Florent was already resolved.
“What was he wearing?”
“A violet coat and mantle—a black hat and feather——”
“See to the horse, I will go after him.… He is rash … the streets are not safe to-night.”
While M. Heenvliet was still half urging, half protesting, Florent started at a run across the Plein.
But his progress was soon stopped by the crowd, the coaches, horsemen and soldiers who thronged the square.
Many of the people were dancing by torchlight before their houses, and handing out wine to every passer-by to drink the health of the new Stadtholder.
The crackling of fireworks mingled with the murmurs and the shouts; hawkers were selling copies of pamphlets against John de Witt, and the dying speech of Jacob Van der Graef who was held up as a martyr to the Orange cause.
It was a riot of enthusiastic joy. Every one wore an orange ribbon, and from every house, steeple, booth, and coach waved the Orange flag.
Florent, forced to pause, remembered that he had absolutely no clue to the Prince’s destination, but as he made his way on through the press, as best he could, he reminded himself that William would also find crossing the Plein a difficult matter.