“I beseech you,” breathed John de Witt, giving him a quick look; then he turned to Van Ouvenaller, “Admit this Captain Van Haren.”
Florent felt his pulses throbbing, his blood stirring. He advanced a little farther into the room, glancing furtively from the agitated countenance of the Count de Montbas to the composed features of John de Witt.
Captain Van Haren entered, a stout and stolid soldier, muddy and wet.
“You are unknown to me, Mynheer,” said the Grand Pensionary quietly.
“I am the commander of the garrison at Vlaardingen on the Maas, Mynheer. His Highness the Prince of Orange rested there this morning—he dispatched me with this letter.”
“The Prince at Vlaardingen!” cried M. de Montbas, and rapidly flushed and rapidly paled again.
For the second time the Grand Pensionary checked him with a look, holding out his hand for the letter. Without lowering his eyes to it he spoke—
“What took the Prince to Vlaardingen?”
“He was on his way to Bergen-op-Zoom they said, Mynheer.”