When they reached William’s apartment the Prince gave Florent some of the notes he had been writing and bade him copy them.
He himself walked up and down; stopping now and then to look out of the window on to the night, where the darkness lifted slowly.
Florent hardly raised his eyes from the desk; the scratching of his quill and the Prince’s light step were the only sounds.
At last William threw himself into the deep chair by the hearth, and sat there so still that Florent thought him asleep. But looking up from his finished task he saw that the Prince’s eyes were open and shining with a bright lustre. As Florent gazed at him he moved, and glanced at the black clock between the candles on the mantelpiece.
It was well past five, and the steadily increasing glow of dawn in the chamber made the candle-flames show yellow and feeble.
The Prince rose and came over to Florent’s seat.
“Have you completed that?”
“Yes, Highness.”
“Will you put up these papers?” he pointed to them. “That letter to the King of England is for M. Gabriel Sylvius—who will come for it presently.… Will you remain here till I return?”
Without waiting for an answer he went into his bedchamber and closed the door.