Prince John Maurice’s cabinet was a beautiful room filled with treasures from the East Indies, fine pictures, Persian rugs, and inlaid furniture; the high window looked straight on to the end of the Vyver, and the walk by the side of it where the people gathered to catch a glimpse of the Prince.
It was late in the day, and the sun had left the cabinet, filled now by a cold, dusky light.
The Prince took off his hat as John de Witt uncovered.
They had not met since William’s departure for the war, a matter of weeks in time but a period full of great changes. Three months had served to cast down John de Witt, to make of him a reviled and hated man, and to exalt William of Orange into a hero.
There was little of the boy left about the young Stadtholder; his gravity was no longer the disguise of youthful passions but the seriousness of manhood.
He had put off his scholar’s air of retirement and wore a composed manner of authority and alertness.
“You have changed,” said John de Witt, looking at him steadily.
“Mynheer, I have been remodelled by my duties,” answered the Stadtholder, “and altered by the necessity of the times.”
He stood against the light arch of the window; his profile was towards John de Witt, who still gazed at the keen, thin face tanned by out-door life, the brilliant eyes cast down, and the heavy, waving hair falling on to the lace collar.
“We did not part lovingly, Highness, but it was with more ease we spoke then than now, I think.”