“You must not die,” replied the Prince. “I have so much to say.… How many years since we saw each other and you taught me of the ancient saints,”—he caught his breath eagerly, “and how they endured—and the true happiness they had?”
“Not so long,” said the tutor. “But now Your Highness has moustaches and a sword—and is a great man.” He smiled faintly. “Yet you are still like your mother.… I did not hope to see you again—to-night of all nights. I have heard the people shouting for the true House restored.”
The Prince answered passionately—
“What is their rejoicing to me? This is rather a time for prayer … the country is almost lost.… Oh, God who hears me, almost lost!”
He pushed back the hair from his forehead and looked up into the white face of the pastor. His coldness had left him completely; he was all fire and eagerness, passion and agony.
Florent, motionless in the outer shadows, stared at him in an enthralled amazement.
“Mynheer, you used to tell me that my ancestors had been heroes—that God had appointed them to guard His faith.… I want to do as they did.… I want to save the country and the Reformed religion.… The odds are fearful … no one understands, not even Bentinck.”
The suppressed emotion of years strove to express itself; but long silence had put it well-nigh beyond expression. William, speaking to the man to whom he had given his rare love, had to force the very soul of him into words.
“You know, you told me—it seemed possible I might do this thing. No one understands, if they did they would laugh; but you know. M. de Witt never trusted me, he thought I meant to play the traitor with France; it was the last insult—they all believed. You saw how utterly unhappy I was. I would have died, gladly. But now, three Provinces gone! You have heard the terms?—but never!—Not slavery again, no Romish rule for us!”
M. Triglandt looked at him with sparkling eyes.