"Did you ever hear the story of John de Witt, the late Grand Pensionary?" asked Shrewsbury, pulling his cloak about him. "M. Bentinck told me, and kept me out of bed with the tale——"
"Why should you think of that now?" asked Mordaunt curiously.
"You see that light there—the first to be lit in the Binnenhof?—that was his room, and M. Bentinck said that always when one passed late one would see that candle shine and know that M. de Witt was still waking."
"He got a poor reward," said Mr. Fletcher. "He was torn to bits on the Plaats, was he not?"
"Anyone whose memory goeth back sixteen years will give you an account of it," answered my Lord Mordaunt dryly. "I wish I had been beside M. de Witt that day with a sword in my hand!"
The Earl sighed.
"How cold it bloweth! A severe winter is presaged, do you not think, my lord?" he said. Then abruptly: "Why should good men meet such ends?"
Lord Mordaunt laughed.
"You ask me to explain ingratitude? By Heaven, I have not the wit for the task."
"Ingratitude!" frowned Shrewsbury; "but these people love the Prince because he hath done them great services——"