Florent coloured hotly. Those standing near fell back as the Prince spoke.
“I have come to join Your Highness’ service,” said Van Mander awkwardly.
The Prince’s compelling eyes fixed themselves on him with a look of power, of daring and mastery, of half-smiling self-confidence that made the blood of the man who caught it leap as if in answer to some rousing summons.
“You may stay if you will,” was all William said as he passed into the Abbey.
Florent Van Mander flushed with pleasure. His poor offer was at least not refused; yet he asked himself why he was so elated at changing from the employ of M. de Witt to the service of a pretender embarked on a difficult enterprise? He did not know—but he did know that he would rather be a foot-boy in the Prince’s train than confidential clerk to M. de Witt, and that that one glance from William was more to him than all the Grand Pensionary’s gentle goodness.
The courtyard filled with people on horseback and on foot. Most of them wore orange ribbons in their coats, and most took off their hats when the Prince came out of the Abbey attended by the burgher councillors in their robes and chains of office.
William preceded them, covered, as Florent was quick to remark, and with the same ceremony as if he already held his father’s offices. He mounted the black horse, waiting for him, and from the saddle looked round the crowded courtyard.
He was already one of the finest riders in the Netherlands, graceful and fearless, and able to manage the fiercest horse after a fashion strange in one of his frail appearance. This was no valueless asset in the eyes of men such as M. de Zuylestein, who regretted the delicate health and reserved demeanour of one who must rely on popularity for his advancement.
His fine horsemanship was the one showy thing about the Prince, and on the rare occasions when he had displayed himself to the people it had not failed of its effect.