching glance.

“God forgive this stubborn spirit in Your Highness,” he said.

William faintly smiled.

“Mynheer, let each keep to his business.… You need not have grudged me the sole command of the Army nor have appointed these Deputies to accompany me.”

“It is for your own good—the undivided weight of authority was too heavy a burden for Your Highness.”

“These lawyers know nothing of war,” answered William disdainfully.

“Some might say as much of Your Highness—I for one who think you should have served before you ruled.”

“I know that, Mynheer;” the Prince laid down the rose. “You have no trust in me; well, time will disclose whether or no I justify myself in this that I undertake.”

“I shall do all I can to aid Your Highness.” The generous heart of de Witt went out, despite everything, to this young man of no experience and of delicate health suddenly placed in this arduous and difficult post.

He blamed the ambition that had asked and the enthusiasm that had given the supreme command to William of Orange, and he feared the result for the United Provinces; but he saw, as perhaps no one else could see, the thousand difficulties and labours that must beset a general of twenty-one called to repel a foreign invasion with insufficient men and limited authority; the almost impossible task that faced a youth who had never seen a battle and now must come to the touch with an army of prodigious strength, already elated with glory, strong in prestige, and generaled by the most famous soldiers in the world.

On this impulse of reflection de Witt began to speak. He told the Prince what was being now done for the Navy, the Army; the fresh levies he was raising, the soldiers he hoped to add to the standing force.… He said what he could to encourage and hearten.

William listened, turning the rose about on the table beside him; once or twice he coughed and put his hand to his head.

When John de Witt paused he looked up slowly.

“This should have been seen to long ago,” he said in a low voice.

“What do you mean?” asked the Grand Pensionary quickly.

William rose.

“This country is utterly unprepared for war.… The Navy is half disarmed, the Army of a miserable strength … the forts insufficiently garrisoned.… Those who have been governing the country for the last twenty years are those who must answer for it, Mynheer.”

“You are blaming me?”

William caught up his gloves and the great red flower.

“I am the servant of the Republic—the Commander of the Army—nothing more—I cannot say what has been done amiss nor what rightly—doubtless you can answer for your conduct, Mynheer de Witt.”

The Grand Pensionary had no weapon against an indirect attack, veiled in courtesy.

“If Your Highness will let me know your requirements I will see that Their High Mightinesses meet them,” he answered simply.

The Prince flung back the pink velvet cloak and replaced the list of his officers in his pocket.

The fading, reddish sunlight gathered in the gold hilt of his sword, ran down the length of the shining scabbard, and shone in the curls that lay on his shoulders.

“You must believe me always your friend,” he said, lifting his brilliant eyes.

“And you always that I pray for your success—and that I will in every way assist you—Highness,” responded M. de Witt sincerely.

“I shall remember,” answered William, “and hereafter, without doubt, be glad to remind you of it.”

John de Witt, encouraged by the quiet friendliness of the other’s tone, continued with impulsive warmth—

“I shall work in the Cabinet as you in the field. Let no differences estrange us, for have we not the same object in view—the same hope to animate us, the same fear to spur us on? God, who has us both in His hand, keep you, Prince—and help you.”

“Amen,” said William. “And may He guide your councils, M. de Witt.”

The Grand Pensionary held out his fine right hand.

William clasped it; his eyes perhaps were defiant, but that was not perceived by M. de Witt.

“I will write to Your Highness every day however pressing my business——”

“You shall hear from the camp, Mynheer.”

They parted.

John de Witt sat down by his desk, one hand supporting his head the other hanging slackly by his side.

The Prince had not been gone three minutes before Agneta de Witt entered, rather breathlessly.

“Father!—who was that who has just left you?”

De Witt looked up, surprised.

“Dearest, the Prince—what is the matter?”

“Oh—nought—but I passed—him—in the hall, and he gave me a wicked look—as if he hated me—and all of us.…”

CHAPTER VI
THE CONSPIRATORS

The Prince and Mr. Bromley rode straight from M. de Witt’s house to the Groote Kerk.

