Middelburg Abbey had been the palace of the Prince’s ancestors, and still retained some of the splendour of those days.
At the farther end of this room was the door leading into the Prince’s bedroom. Mr. Bromley hesitated; he was inclined to think the letters might have waited. William slept badly at best, and to-night must need all that he could get of rest. There was no intermediary whom Mr. Bromley might consult since the Prince had left both valet and page at the Hague, having, indeed, no excuse for taking servants on a hunting expedition.
He knocked gently and received no answer.
Lange Jan shook his chimes into the night again. There was a pause as his melody died away, then Mr. Bromley opened the door.
The candle revealed a handsome, square room with a painted, beamed ceiling, walls hung with stamped leather, and two windows, unshuttered and set open. The moonlight streamed through and lay along the polished floor.
The bed, with its plain but richly worked hangings, stood fronting the window.
On a table at the foot were a silver candlestick, a couple of small books, and a watch lying on a lace handkerchief.
Across the high-backed, wooden chair beside the bed were spread the Prince’s green velvet riding-coat, his black sash, his gloves and Mechlin cravat, and hanging on the wall above his beaver with the long ostrich plume.
Another chair, set in a corner, and covered with a high Gothic canopy, held across its carved arms the Prince’s sword-belt and the piled up addresses presented to him yesterday.
Mr. Bromley paused. He could hear the regular, rather laboured, breathing of the sleeper, and no other sound.