"I do not know what he would dare," returned William, in the same low, quiet tone. "I do not know."
Rénèe bit her lip to keep the hot words back; the long habit of her servitude controlled her to silence. She stood dutifully waiting for him to go from her presence, and forget her amid the thousand incidents of his gorgeous life.
But instead he stopped directly before her and spoke again, kindly, but with a certain challenge.
"What makes you appeal to me? What makes you think I could or would do anything for these heretics against whom the infallible voice of the Church has just cried, 'Anathema, three times anathema'?"
His tone spurred her to answer.
"Because you are the greatest Prince in the land—because the people have faith in you."
"But I am only half trusted," he smiled. "You may see as many pasquils pasted on my walls as on those of any man in Brussels."
"That is because Your Highness will not declare yourself. At one time, when you led the faction against the Cardinal, we all hoped"—her voice faltered a little—"but since then you have chosen to be secret, close——"
"There are others," he said—"Brederode, Egmont, Hoorne——"
"Ah," replied Rénèe, lifted beyond her tumultuous fear of him, the sweet dread of his presence, "none of these is the man we seek. In the people is the strength, the ardour, the force; these nobles dance and jest and brawl and spend, but do they believe, do they care—would they die for their God? All in the hands of Philip, all conforming to Church and State, all bowing the neck to the Regent and Peter Titelmann with his Holy Inquisition."