When Junius had left Count John, Juliana of Stolberg sent for him.
He found her in a quiet room of the castle with her three daughters, Anne of Saxony, the Countess of Hoogstraaten, and several of her women.
The chamber was hung with worsted tapestry in sombre and faded hues; against this background the group of women, all in the dull black of mourning, with black caps on their fair hair and white ruffs surrounding their fair faces, made a startling picture. She in the deepest mourning of all was Hoogstraaten's wife; her dress was dull, without a touch even of white, for the Countess Hoogstraaten was the sister of Count Hoorne. She was seated next the Countess van der Berg, and the two were embroidering a child's dress with white and black thread.
The Princess of Orange, pale and haggard in the bitter black robes, played with a little white dog that lay on her knee; Rénèe, also in mourning, sat on a low stool beside her mistress.
Francis Junius was also in a plain black gown a little worn and rusty, and a linen band without lace.
He was not discomposed by the presence of all these great ladies, but saluted them with the civil calm that was his habitual manner.
The Countess of Nassau rose and received him with a sweet courtesy.
"You come from my son," she said, as she set him a chair with her own hands, "from the Prince of Orange? If you are not fatigued, I would hear some news of him."
The slim young minister sat gravely facing the semicircle of ladies; his worn and hollow face bore traces of disease and anxiety, but was animated with ardour and enthusiasm.
"The Prince is very well, gracious Madame, and bore most valiantly the grievous news. He is engaged in raising fresh levies for another attempt on the Netherlands. He sends these letters to your princely self and to Her Highness his wife."