William pulled his hat over his eyes; his person was not as yet well known at the Hague, and though his beautiful horse attracted notice he avoided the recognition of the well-dressed crowds that thronged the streets.

Leaving Mr. Bromley without, he entered the church by the little back door that stood always open.

Bareheaded he opened the railing round the entrance and passed slowly into the body of the church.

Some of the high-set windows were shaded by green curtains; through others the sun streamed in clear, golden, slanting lines across the whitewashed walls. In the open space where the altar once stood a shaft of light dazzled and fell in a little square of brilliance on the stone pavement.

There were no splendid monuments; here and there a plain tablet grimly decorated with a skull or a cluster of bones, yellowing in the marble.

In every place along the stiff, high-backed pews were green hassocks, a Prayer-book, and a Bible primly arranged; round the stern pulpit the seats of the elders with their larger Bibles and the green markers hanging from between the heavy covers.

Opposite the pulpit was the plain pew belonging to the Princes of Orange. Here the late Stadtholder had worshipped, and here William, every Sunday since he could remember, had sat for three hours in the morning and two hours in the afternoon, full in the eye of the preacher, with his open Bible in front of him and before him the whitewashed walls and pillars, the straight green curtains, and the figure of the pastor in his black gown and bands, preaching the doctrines of John Calvin.

He could not recall having ever missed a service here while he was at the Hague. Sometimes his head had ached so that he could hardly hold it up, but he had always sat erect, with his eyes on the preacher, even when he was a child and could not understand the long words used.

Since the declaration of war the States had ordained Wednesday for fasting and prayer, and the Prince had invariably attended but—with his household.

Now, the day before his departure to the Army, he came, for the first time, to the church alone. He mounted into his pew and knelt in his place; his sword making an incongruous rattle on the wooden seat.

He folded his hands on the front of the pew where the Bible rested, hid his face in them, and knelt so, motionless.

The extraordinary silence of a place still in the midst of noise filled the church: the faint echo of the clamour of the busy city without seemed to come from a long way off; the sunshine fell on the blank walls with a dreary sense of remoteness; clamour and sunshine alike could only enter here by a guilty stealth, they seemed to belong to other regions.

When the clock struck it sounded loud and sombre, like a note of warning or reproof, and echoed gloomily down the empty aisles and bare altar chapel.

When at last the Prince rose he remained in his place, gazing down the grim whiteness of the church, his right hand resting on the Bible.

He was very pale, and there was a look of pain about his eyes.

For a while he stood so, the pink mantle rising and falling with his laboured breathing; then he turned sharply.

Some one had entered the church.

At first he could hear only footsteps, but presently three men came round the pillars.

The Prince picked up his gloves, his hat, and the rose, and descended from the pew, closing it after him.

As he stepped into the aisle he came face to face with the newcomers.

The recognition was instantaneous; he knew them for the three who had stepped out upon him from the mist at Scheveningen. They fell back respectfully, in silence.

William, not pleased at the meeting, passed on, but when he reached the covered entrance he found that they had followed him with the obvious intent of speaking.

The Prince at once turned, and, putting on his hat, faced them.

The foremost was a very young man, fair and eager, fashionably dressed; the other two older, and, it seemed, of a meaner station.

“You know me?” asked William.

“Your Highness, we do.”

“Well?” demanded the Prince.

He knew these men for conspirators against the Government and that the youth who spoke was Jacob van der Graef, the author of Advice to every Faithful Hollander, the pamphlet said to have stung John de Witt the most among the many violent attacks made on him.

He knew also that they were Orangists whose enthusiasm was as genuine as it was unbalanced and foolishly directed.

Knowing and recalling this he deigned to stop and listen.

“Highness,” said Jacob van der Graef, adoration in his face, “we are loyal subjects of yours——”

“Ah,” William caught him up. “You, the son of a magistrate, Mynheer van der Graef—venture to say that!”

