Jerome leaned against the wall and waited, his feeling a curious one of disinterest and indifference; a man hopelessly in the hands of his enemies, a man who has failed and is at the mercy of those whom he hates and has striven to overthrow, has no chance save to stand silent, contemptuous of himself.
After a few moments a gentleman entered, and Jerome looked up.
The new-comer wore his hat and passed at once to the chair by the bureau, where he sat down, and with no heed of Jerome began opening some letters that lay there.
He wore a black velvet riding-suit, heavily gallooned with gold; a diamond fastened the long feather in his gray beaver. There was a quantity of fine lace on his cravat and at his wrists, the gold handle of his sword was of most beautiful workmanship. He glanced over the letters, then pulling off his gloves looked up at Jerome. His eyes, of that hazel that is almost green, were large and very brilliant, his features aristocratic, clear-cut, composed, and shaded by heavy auburn curls.
Jerome Caryl knew him at once, and flushed deeply in the suddenness and unexpectedness of the encounter.
“Good-afternoon, Mr. Caryl,” said William of Orange with a little nod. “Will you sit down? The stool is ’ard, but you save there a chair more comfortable.”
Jerome Caryl bowed.
“I do not look for ease in Kensington, your Highness,” he answered, and remained standing.
The King took a packet from the bureau drawer, and placed it beside his hand. At sight of it the color came anew into Jerome Caryl’s face. He recognized the familiar leathern case.
“Milor’ Stair,” said William, “send this me—it is yours—you know it—n’est pas?”