“He will never give that signal,” de Witt had answered, and he believed it.
Yet strange it was for him, First Minister of a Republic almost his creation, to reflect upon this fact—the people of that Republic clamoured for the heir of the House that had threatened to set its heel on them.
He moved half restlessly in his chair. If William were indeed working secretly to undermine him he might find his labour of twenty years gone for nothing, and live yet to see his country under foreign dominion.
He rose and went to the window. The Hall of the Knights showed its painted and pointed shutters against a faint blue sky; the trees in the courtyard of the Binnenhof were shedding their leaves, caught by the wind and whirled in eddies that rose a little way then sank again to the ground.
The sunlight fell now directly on the face of John de Witt. It revealed how grey he was growing round the temples, how weary and lined were his eyes.
He was still standing by the window when a tall soldier entered.
“Ah, M. de Montbas!” the Grand Pensionary turned. “I desired to see you about these riots in Zeeland and Groningen.”
“You wished me to go there, Mynheer, I think your letter said.”
The speaker was a sallow, sickly looking man, with lank hair and dark, unhappy eyes.