“What right have you to ask that of me?” he demanded.
The words were a challenge, as such M. de Witt answered them.
“Your father sought foreign aid when he attempted the liberties of Holland——”
Like a sword swiftly unsheathed the Prince’s passion slipped his control—
“I will not hear of my father from you, Mynheer,” he cried. “For what he did I have paid … and for your insults——” His words were checked in a fit of coughing that shook his frail frame, he had to support himself against the back of the chair. This evidence of the ill health that decided many doctors in declaring he could not live long instantly softened the noble heart of John de Witt, touched also by the Prince’s quick anger.
“Forgive me,” he said. “I had no right—I ask your pardon, Highness.”
William sank into his chair, pulled out his handkerchief and pressed it to his lips; he still coughed a little.
“Forgive me,” he answered, quiet again, but breathing with difficulty. “I forgot myself.… I have taken so much,” he added, “I might well have taken that. But it is not often, Mynheer, that I fail to recognise your position and … mine.”
The words hurt M. de Witt.
“I would not be your master but your friend,” he said eagerly. “Trust me and I will do more for you than these ill-judged factions.…”