He put aside his violet velvet cloak, his cane, hat, and gloves, and opened the window regardless of the breeze that set the candles guttering.
It was a beautiful evening, clear, not warm for July, the sky cloudless and a fresh wind blowing.
William stood holding back the heavy curtain and looking out at the dark shapes of the houses above which now and then a shower of light from bonfire or rocket rose into the sky.
The excited murmurs from the crowds filling the Plein came distinctly to his ears; he could almost hear them shouting his name.
M. Heenvliet had withdrawn, for the moment he was alone, but there came no change into the perfect calm of his face and bearing.
An observer might have well thought that he felt no emotion, and concluded that to feel no emotion at such a moment was indeed to show himself incapable of being roused by any feeling ever.
The Groote Kerk struck seven.
William left the window and went to the table glittering with glass and silver, the sheen of china, and the sparkle of the candles in the gold and crimson wines.
The parrot gave a low scream and eyed him in friendly fashion.
William looked at it thoughtfully. It had a drooping air, as if it knew that its master was shut up with the garrison in Maestricht, far away from the luxury of this comfortable room with its Persian carpet, rich hangings, valuable pictures and statuary.