Their eyes met, but nothing was expressed in William’s steady glance that M. de Witt could read his words by.
“Not uneasiness to the Government, Highness,” answered the Grand Pensionary quietly, “for that is strong enough to quell whatever dissatisfaction your action may have raised, but uneasiness to me, who have your welfare at heart. I had hoped to accomplish as your friend what I may now have to perform as your adversary.”
The Prince looked into the fire. The lace on his breast was rising and falling quickly with his breathing, and his reddish, arched brows were raised slightly. John de Witt marvelled in his heart at this youth’s control; he was a little baffled by it. His desire was to take William’s manner for sincerity; experience, and the counsels of Cornelius, warned him that it might very well be diplomacy. Himself, he was using the one weapon he had used all his life, a noble, simple honesty of purpose and of speech.
“You have heard what has taken place in the Assembly?” he asked.
“Yes, Mynheer.” William drew out his laced handkerchief and pressed it to his lips. “It is concerning the measures lately passed in the Assembly that I wished to speak to you.”
“They could not please you,” said M. de Witt, half mournfully; “but you forced me.”
The Prince coughed.
“It seems you think me dangerous, Mynheer?”
John de Witt answered him directly—