“If I could help you …” she said in a low voice.
“There is no help for us save in God,” answered the Grand Pensionary gravely, “and surely He will not forsake us.”
Agneta bowed her head low over her sewing. The white pigeons brushed her long grey skirts with their wings, and the sunshine flickering through the lime leaves caught the pale yellow locks on her smooth brow.
“You are always sad when you have seen the Prince, father. I think he is an ungodly young man.”
John de Witt smiled mournfully.
“You must not dwell on politics, Agneta.”
“I cannot help it.” She kept her lids down that her father should not see her eyes were filled with tears. “I … I hear such horrible things, I see you so occupied, so weary.…”
He answered her with a grave tenderness—
“We are in troublous and bitter times, dearest. Danger to the State, to each and all of us, is very near; dismay unmans many … but I hope to save the Republic, Agneta; you must pray that God will give me strength.”
“I am praying for you, sir, in my heart always,” the tears trembled on her cheeks.