The dying man’s voice swelled with exaltation—
“It is not our sword that shall help us; but it is Thou who savest us from our enemies and puttest them to confusion that hate us.…”
He fell into soft, yet triumphant accents—
“We will make our boast of … God … all day long … and will … praise Thy name … for ever.”
His hand sank.
“William … my child.…”
M. Triglandt closed his eyes … his breath was almost stilled.
Outside the joy-bells rang, and the Stadtholder cast himself across the homely bed in a passionate agony of bitter tears.
“God—be merciful—to me—a sinner—and alone!”