“Against what, Highness?”
“Assassination,” said the Prince laconically; then, before Mr. Bromley could exclaim, he asked abruptly, “You have not heard from Arnheim—from M. Triglandt?”
“No, Highness.”
“I should have liked to have seen him before I left the Hague,” remarked the Prince, with such an effect of calmness that Mr. Bromley could not tell if any feeling was behind the words or no.
They had almost reached the Palace, and were riding briskly under the lime trees that bordered the canal, when a band of young men, advancing from a side street, crossed their path and brought them to a sudden halt. A crowd accompanied the band, the foremost of whom was carrying an orange flag, a white one displayed below it; this bore the inscription: “Orange op, Witte onder.”
William was annoyed. He never loved the mob in any form or mood; he was utterly indifferent to popularity, which he rated too keenly at its true value.
He felt no gratitude to these people for their enthusiasm. They had suffered John de Witt for twenty years; despite their flag-waving and their shouting they suffered him still; therefore he sat silent, reining in his horse on the causeway of the canal and waiting for the crowd to pass.
But the beauty of the animal and the richness of the rider’s dress did not escape the attention of the Orangists.
They looked at him.