He made no comment; he had said very little since he left the Prince’s camp. Sir Gabriel had an open manner that disguised complete reserve.
Florent fed his silence with rumours; of the wounding of M. de Witt, of the frantic state of feeling in Holland, of M. de Groot’s desperate mission, of the arrival of the English envoys at the Hague; of the rapacity of M. de Louvois and the high-handed arrogance of his master: which things he considered and reflected upon day and night.
The castle was filled with French officers, splendid men of graceful manners. Van Mander found them as dazzling as the reports of their exploits; looking at them he felt that his country was non-existent, already a province of France, and he thought of William of Orange, and wondered why Sir Gabriel sought an audience with the conqueror.
Yet he believed that he knew.
The room they waited in was very handsomely hung with Flemish tapestry representing the story of the Unicorn, and furnished with inlaid Spanish pieces, for M. Van Odyk had wealth and good taste; the door into the next chamber was curtained with dark velvet, looped back, and from behind it came the sound of a man singing in a voice of a pleasant, medium quality.
He sang in English to the accompaniment of a lute.
Sir Gabriel walked up and down the room, glancing out of the deep windows he passed at the French soldiers in their gay uniforms filling the grey courtyard below.
He held his hat behind his back, and his shrewd, freckled face was set in lines of reflection.
Van Mander stared at the contorted figures on the arras, and listened to the clatter of horses and arms from without.
Above it all rose the near sound of the English song—