“If they should give this command to the Prince, if they should put into that boy’s hands all our defences … and he should.…”
“Play us false,” finished Jacob de Witt sombrely. “Well, what then?”
“What then?… Ruin!… This land, that we have made one of the greatest in the world, would be a fief of France before the year is out.”
He bent his head for a moment, then rose abruptly.
“Father, I envy Cornelius, who can work with his hands, and pay with his blood; I would I might face the enemy on the high sea, nor stay here to face the factions with weary logic.”
“Your task, being the more difficult, is the more glorious, John.”
The Grand Pensionary pressed his hand to his brow and gazed at the glimpses of fading sky to be seen between the fluttering leaves.
“It is nearly twenty years since I took up this responsibility. … They cannot say that I have served them ill, as far as my abilities went——” He roused and controlled himself. “It is not often that I talk so weakly—let us go into the house, it grows cool here, under the trees.”
Jacob de Witt rose and took his son’s arm.
They were both of a height, tall, upright; dressed alike in black with lace collars, the same in demeanour and expression, the grey locks touching the brown as they walked slowly through the twilight that was gradually falling over the garden.