I Will Maintain

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!’”