Standing behind him, leaning against a side table covered with a small cloth of Persia, was Lamoral Egmont, the famous soldier, the popular grandee, Knight of the Golden Fleece, Stadtholder of Brabant and Artois.
Half his exceptional popularity he owed to his unusual good looks, his beautiful head with the brown curls carried so splendidly, his soldier's figure tall and strong, his noble port, the brilliancy of his attire. His silk and brocades, jewels and gold, showed the more gorgeous now in contrast with Hoorne.
Leaning against the wall near him was the Prince of Orange; he had a quiet air, and his head was bent forward on his ruff. He was not so magnificent as Egmont, though his appointments were very splendid.
And always Margaret's eyes were flashing up covertly from her sewing and measuring the sombre proud speaker, the gorgeous grandee behind him, and that third figure with the bent head.
Hoorne finished at length, bowed to the Regent, and looked at his colleagues.
"You bring very vague accusations, princely count," said Margaret. Her voice was heavy and she spoke haltingly, for she was at ease with no language save Italian. "It would seem that there is nothing against the Cardinal but private spites and malices."
"There is against him," replied Lamoral Egmont, "that he usurps our place in the Council, as we have endeavoured to show Your Royal Grace."
The embroidery trembled in Margaret's fingers. "You blame him for much that he has not done," she said "as, the bishoprics."
"Do you tell us," cried Hoorne impetuously, "that the Cardinal did not urge these bishoprics at Rome?"
"Nay," replied the Duchess. "They were intended in the Emperor's time—before I, or the Cardinal, came to the Netherlands."