“I think he is this country’s sole hope,” said M. de Zuylestein. “There is no one to take his place.”
The hot night was wearing away; the first pallid glow of dawn stole through the window and fell on the calm, unconscious face of the young Captain General.
Once or twice he moved heavily as if he were asleep. M. Bentinck knelt beside him on the glazed tiles; felt his wrist helplessly, and pushed back the tangled, damp auburn locks from his brow.
Their last candle burnt to the daylight, then spluttered out in the brass stick.
William suddenly opened his eyes and half sat up.
He was shivering, and the hand M. Bentinck held was fever hot.
“Bentinck,” he said, “we must get into Utrecht to-day.…”
And on these words he fainted again.
M. Beverningh looked at M. de Zuylestein.