His gaze fastened itself once more on the line of surf, ever falling, ever renewed; his manner dropped into an absorption.
“He had an unhappy childhood,” he said—“I think so.… He was a prisoner … and he had high desires … also he was weakly, ill-health made his days a burden to him … he knew always that he could not live at the utmost to more than middle life.… Well, his life had been maimed for him before he was born … and with the loneliness and the humiliation, and the long hours of pain, he was sometimes near despair … but God supported him … I believed, always——… What was I saying?… He believed in predestination … so I think; … that God had set him apart, made him so different from other men, because He had an especial mission for him … the protection of the Church of the Reformed Religion … he believed in that always … and he hated the French and the Romish Faith … and he loved his country.”
The speaker’s voice fell very low.
“I can say this for him … that while he draws his breath—such as these,” he looked down at the little child, “shall not inherit slavery … the Netherlands shall own no second Alva.…”
The fisherman sat silent.
“That is all I know of the Prince of Orange,” added William. “As yet he hath had no chance … no chance to prove himself.”
“Ye know him very well,” said the old man after a weighty pause. “And I am sure that he is even as you say. A second Alva! King Louis would be a second Philip—but we have still a William of Orange.”
The baby had dropped to the sand again, and the Prince rose, turned, and without further word entered the humble church.
For a moment he stood at the door, looking at the whitewashed interior, the stiff wooden pews, the tablets to the memory of sailors, and the little brass models of ships that hung from the rafters; thank-offerings from those who had escaped dire perils at sea.
In his ears was the perpetual roar of the waves, and in his nostrils the salt breeze of the ocean.