No attendants following, the Stadtholder crossed the courtyard and gained the mansion without being observed by any.
Dinner was already served in the gorgeous dining-room, where the old Prince’s parrot from Brazil (who could distinguish a black man from a white, could swear nicely in Spanish, and knew his master for a great man) swung in his glittering ebony ring.
M. Heenvliet was in attendance, and a few of Prince Maurice’s servants.
“Has Mynheer Bentinck arrived?” asked the Prince.
“Not yet, Your Highness.”
Bentinck had been sent to the Princess Amalia with the news of her grandson’s triumph.
“Nor the messenger from Sir Gabriel Sylvius?”
“No, Highness—but there have been many to wait upon you——”
“I will see no one save those two.”
On the dark bureau a heap of congratulatory letters had already accumulated. The Prince picked some up, glanced at the writings, and laid them down unopened; a few were from his friends, many from his enemies, some from people he did not know at all.