They talked a little longer about his work among the persecuted Netherlanders, and then he left them to prepare himself for the service he was to take that evening in the chapel.
When he had left a silence fell over the little group of black-clad women; only Anne, who was like a firebrand of discord in that peaceful household, was restless.
She threw the dog off her knee at last and limped fretfully about the room; with feverish fingers she tore open the Prince's letter, then cast it down.
The Countess noticed this and flushed.
"What have you read that displeases you?" she asked.
"What can I read that will please me?" flashed Anne. "What good news can come from a man ruined by his own folly?"
"You speak of my son," returned the Countess, trembling.
"I speak of the man who has reduced me to beggary," cried the Princess passionately. "And I will use my tongue as I list; it is you who do not use the respect you should—all of you—little nobles that you are, to the Elector Maurice's daughter."
The Countess rose.
"Had you been my daughter, you had been better bred," she said, "and learnt many a lesson at the rod's end. You may be finely born, but you are foully trained, or else you are mad, God pity you! If you were not my son's wife, I should have other things to say to you; since you are, I beg you to stay apart from me, for my soul is too troubled to support cursed humours."