The young Captain General sat silent on his grey horse and looked at the distant line of the French.
He was so well used to argument and opposition that he withheld his opinion till asked.
He had a great contempt for words, and the eloquence of the Deputies seemed to him mere mouthing. He was thinking of Utrecht, and wondering what there was to be got out of his men.
He had only been head of the army a few weeks, but he had made a new thing of the forces under his command. Throughout a campaign that had been a series of disasters and retreats his men had never lost heart. He had a way of maintaining discipline, and a personal popularity that the veterans did not possess; a gift of command that was worth everything to an army pitted against tremendous odds.
He turned his eyes on his men as they defiled across the meadows, to where the vanguard halted by a belt of trees and an old farm and windmill, and thoughtfully stroked his horse’s neck.
William Bentinck rode up to him.
“Sir,” he cried impatiently, “if these lawyers have their way we shall be cut to pieces as we stand——”
“They are for a retreat?” said the Prince.
“Yes——”