And what could William of Orange hope to achieve if he set himself against any of the desires of Philip? Merely that speedy and mysterious death that awaited the King's disobedient servants.
These thoughts did not occur to Egmont, to Montigny, to Brederode, to the other seigneurs who rejoiced in the departure of Granvelle; they knew themselves free from even a treasonable thought, and considered themselves as safe as the Regent herself from the wrath of Philip.
But William had been educated at the Emperor's Court; he had been for a while intimate with Philip; he knew by heart the intricate policies of the Court, the blind fanaticism, the narrow vanity, the dull obstinacy of the King; and as surely as if he had seen it with his own eyes he knew his name headed a list of the seigneurs the King kept until he could one by one strike them off the paper—on the day when they would be struck off the earth.
Therefore he knew the difficulties, the perils of his position, though did no one else in the Netherlands, and he had reason for looking thoughtful while Brederode jested and the others laughed. As he was passing down the great stairs he met Barlaymont coming up.
This man, Granvelle's most detested follower, and the one who had betrayed to him the secrets of the league of seigneurs formed against him, was now entirely in disgrace. The Duchess received him with rudeness, and those who had formerly fawned on him now rushed to pay court to his ascendant enemies. He was white and haggard with humiliation and vexation, his eyes red with bitter tears.
He looked up, coloured at seeing William, and paused.
The Prince came down slowly, a slender figure in a cross-cut doublet of a peacock colour, a mantle of red and black fur; he carried his cap and switch under his arm, and was fastening his fringed gauntlets with a gold thread.
"Your Highness has soon come to the scene of your triumph," said Barlaymont.
William turned serene eyes on him.
"Ah, Baron, I do not triumph," he said, half sadly.