The maiden looked at them with a faint surprise.
“I do not think that he expects any one to visit him, Mynheer.”
“No?” the Prince’s voice was gentler than Florent had thought it could be, “but he will be glad to see me.”
The girl hesitated with her hand on the newel post.
“Who shall I say is here—to M. Triglandt?” she asked.
The Prince stood in a slightly awkward fashion, holding his hat across his chest; he fixed the speaker with his luminous eyes in a bewildered manner.
The girl glanced over him; took in his velvet mantle, his fringed gloves, his square-toed shoes with the stiff satin bows.
“M. Triglandt is a friend of the Stadtholder,” she said half defiantly; “and you look to me like one of M. de Witt’s men.”
“Is he alone?” asked William abruptly.
“Yes. The doctor has been and gone; he says he cannot live the night. I have been sitting with him.”