“We would venture more,” returned one of the others, Van Bruyn, a lawyer.

“Take care, my friends,” said the Prince; but the expression of his eyes rewarded them.

“Prince,” said Van der Graef in a low, excited voice, “we would die for you—any one of us, and there are others—M. de Witt treats you vilely, he is a traitor to his country … while he lives Your Highness will never come to your rights. The United Provinces will not much longer bear his yoke.”

“Speak a little more moderately, my child—or you will get into trouble,” said the Prince, slightly smiling.

The young student sank to one knee on the flagstones.

“What can I do to serve Your Highness?” he asked passionately.

“Be prudent—for your own sake,” returned William. “M. de Witt is still master.”

The other two broke in—

“He is a traitor!”

“Nay,” said the Prince; “he is a good man.”

“A traitor to your House, Highness, and to the country.”

“I do not say so,” answered William. “But it seems he is not popular.”

“The people hate him.…”

“I wonder why?” The Prince’s smile deepened.

“Because they love Your Highness!”

“I love the United Provinces, Mynheer——”

Jacob van der Graef rose.

“M. de Witt must go!” he cried.

“Go?”

“Cæsar’s way—I would play Brutus for Your Highness’ sake.”

William coloured and drew a deep breath.

“It is dangerous to be a fool in these times, Mynheer.… M. de Witt is not Cæsar.”

He turned away quickly, opened the door, and stepped out into the sunny streets.

“Who were those went in but now?” asked Mr. Bromley curiously as his master mounted.

“Some of those who stir the country against M. de Witt.”

“They followed you into the church?”

“I think so.”

“Why, Highness?”

“To speak to me.”

“Ah, they wished a little encouragement,” nodded Mr. Bromley.

“They are fanatics,” returned the Prince. “They call M. de Witt any vile name that occurs to them—and believe what they say.”

“Can they be of any use to Your Highness?” asked Mr. Bromley.

The Prince let the spur touch his horse’s side.

“Use to me?” He looked at his gentleman sideways. “What use should they be to me?… Were I M. de Witt I would police the Hague better.”

“You think these malcontents are dangerous, Highness?”

“To the Government, yes.… There is no one so hated as a usurper, Bromley, when the people who gave him his power become tired of him.”

“Does Your Highness think M. de Witt is hated in that fashion?”

“You must see that he is not loved,” answered the Prince.

“It is curious, too,” remarked the Englishman.

“It is,” said William; “for, as I reminded M. Van der Graef but now, M. de Witt is a good man.”

Mr. Bromley glanced quickly at his master. He was not a man of quick perceptions, but the Prince’s mocking intonation could not altogether escape him.

“Remind me,” continued William, “that when next I write to M. de Witt I mention that he had better take precautions——”

“Against what, Highness?”

“Assassination,” said the Prince laconically; then, before Mr. Bromley could exclaim, he asked abruptly, “You have not heard from Arnheim—from M. Triglandt?”

“No, Highness.”

“I should have liked to have seen him before I left the Hague,” remarked the Prince, with such an effect of calmness that Mr. Bromley could not tell if any feeling was behind the words or no.

They had almost reached the Palace, and were riding briskly under the lime trees that bordered the canal, when a band of young men, advancing from a side street, crossed their path and brought them to a sudden halt. A crowd accompanied the band, the foremost of whom was carrying an orange flag, a white one displayed below it; this bore the inscription: “Orange op, Witte onder.”

William was annoyed. He never loved the mob in any form or mood; he was utterly indifferent to popularity, which he rated too keenly at its true value.

He felt no gratitude to these people for their enthusiasm. They had suffered John de Witt for twenty years; despite their flag-waving and their shouting they suffered him still; therefore he sat silent, reining in his horse on the causeway of the canal and waiting for the crowd to pass.

But the beauty of the animal and the richness of the rider’s dress did not escape the attention of the Orangists.

They looked at him.

He was of too marked an appearance to escape recognition long.

Some knew him at once.

