“It seems in Zeeland——”
“You have a letter from Zeeland?”
“From Mynheer Van Teel—one Michael Tichelaer is inciting the people to violence in Middelburg.”
“Michael Tichelaer,” M. de Witt repeated thoughtfully. “Yes, I remember the man—I must write to Mynheer Van Teel.” He paused a moment, then added, “I fear we are too lenient.”
The secretary sorted and neatly arranged the papers. It was not his place to offer comment, but there were many things that he burned to say.
Meanwhile the Grand Pensionary was regarding him with a kindly if remote interest. The young man had been warmly recommended for zeal and industry, and so far he had found both; he saw too, for himself, resolution and capacity in the blunt, firm features, in the alert grey eyes and erect figure.
“You are satisfied with your position, Mynheer Van Mander?” he asked.
“Quite, Mynheer,”—the secretary precisely tied the ribbons of the portfolio,—“is it not an enviable one?”
“You may make it so,” answered John de Witt quietly, yet with a kind of glow in his voice, “—because you are in the way to serve your country, and that is indeed an enviable thing.”
Florent Van Mander was silent. His country was not much in his thoughts; he meant to serve success.