John de Witt raised his hand to his breast.
“This—the French have crossed the Rhine——”
Gaspard Fagel stepped back.
“Crossed the Rhine?”
“—on the 9th—they are marching on the Yssel … one hundred thousand strong.”
“God!” cried Gaspard Fagel. He sank into the chair beside him, his dressing-gown flowing open over his shirt. “Oh! … my God!”
There was no change in John de Witt’s pale, proud face.
“Their leader is Condé … our outposts were undefended … the French hardly lost a man … every fort guarding the Rhine has fallen.”
M. Fagel put his hand to his brow, it seemed as if he would tear his hair.
“We are defended by cowards, it seems!” he exclaimed. “Has every garrison surrendered?”