“It is what the foreigners call the Dutch fever,” he said.
This sickness, deadly and common, was well known to all of them; it was in symptom like a tertian ague, caused, strangers declared, by the mists rising in summer from the low, damp lands—alternate burning and shivering, with high fever and fierce pains.
“What can we do?” asked M. de Zuylestein helplessly.
“With nothing we can do nothing,” replied William Bentinck.
It was surprising to reflect that a fortnight could reduce them from the luxury and ease of the Hague to this kitchen, with the Prince lying unconscious at their feet and not so much as a cordial to revive him.
“Where is Matthew Bromley——?” began M. Bentinck, then checked himself, remembering that the Englishman lay dead in the adjoining chamber.
M. de Zuylestein cursed the baggage waggons for having lost their way, and was moving to summon outside assistance. M. Bentinck checked him.
“No one can do any more; if you let the news abroad there will be a panic——”
“And what of the mutiny? Had he checked it?” asked M. Beverningh, who was on his knees beside the Prince.