“I find Your Highness well?” he inquired.
William of Orange crossed the room.
“I am very well,” he answered respectfully. He bent his head to his governor and to the Grand Pensionary. “Will you come into the other room to-day, Mynheer?” he added. “I have desired a fire there.”
Florent Van Mander was studying him greedily now, cursing himself, too, for a lost chance. That moment when the Prince entered he could have slipped the package into his very hand if only he had known him at first sight. He drew the letter out of his pocket, watching the Prince the while.
M. de Witt had his back to him.
Certainly His Highness was tall for his age, and with none of the awkwardness of boyhood; he was elegant rather, delicately made, and carried himself with an air of unnatural, almost dangerous, quiet and control.
Despite his plain dress and subdued manner, he was not in the least insignificant, but of a noticeable and princely appearance. To Florent, even at this first glance, a personality masterful and attractive.
The three came down the room towards the secretary, the Prince a little in advance.
Florent could note his face, pale and clear complexioned, with a high-arched nose and curved lips set firmly, wonderful eyes, hazel green, large and brilliant under dark reddish brows, and a low white forehead shaded with heavy auburn curls that fell on to his linen collar,—M. de Witt’s secretary had that swift impression of the Prince and as swift an inspiration. He stooped as if to pick something up.
“Your Highness dropped this,” he said as the Prince reached him. He held out his handkerchief, concealed in it the Frenchman’s letter.