The mysterious, damp, and misty days of autumn had set in. Thin sea vapours blew from morning till night across the Hague; the sunshine was faint as if it came from a great distance.
No fire burnt in the library, but the secretary had quietly set the window open, heedless of the chilly air.
For M. de Witt was walking in the garden talking to his brother, M. Cornelius de Witt, Ruard of Putten, who had come up to-day from Dordt, and Florent was listening to their conversation as it came clearly through the tranquil stillness.
“If you do not send more troops, brother,” the Ruard was saying, “I think Zeeland will get beyond all management. Count Tilly would be the man to quiet them.”
“I cannot spare Tilly from the Hague,” answered the softer voice of the Grand Pensionary. “And I have written to the burgomaster of Middelburg.”
“You hold the reins too gently,” returned Cornelius de Witt. “I think the Prince is in touch with these agitators in Zeeland——”
“It is hardly possible … he is kept too close.…”
“You should keep him closer. Are you sure of those about him?”
“They are of mine own choice—even to his gentlemen.”
“Well,” said the Ruard grimly, “he may have corrupted them.”