“Good day, Mynheer.”
The salutation might have been for both or neither, so indifferently was it given; when next he spoke it was directly to the older man.
“We have not met for some time, M. de Witt.”
The old republican came a step nearer the Prince.
Loevenstein was in the minds of both, and that struggle of twenty years ago when the family of de Witt had risen to greatness on the fall of the House of Orange.
Their eyes met.
William very slightly smiled. He was dressed more richly than was his former wont; he wore a circular mantle of dull pink velvet turned up over one shoulder showing the red lining, the cloth-of-gold coat beneath was cut away over a black velvet waistcoat, the heavily fringed baldric supporting the gilt-handled sword he now always wore. His dress was an indication of his altered position; to M. Jacob de Witt his whole bearing was an offence.
“I am leaving the Hague to-morrow,” said the Prince, with a courteous but unmistakable malice. “Shall I not have your good wishes first?”
The old man drew himself erect and firmly clasped his stick.