M. Van Ouvenaller entered again, announcing the Prince, who followed him.
The secretary withdrew, closing the door, and William of Orange stood facing the brothers. He was in riding costume, and wore over it a dark velvet mantle. His whip was in his boot, he carried his gloves and his hat in his right hand, purposely to cover the fact that he did not offer it to M. de Witt.
There was a colour in his face, and his bright hair was tumbled over his falling lace collar. He had ridden a long way in a keen wind.
“I am glad that Your Highness hath seen fit to return to the Hague,” said M. de Witt. He also did not offer his hand.
“I was ill at Honsholredyck, Mynheer,” answered William. “Good day, Mynheer the Ruard.” And he fixed his eyes with a daring expression of haughty dislike on Cornelius de Witt. He knew perfectly well that in the Grand Pensionary’s brother there was a staunch and fearless republican, an enemy of his House, with distrust of him far keener than John de Witt’s; but more than this, William disliked the Ruard because he felt in him some one who read him better than any other man. Had Cornelius been in his brother’s place, William would never have escaped to Middelburg.
The Ruard returned the Prince’s salute very coldly.
“I hope Your Highness hath recovered your health sufficiently to enable you to resume your duties.”
“What are my duties?” asked William, looking at him under drooping lids. “I thought it was my misfortune to have none, Mynheer.”
“Your duties are your studies,” replied Cornelius sternly, “and obedience to M. de Witt.”
The Prince slightly smiled; his glance flickered from one man to the other. John de Witt not at all, and Cornelius only partially, guessed at the implacable resentment hidden behind his impassive exterior, and neither knew that the Ruard’s remark was one more added to those things the Prince would never forgive.