“Oh, la! I don’t know; it is vastly amusing being a general, Sir Gabriel.”
They traversed a large antechamber filled with bowing pages and several officers of the King’s Guard, who swept off their hats to the commander of the English forces.
“We are private and informal here,” said Monmouth, who was used to splendour ever since he could remember, and he opened the door into what had once been M. Van Odyk’s private dining-room.
Sir Gabriel spoke to Florent in their own language over his shoulder.
“Now you will see a notable company.”
This with a half-smile, as if the greatness there was such a stir about in Europe was not so dazzling on a near view.
It was a fine room; the ceiling beamed and painted, the walls panelled half-way up and above that hung with arras, save over the mantelshelf where the woodwork rose to the ceiling and formed a background for some dark family portraits.
There were velvet cushions in the deep window-seats and on the various carved chairs, and on a handsome buffet a rich collection of glass and gold and silver plate.
The usual quietly splendid and plainly costly chamber of a Dutch nobleman.
Seated at the head of the long table were two men, looking at a map: one young, scarcely at his prime, short, stoutly made, with a broad, vigorous face, and crimped brown hair falling on to his collar, dressed in black silk ruffled with red ribbons; the other a man of about thirty-five, also below the medium height, but slender, with a brown, handsome countenance, long effective eyes, an imperious mouth, and a hard expression of pride and obstinacy.