He was dying.
A heat that seemed to have substance, so oppressive it was, filled the two rooms. The window was wide open, but no relief came from the hot and heavy wind that blew in.
Suddenly the Prince rose and came to the table.
He wore no hat, and his long hair was tied back with a black ribbon taken from the ruffles in his sleeve.
His face was absolutely without colour, his lids drooping. He had been twenty-four hours in the saddle and without food; he held himself with an air of unutterable weariness.
His cuirass was stained with blood and rusted with the rain, his cravat undone, his scarf and sash shot and slashed to rags.
His right arm was cut, and he had rent away part of his full sleeve to tie it up with, the tattered laces and ribbons hung down over his hand; his boots and spurs were caked with mud; he held his heavy sword from the floor, and, as he reached the table, unstrapped it, and laid sword and baldric across a chair.
He looked at M. Beverningh, at his uncle Zuylestein. Neither said anything.
Slowly he went over to M. Bentinck.
“How is Bromley?” he asked in a low voice.