They stopped, hesitated, swayed together.…

“The Prince!” the word went round.

Then every hat and cap was off.

“Long live Your Highness!… God keep Your Highness!”

William touched his beaver.

“Thank you, my friends,” he said gravely.

They crowded round him, men, women and boys.…

Mr. Bromley felt a startled amazement to see the half sobbing, deep intensity of their enthusiasm; as if love of home, of country, and God were each and all expressed in their passionate devotion to this young man.

Like all reserved people, they did not lack expression when they were touched or roused.

William accepted their homage calmly; his attention seemed to be given to his horse that, fretted by the pressure, curveted and backed, bringing out his rider’s horsemanship.

“And does Your Highness go to the war to-morrow?” asked one, eagerly.

“Ay, to-morrow,” answered William, looking down at them.

At that they shouted anew, and roundly cursed the French.

Hearing that, the Prince slightly smiled.

“We will not see King Louis at Mass in the Groote Kerk—eh?” he said.

“Not while Your Highness lives!” shouted the young man with the flag.

William’s brilliant glance rested on him.

“Thank you.” He glanced round the eager faces. “Thank you all for your confidence.…”

They began to call frenzied curses on the MM. de Witt.

William checked them.

“Get back to your homes,” he said, “and pray God to bless the cause I have in hand—to protect—the liberty of this country and the Protestant religion.…”

An old man came forward and kissed the Prince’s stirrup … a girl was sobbing out loud; Mr. Bromley saw William go very pale.

He touched his hat again and pressed on. They fell back as the great horse moved; but they followed him to the Palace gate, blessing him.

A smile not wholly pleasant curled the Prince’s lip. These people who had forsaken his House to obey a burgher citizen cursed their idealist lawyer, the man of peace, at the first touch of danger, and turned frantically to the son of their ancient rulers—the man of action; little real trust had they in maxims and the strength of quiet godliness; when it came to real issues they cried for the sword and the leader.

What did John de Witt’s twenty years of service avail him now?… They called him a traitor, they wanted a Prince and a soldier—even at the price of losing their liberty.

William of Orange would not be content with what John de Witt had taken—a modest salary and the rank of a humble citizen; sovereign power was his price. He might save his country, but he would rule it—as his ancestors had done, and with augmented powers—not the servant of the Republic, like John de Witt, but her master.

And they were very willing to put their liberty beneath his feet.

His face wore its least pleasant expression as he entered his Palace thinking of these things.

Mr. Bromley was silent, as always when his master seemed in one of his coldly cynical moods. The Prince was usually in a sardonic humour after he had been openly acclaimed by the crowd; it pointed, perhaps, the difference between his actual position and the one he should have filled.

M. Bentinck was abroad, taking farewell of friends; he was to accompany the Prince to the front.

William dined alone.

Afterwards he wrote a brief but kind letter to the Princess Dowager, and one to Cornelius Triglandt at Arnheim.

He gave these for dispatch to Mr. Bromley, who was wandering about the dreary Palace between excitement and depression.

It was now about half-past eight.

William dismissed him.

“We leave at six to-morrow morning——”

“So early, Highness?”

“I wish to avoid the crowds—I shall not want you before then, Bromley.”

Thus left to his own resources, Mr. Bromley bethought him of some French players now performing at the Hague.

Since the declaration of war they had taken fright at the temper of the people and announced their early departure; but to-night they were giving Tartuffe, and Mr. Bromley had long wanted to see them. He persuaded M. Heenvliet to accompany him; it was their last chance they agreed, with a laugh—who could tell if either of them would see the Hague again?

The Prince went upstairs to his silent rooms, opened the windows on the still spring night and drew the curtains.

Two candles on the mantelshelf and two on the desk lit the room; between the last stood the red rose in a crystal glass.

William sat down at the desk and unlocked the drawers.

He employed no secretary, his letters were always in his own hand; no confidant was tolerated in his intimate affairs.

Drawing the candle nearer to him, with a little half-slow movement, he commenced writing the letters that he hoped and intended should secure allies for the Republic.

