“How hot it is, Van Ouvenaller,” he remarked.
The clerk folded up the memoranda.
“Have we finished now, Mynheer?” he asked wearily.
“No, I have another letter to write.”
M. Van Ouvenaller pulled out a fresh sheet of paper.
“A moment,” said the Grand Pensionary. “I must collect myself.”
He rose and went to the window.
The summer night had soothed or silenced the sorrows and passions that had raged all day; gone were the threatening men, the weeping women, the clatter of the burgher companies, the passing to and fro of the town guard, the people who had pressed to the Binnenhof for news, the crowds who had swept through the distracted streets clamouring for the Prince of Orange. Binnenhof and Buitenhof were both dark save for this one light in John de Witt’s window.
The stars shone through a fine vapour; the glow of the lamps round the Vyverberg was half obscured by the thick leaves of the wych elms and the limes, which sent up a luscious fragrance to the open window.