“It is the French,” repeated the servant, who seemed utterly confounded.
“Put that candle down or you will set the house on fire with your trembling,” said M. Fagel, struggling into his clothes. “And don’t talk so much of the French—the Prince of Orange is between us and them.”
“M. de Witt must have heard from His Highness, Mynheer.”
“Hold your tongue——”
M. Fagel snatched up the candle.
“And get back to your bed,” he said angrily, “and see to it you rouse no one else.”
With that he left the room, and, half dressed, clad in a blue, flowered dressing-gown, descended to the parlour where M. de Witt awaited him.
A candle, hastily lit, stood on the table; it but feebly illumined the small, handsomely appointed room.
Standing by the mantelshelf, wrapped in a black velvet mantle, was the Grand Pensionary.
He held his hat and his gloves in his hand. He was pallid, his lips tightly drawn, his eyes narrowed with an intent expression.