"His Highness is right," said Egmont. "The placards and edicts must be issued."
"I see us all ruined," muttered Hoorne, tugging at his black beard, "but we must obey."
All agreed; no one supported Vigilius, who sat shaking in his chair, counselling "a little delay—a little delay."
"You have resigned, learned President," William answered him. "Before this storm breaks, you may be safely in shelter."
"Methinks this will be a storm from which there will be no shelter," murmured the old man.
"Speak encouraging words, or hold your peace, good sir," cried Margaret distractedly; and turning to Armenteros she gave the orders for the enforcement of the edicts and placards.
No one noticed the increasing darkness, which now almost prevented them seeing each other's faces; no one heard the sound and wrath of the storm without, the whirling of the waters, the combat of the winds. All were listening to the scratching of the Spaniard's quill while he took down the instructions which were practically the death-warrants of a whole nation; all watched him as he leant sideways to catch the light—him, and the white blur of the paper over which his quill was moving.
At length it was done; the Regent bent from her chair, took the pen, and blindly signed.
William of Orange drew a great breath.
"Now we shall see the beginning of the most terrible tragedy the world has known!" he whispered to Hoorne, and his tone was almost one of exultation, the tone of a man who sees his enemy face to face, out in the open, at last.