The first was to the Emperor. He wrote it slowly, translating it into Spanish from the rough draft he had before him. The second, in German, which he wrote with ease, was to the Elector of Brandenburg; in it he set forth the need of the United Provinces, and passionately implored help in the name of their common religion.

These finished, he set himself to write both to Charles of England, with the object of detaching him from the French Alliance, and to Sir William Temple.

These letters, that he composed carefully in English, occupied him a considerable time.

When he at length sealed them it was past midnight.

He gave a half glance at the clock, coughed, and leant back wearily in his chair.

It was absolutely silent; a slight but sweet breeze filled the room; the chimes of the Groote Kerk rang clearly with an iron clang into the night, breaking the stillness harshly. William snuffed the candles and began to sort his papers.

They were already carefully arranged and marked.

Some he burnt in the candle, some he put in his pocket; the rest he locked away.

From an inner drawer he took a roll of maps and a bundle of notes and spread them out before him on the polished surface of the desk.

They were plans of the Yssel and Rhine, and diagrams of the forts protecting these rivers. Referring to the notes, he wrote under each fort the number of men, of guns, and the nature of the defences. In some cases he made calculations and drawings of scarps and counterscarps, half moons and bastions.

He dwelt a long time over Maestricht, the key of the entrance to the Netherlands, and wrote across the plan that the garrison must be strengthened.

The Rhyngrave, Frederick Magnus, commanded there. The Prince, seeing the weakness of his men, wrote to him and desired him to raise levies from among the surrounding peasantry.

“—as I can send you no more soldiers and the loss of Maestricht would be almost a fatal disaster.”

Then he looked again at the list he had shown M. de Witt, and wrote his comments beside the name of each officer.

When he came to that of the Viscount de Montbas he hesitated as if he would have liked to cross it out, but finally left it—opposite a blank.

Next he examined the names of the Deputies appointed by the Government to accompany him in the campaign.

He was not even to move the army without the consent of this Council of War, and as he glanced down their names his eyes darkened at the thought of this restriction put upon him by M. de Witt.

Cornelius de Witt and Beverningh for Holland; Ripperda de Buryse for Guelders; Crommon for Zeeland; Schude for Utrecht; Couvorden of Stouvelar for Overyssel; Ysbrandt for Friesland; and Gokkinga for Groningen.

Cornelius de Witt having been transferred to the Fleet Beverningh was left head of the Council, and the Prince could twist Beverningh, once a loyal supporter of the Grand Pensionary, round his finger. Nevertheless he did not forgive M. de Witt this attempt to limit his authority and supervise his actions.

His bitterness against him was further revived when he came to look over the muster-roll of the forces with which he was to repel invasion.

Less than a year ago John de Witt, in pursuance of his peace policy, had disbanded a considerable portion of the Army. Regarding politics as a science, he had overlooked the importance of war; he could not believe the policy of Louvois would find expression in the armies of Louis.

Subsequently he had done what he could to repair the error; but it was not one to be easily made good, nor one to be lightly forgiven by the young man who sat now looking at the list of his inadequate forces.

Thirty-four thousand five hundred and fifty-five foot, two thousand and six hundred horse—many ill trained, several regiments not paid—constituted the standing Army of the Republic.

The Grand Pensionary’s urgent appeal to the States General had resulted in the promise of seventeen thousand men—not yet raised.

William laid the paper down and put his hand to his aching forehead.

Thirty-seven thousand men! … and Louis had left Paris with a hundred thousand, not to speak of the army already in Lorraine; a hundred thousand men, and Condé, Turenne, Vauban, and Luxembourg.…

“Ah, M. de Witt, this is what your love for peace hath brought us to,” muttered William between his teeth.

He turned his keen eyes to the list of the other forces at the disposal of the United Provinces.

The Fleet, under the command of de Ruyter, comprised a hundred ships, thirty fire-ships, twenty thousand sailors, and five thousand marines; with this force de Ruyter, who had already escorted the India convoy safely into the Texel, had to confront the combined ships of England and France.

