“They will lead to the heart of Philip, our king and yours.”

“Yes, if he only had what we in Holland call a heart,” replied the other, smiling bitterly; but Wibisma threw his head back vehemently, exclaiming reproachfully: 

“Sir Burgomaster, you are speaking of the anointed Prince to whom I have sworn fealty.”

“Baron Matanesse,” replied Van der Werff, in a tone of deep earnestness, as he drew himself up to his full height, folded his arms, and looked the nobleman sharply in the eye, “I speak rather of the tyrant, whose bloody council declared all who bore the Netherland name, and you among us, criminals worthy of death; who, through his destroying devil, Alva, burned, beheaded, and hung thousands of honest men, robbed and exiled from the country thousands of others, I speak of the profligate—­”

“Enough!” cried the knight, clenching the hilt of his sword.  “Who gives you the right—­”

“Who gives me the right to speak so bitterly, you would ask?” interrupted Peter Van der Werff, meeting the nobleman’s eyes with a gloomy glance.  “Who gives me this right?  I need not conceal it.  It was bestowed by the silent lips of my valiant father, beheaded for the sake of his faith, by the arbitrary decree, that without form of law, banished my brother and myself from the country—­by the Spaniards’ broken vows, the torn charters of this land, the suffering of the poor, ill-treated, worthy people that will perish if we do not save them.”

“You will not save them,” replied Wibisma in a calmer tone.  “You will push those tottering on the verge of the abyss completely over the precipice, and go to destruction with them.”

“We are pilots.  Perhaps we shall bring deliverance, perhaps we shall go to ruin with those for whom we are ready to die.”

“You say that, and yet a young, blooming wife binds you to life.”

“Baron, you have crossed this threshold as complainant to the burgomaster, not as guest or friend.”

“Quite true, but I came with kind intentions, as monitor to the guiding head of this beautiful, hapless city.  You have escaped the storm once, but new and far heavier ones are gathering above your heads.”

“We do not fear them.”

“Not even now?”

“Now, with good reason, far less than ever.”

“Then you don’t know the Prince’s brother—­”

“Louis of Nassau was close upon the Spaniards on the 14th, and our cause is doing well—­”

“It certainly did not fare ill at first.”

“The messenger, who yesterday evening—­”

“Ours came this morning.”

“This morning, you say?  And what more—­”

“The Prince’s army was defeated and utterly destroyed on Mook Heath.  Louis of Nassau himself was slain.”

Van der Werff pressed his fingers firmly on the wood of the writing-table.  The fresh color of his cheeks and lips had yielded to a livid pallor, and his mouth quivered painfully as he asked in a low, hollow tone, “Louis dead, really dead?”