The thought of Egmont's folly spurred William to his feet.
He walked about the room, frowning, thinking; how was he, the only man who did not fear nor trust Philip, to act now?
Supposing Philip forced the Inquisition and, in the fury of his bigotry, exterminated the Netherlanders in seas of blood and flame?
William stopped short in his pacing to and fro.
"You shall not," he said suddenly, as if he spoke to a living man before him.
And indeed it was not difficult for the Prince to conjure from the dusk the figure once so familiar to him: the meagre form, the pallid face, the mild and blank blue eyes, the projecting lower jaw with the full and tremulous under lip, the yellow-red hair and beard—the figure of the man who, with less brains than the meanest of his clerks, and more bitter insane bigotry than any fanatic devotee, imposed the terror of his rule over half the world.
William could picture him as he had last seen him in the streets of Flushing, the pallid face livid, the lips twisted into a snarl that showed the broken teeth, the foolish blue eyes injected with blood, while he stammered, in answer to the Prince's serene and courteous excuse—"Not the States, but you—you!" using the first person as if he had addressed a servant. William had turned on his heel and left him, not even escorting him as far as the shore where he was to embark.
They had not seen each other since; in spite of his constant promises it did not seem as if Philip would ever set foot in the Netherlands again, and William would have as soon walked into fire as have gone to Spain.
Yet the presence of the King was ever with him, an intangible foe, an all-pervading enemy.
The Prince did not know which of his servants, nay, which of his friends, was secretly in the pay or service of Philip.