William pushed back his chair and fixed his eyes on the dark square of window. His mind was busy with a question that was no part of the business of the Captain General: the financial position of the country.

The expenses of a campaign could not be less than 13,700,000 gulden for four months. The States had voted 3,000,000, and 1,500,000 for the Fleet. The National Debt was seventeen millions; the country was already taxed to the utmost.…

On the back of the list of Deputies William made a quick calculation of his own private fortune; an estimate of his jewels, estates, and property.

His serenely quiet life had enabled him to accumulate his revenues; his credit was good; he could raise large sums in Amsterdam on his mere note of hand, and he knew some German bankers who would, he thought, advance him money.…

He rose at last, pushing back his disordered hair.

It was nearly half-past four.

M. Bentinck must have returned; the Prince rather wondered that he had not come to him.

There still remained some work to do, copying and docketing, and the Prince, weary and racked with a headache, wished M. Bentinck here to help.

Taking up a candle he went out on to the head of the stairs and listened intently.

He seemed the only person awake in the Palace; not a sound, a footfall, or a breath disturbed the quiet.

The Prince, remembering a book he wished to take with him to-morrow, went lightly down to the library; resigned to the fact that he must return and finish his work himself.

Under the library door a faint light showed.

The Prince thought at once of M. Bentinck, and opened the heavy door.

A couple of candles burning on the table between the windows revealed a man sitting before them, busily writing.

At the sound of the opening door he looked quickly up.

“Your Highness!” he exclaimed, and rose hastily.

“Ah, M. Van Mander,” said William, slightly surprised. “Where is M. Bentinck?”

“Gone to bed, Your Highness.”

“And the others?”

“I think every one is abed, Your Highness.”

The Prince smiled.

“Save you and I.” He came farther into the room. “Why do you sit up, Mynheer Van Mander?”

Florent coloured.

“I—could not sleep to-night.”

William looked at him sharply.

“What are you doing?”

“Copying some letters M. Bentinck gave me, Highness.”

“Well, finish them.”

The Prince crossed to the far end of the room, held his light up to the bookshelves and took down the volume—a Latin work on tactics—that he sought.

“I have finished, Highness,” said Florent in a humble voice. He fixed his eyes ardently and half pleadingly on the Prince.

William turned, with the book in his hand, and looked at him.

Florent had an instant and haunting picture of the Prince: his cloth-of-gold suit and black jet embroidered waistcoat glimmered into points of light in the glow of the candle he held; a little diamond brooch in the lace at his throat sent out long changing rays of blue and green; he looked colourless and ill; his eyes were heavy lidded and shadowed underneath, the curls on his forehead disordered and damp; he breathed with noticeable labour, as if utterly exhausted.

“Is Your Highness not taking any repose to-night?” asked Florent timidly.

William turned towards the door.

“‘Annibal erit brevi ad portas,’” he said, with a slight smile.

Florent stood mute.

“If you will you can help me,” added the Prince. “I have still somewhat to do—will you come upstairs?”

Van Mander blushed violently. He did not say anything, but William’s keen glance seemed satisfied with his expression and demeanour.

“I do not wish to wake M. Bentinck,” continued the Prince; “we have still an hour,” he pulled out his watch.

Florent extinguished his candles and took that the Prince held, preceding him with it up the wide, dark stairs.

When they reached William’s apartment the Prince gave Florent some of the notes he had been writing and bade him copy them.

He himself walked up and down; stopping now and then to look out of the window on to the night, where the darkness lifted slowly.

Florent hardly raised his eyes from the desk; the scratching of his quill and the Prince’s light step were the only sounds.

At last William threw himself into the deep chair by the hearth, and sat there so still that Florent thought him asleep. But looking up from his finished task he saw that the Prince’s eyes were open and shining with a bright lustre. As Florent gazed at him he moved, and glanced at the black clock between the candles on the mantelpiece.

