“You speak as if with hate of me,” he said, and there was a half sad confession of failure in the words. “But for Holland—you love Holland?”
William was leaning against the side of his chair, resting his hand on the arm of it.
“Both you and my country, Mynheer,” he replied, “have my duty and my affection; my position makes me powerless to help either.…”
M. de Witt gave him a flashing glance.
“You can serve your country, Highness, by withdrawing from all association with these noisy partisans of yours—by letting it be known that you do not desire to be regarded as the Prince of Orange, heir to an extinct office, but as a citizen of the United Provinces.”
The Prince coughed, and again put his hand to his head. The delicate colour had faded from his face, he was pale to the lips.
“You best qualify yourself for the offices that may one day be yours by quiet study and severe application,” continued M. de Witt. “Not by endeavouring to thrust yourself (upon the selfish suggestions of sordid ambition) into power for which your youth renders you unfit, and into places from which the law debars you.”
William gave one of his rare, slow smiles; it seemed to rob the Grand Pensionary’s speech of half its weight and meaning.
“My docility hath not deserved this, Mynheer,” he said. “Half the people at the Hague would not know me if they saw me, and you accuse me of endeavouring to win the suffrage of the mob——”
“No,” interrupted De Witt. “No.…”