“Very well.… M. de Witt hath himself to look after—his credit will not be improved by your action, Monsieur.”
This hint that the Grand Pensionary had not the power to protect him completely unnerved M. de Montbas. He had feared the Prince as much as he had always disliked him, and the sense of William’s hatred had of late weighed heavily with him.
It had not occurred to him that William, as the Captain General, would dare go as far as this, or he would never have returned to the Dutch headquarters. Like the culmination of all that he had ever dreaded was this sudden disgrace. He found himself in the power of an implacable enemy, and the loss of his honour, his property, and his life seemed already accomplished, for his hope in M. de Witt suddenly fell away.
He stood quite still, with a tortured expression and his hand clutched on his breast.
William gave him an utterly contemptuous glance and was about to lift the tent flap.
M. de Montbas flung out his hand—
“I entreat—Your Highness—this is ruin—disgrace—death!”
His voice was hoarse, and the blood had flushed up into his eyes.
In the ill light of the lamp and its confusing shadows the Prince’s face was not clearly to be seen.
But M. de Montbas had little hope that he was moved.