Yet, although other affairs might be discussed, those two points were to be reserved for the more conclusive arbitration of gunpowder.  The result of negotiations upon such a basis was easily to be foreseen.  Breath, time, and paper were profusely wasted and nothing gained.  The Prince assured his friend, as he had done secret agents previously sent to him, that he was himself ready to leave the land, if by so doing he could confer upon it the blessing of peace; but that all hopes of reaching a reasonable conclusion from the premises established was futile.  The envoy treated also with the estates, and received from them in return an elaborate report, which was addressed immediately to the King.  The style of this paper was bold and blunt, its substance bitter and indigestible.  It informed Philip what he had heard often enough before, that the Spaniards must go and the exiles come back, the inquisition be abolished and the ancient privileges restored, the Roman Catholic religion renounce its supremacy, and the Reformed religion receive permission to exist unmolested, before he could call himself master of that little hook of sand in the North Sea.  With this paper, which was entrusted to Saint Aldegonde, by him to be delivered to the Grand Commander, who was, after reading it, to forward it to its destination, the negotiator returned to his prison.  Thence he did not emerge again till the course of events released him, upon the 15th of October, 1574.

This report was far from agreeable to the Governor, and it became the object of a fresh correspondence between his confidential agent, Champagny, and the learned and astute Junius de Jonge, representative of the Prince of Orange and Governor of Yeere.  The communication of De Jonge consisted of a brief note and a long discourse.  The note was sharp and stinging, the discourse elaborate and somewhat pedantic.  Unnecessarily historical and unmercifully extended, it was yet bold, bitter, and eloquent:  The presence of foreigners was proved to have been, from the beginning of Philip’s reign, the curse of the country.  Doctor Sonnius, with his batch of bishops, had sowed the seed of the first disorder.  A prince, ruling in the Netherlands, had no right to turn a deaf ear to the petitions of his subjects.  If he did so, the Hollanders would tell him, as the old woman had told the Emperor Adrian, that the potentate who had no time to attend to the interests of his subjects, had not leisure enough to be a sovereign.  While Holland refused to bow its neck to the Inquisition, the King of Spain dreaded the thunder and lightning of the Pope.  The Hollanders would, with pleasure, emancipate Philip from his own thraldom, but it was absurd that he, who was himself a slave to another potentate, should affect unlimited control over a free people.  It was Philip’s councillors, not the Hollanders, who were his real enemies; for it was they who held him in the subjection by which his power was neutralized and his crown degraded.