As he looked down at the church he thought of that.
Never had he considered religion much; it had been merely part of the ceremony of his life, the custom of every gentleman. Now he began to consider, not religion, but God.
And it seemed to him God was not guiding Philip's councils, nor inspiring the persecutions of the Inquisition.
Might He not rather be favourable towards these poor people who were paying with their lives for their desire to worship Him as they wished?
William's mind was tolerant and liberal, it had never been confined in the elaborate ceremonies of the Romish Church, nor could it ever subscribe wholly to the fanaticism of the extreme Protestants, like Ste Aldegonde; but of late he had sickened against the show and pretension, the cruelty and bigotry, the avarice and falseness shown by the professors of the ancient faith, and had turned naturally to the sterner, simpler creed that was struggling so hard for existence.
The Prince could not believe that God or Truth were wholly on one side or the other, but his sympathy and taste turned, every day more certainly, towards the oppressed, the miserable, the helpless Reformers.
He had not stood long looking over Breda before he was joined by Hoogstraaten, now his guest.
The two young men did not speak; they stood side by side looking over the grey town and the grey church.
The keen wind lifted the little locks on the Prince's temples and showed the faint streaks of white that now mingled with the dark chestnut.
Near by, in the still bare garden, Rénèe le Meung was searching for the first faint sprays of green; with a sad little bouquet of these trembling promises of spring in her hand, she stood silent, with tears in her eyes, looking at the Prince, who did not notice her at all, but continued to gaze at the great church of Breda.