Behind the words was more than any words or any action could express,—deep loyalty to the ancient House, blind enthusiasm for the ancient glories, unquestioning belief in the descendant of the man who had given the Netherlands their freedom.
William saluted them, recommended the Lord of Beverwaert to their notice as his deputy, and left the chamber.
When his suite had reached the Markt, and William was remounted, his gentlemen crowded about him with congratulations.
The men and women who had come from all parts of the Island to see him, dressed in their neat native costume, black with the gold and coral ornaments; the burgher companies on horseback, the pikemen on foot, the shopkeepers in their best, pressed round the cavalcade, almost impeding its progress in their eagerness to catch sight of William of Orange.
William glanced back at the stately Stadhuis, with its statues of the Counts of Holland and their ladies, under the delicate carved canopies, standing between each window; at the pointed roof pierced with little gabled windows behind blue shutters, painted with white in the shape of a curtain drawn to a waist; at the Gothic tower with its leaden dome and clock,—it seemed as if he would fix the place on his mind.
A pale beam of sun broke through the clouds and rested on the building.
“It is done,” said the Lord of Beverwaert in easy elation.
William of Orange gathered up his reins and turned his horse in the direction of the Abbey of St. Nicolas.
“Mynheer, it is begun,” he answered.