It was well past five, and the steadily increasing glow of dawn in the chamber made the candle-flames show yellow and feeble.

The Prince rose and came over to Florent’s seat.

“Have you completed that?”

“Yes, Highness.”

“Will you put up these papers?” he pointed to them. “That letter to the King of England is for M. Gabriel Sylvius—who will come for it presently.… Will you remain here till I return?”

Without waiting for an answer he went into his bedchamber and closed the door.

Florent arranged the papers as he was told; then put out the unnecessary candles and got to his feet, stretching himself.

The freshness of the early wind was marvellous.

The secretary went to the wide open window. Before him were the trees in their ideal freshness and the green walks of the Palace garden; beyond the turrets and towers of the Hague.

The birds were beginning their lusty, untaught harmony and a rose-coloured veil was being lifted from the heavens, disclosing the blue of a fair spring day.

Florent rested his head against the mullions and drew a troubled breath.

War … the beginning of War … what was it like?… War.

At Charleroi lay a great army, coming nearer—from Chatham and from Brest huge armaments advanced … nearer.… A curious fact to dwell on, here, looking over the peaceful Hague.

Well, he, Florent Van Mander, was no patriot … yet it was strange to think of this country of his, not long ago the Arbitrator of Europe, the greatest maritime power in the world, the richest, most prosperous in commerce, fallen to a footstool for the French.

Even a hero could not prevent it, he thought, and the Republic owned no hero; only John de Witt, who was a good man, and William of Orange, who was playing his own game.…

This very night he had written a letter to his uncle Charles … perhaps it was a guarantee that Louis’ troops should not find their conquest difficult … in consideration of … a price.

Florent smiled bitterly.

Yet he told himself that only a fool would act otherwise.… Since the country was lost one must snatch what might be from the wreck. Yet … yet … however … the Prince did it very well.…

“Annibal erit brevi ad portas” he had said, and as if the danger touched him nearly.

Florent turned restlessly from the window as William re-entered from the inner chamber.

Under his pink mantle he wore black armour, and he held under his arm his helmet, mounted with a black feather.

His sword was strapped to his waist, and he supported it with his right hand.

His bright hair and his pale face were in curious contrast with the dull, shining mail. He placed his steel gauntlets and his helmet down on a chair and crossed to the desk, taking up the papers Florent had left there ready for him.

“Go and see if M. Bentinck is abroad,” he commanded, and he unfolded the plan of the line of the Yssel and gazed at it.

Florent left the room, to return almost immediately with M. Bentinck, who had slept well all night and was as gay as if he were starting for a hunt in Guelders.

William gave him a charming smile and rolled up the map.

“M. de Zuylestein is below with his regiment of cavalry.” M. Bentinck, who was also in armour, bent and kissed his master’s hand. “I think you will already find the streets full of people——”

“They had best keep their cheers for our return,” answered William briefly.

Florent was observing him closely. He wished that he might have accompanied M. Bentinck to the war; the empty Palace was no alluring prospect.…

The Prince wonderfully softened his discontent by entrusting him with the letters lying on the little desk, and giving him his instructions for M. Gabriel Sylvius, who had not yet arrived.

Then he said “Good-bye,” nodded, and went downstairs.

In the hall he took unconcerned leave of the rest of his household, M. Heenvliet, M. Renswoude, M. Boreel, handing to the last the keys of his desk.

By now the sun was bright and strong, lying in scattered patches of gold on the grass beneath the Palace trees.

The Prince gave his helmet to an officer and put on his hat.

Mr. Bromley came to say his horse was waiting. William was leaving the Palace when he stopped at a sudden recollection and mounted the stairs.

When, a moment later, he returned he wore a red rose fastened into the brooch of his cravat.

“Are you ready, Highness?” asked M. Bentinck.

The Prince stepped out into the sunlight, he coughed, and closed his eyes for a second as if shaken with pain.

The clock of the Groote Kerk struck six.

Florent Van Mander watched the little cavalcade ride away.