Maria de Witt stepped into the small, sombre chamber.
“You are the Prince,” she said. “I saw you once in a traineau on the ice—you wore a mask, but I know you.”
William of Orange looked up, and stared across the smoky yellow light.
Seeing a lady splendidly dressed, her black hair on her shoulders, a face horrified, and fierce and desperate eyes keenly regarding him, he gave a little exclamation as he rose.
“You are the Prince,” she repeated.
His violet cloak fell apart over his cuirass and his lace cravat; he made no answer as he moved slightly away.
“I wonder what I should say to you,” said Maria de Witt.
She put the thing she held at her breast down on the table between them.
“That is the hand of your enemy—are you proud of what you have done?”