It was in the early spring that Count Louis came to Dillenburg. He stopped one moment to receive his mother's warm salute, then went straight to the Prince.
William was in a room which was fitted up as a library, a small and modest chamber near the chapel.
The books on the simple shelves were mostly theological works collected by William's father, treatises and pamphlets in Latin and French, written when the first heat of fierce controversy had raged over the schism in the Church.
Before the pointed Gothic window was a desk of heavy black wood, piled with papers and furnished with a large brass ink-pot and sand-dish and a tall silver hourglass.
In the centre was a large and worn Bible.
There was no furniture in the room beyond a few chairs covered with faded tapestry and the shelves of books; the April sun, fine and clear, filled every corner of the room and showed the dust on the books, on the floor, and in crevices of the shelves.
William rose instantly from his desk and embraced his brother, then led him to the deep window-seat, which was filled with red cushions from which the sun had taken the brightness.
Neither of these young men, once so splendid, were any longer magnificent. William wore a suit of dark blue camlet with a ruff of plain needlework, and no jewels beyond a yellow topaz signet ring; Louis was habited in a brown riding suit and boots dusty to the knees: he had lately lost something of his bloom and freshness, and his brilliant eyes were tired and shadowed; but his firm-featured, beardless face, framed in the graceful blonde curls, retained the old ardent charm.
Round his neck hung a silver "beggar" medal and a tiny silver cup.
"Any news?" asked William, gazing at him affectionately and still retaining his hand.