“The Deputies left two days ago for Bodegraven, that they may acquaint His Highness and bring him to the Hague to take the oaths.”
“Something I heard of that.”
M. Fagel was exultant.
“It is not a fortnight since Dordt gave the signal—Rotterdam was the next. We had the whole country in a flame—the peasants took possession of Delft—it was irresistible—irresistible! The States were swept off their feet—the inexorable conditions imposed by France helped—the Perpetual Edict was repealed—even Amsterdam clamoured for the Prince. I tell you, Mynheer, he is King, though without the name.”
“The people have overawed the magistrates,” remarked M. de Witt. “What need for the details?—the Prince is Stadtholder.”
He was still looking out of the window, and the reflection of the green trees gave a ghastly hue to his worn, colourless face.
“What of the war?” he asked.
Gaspard Fagel lifted his shoulders.
“The Bishop of Munster overruns Groningen—but the Elector and the Spanish troops are expected soon. The people are wonderfully heartened, they can think of nothing but the Prince.”
“How did he take this change of fortune?” asked the Grand Pensionary.