The handle of the dagger, silver and ivory, stuck out horribly from the breast of Florent Van Mander, who gasped thickly and beat his heels on the tiles.
“Ah, poor fool,” muttered William, supporting him, “he was saving me. After the Frenchman, Bentinck!”
Florent clutched at the dagger-hilt with convulsive fingers.
“Take care—M. de Witt—Tichelaer——” He struggled; but the Prince, for all his frail look, supported him easily enough.
“I am sorry for this,” he said. “I am sorry.”
Florent Van Mander, selfish place-seeker, careless of his country, and in the pay of France once, has died for a sentiment of honour in the Stadtholder’s arms, even as last night he had seen Cornelius Triglandt die.…
Can William of Orange so inspire one man?—then he may so inspire a whole nation with the last desperate courage. If Florent Van Mander will die for him there will be others also reckless of their lives if they may serve Nassau by laying them down.…
It is calling to horse now, riding to and fro, excitement rising up, reined in.… The last defiance has been flung to France!… The States must refuse these terms.…
The Stadtholder thrusts the dispatches and the letter from M. de Witt, unopened, into the pocket of his mantle, mounts his grey horse and spurs off for the Hague.
The last rays of the sun that peep over the tiger-lilies and sweet-peas at the dead face of Florent Van Mander shine also in the harness of the Stadtholder and his suite, as they ride along the smooth road, between the canals, the locks where the water-lilies rest, the deep, thick-grown meadows where the cattle graze, the little homes with the coloured shutters, the thatched windmills, the poplars and alders, the low fields where the storks sit, through the silent twilight towards the Hague.