Then he drew towards him the books on the table: one a black-letter Bible with silver corners and clasps, the other, Idea or Portrait of a Christian Prince, by Cornelius Triglandt, humbly bound in black.
William languidly opened this, then glanced at the watch beside his elbow.
It was close on four o’clock.
Resting his head in his hand, he lifted his eyes and gazed at the moonlit square of window. He could see, rising opposite against the clear sky, the turrets of the Abbey, their weathervanes turning in the cold sea-wind, and the boughs of the elms decked scantily with their last leaves.
William glanced again at the book. It lay open at the fly-leaf that bore his arms, the lion rampant against the billets, and underneath his motto—
“Je sera Nassau, moi, je maintaindrai.”
The Prince put his hand down on the page and drew a quick but instantly repressed breath.
Over the sleeping city the old clock chimed again, the little ancient melody, the jangling strokes.
William leant back in the chair. The candle cast his shadow, moving and fantastic, on the wall behind him, drew out lines of red gold in his hair and threw a faint glow over his colourless features.