He folded and sealed his letter, then rose again.
It was now nearly midnight and the heat increasing; the faint breeze had completely dropped.
“You will go home now?” asked Van Ouvenaller anxiously. “It is so late, and you, Mynheer, have laboured exceedingly to-day.”
“It is not the labour that irks but the payment,” answered John de Witt. “I learn with sorrow the truth of the ancient saying they applied to the Roman Republic—‘Prospera omnes sibi vindicant, adversa uni imputantur.’ Ah, Van Ouvenaller, they say from the very pulpits that I would sooner let the country go to the French than see the Prince of Orange governor of it.”
“The Calvinists are all ardent in his favour,” replied the secretary; “naturally, for he is very zealous for their creed.”
John de Witt took his hat and cloak from a chair.
“I hope my sister hath not sat up for me.”
“She always does,” answered Van Ouvenaller, drawing the string of the dispatch-bag.
“To-night I am so late.”
He waited while the clerk locked up the desk, then extinguished all the candles but one, which he took up and carried into the outer room.