True, the letter was dated the 20th of February, and had been delayed in the coming, and M. Heinsius knew that there might be other news in the packets that were held up in the North Sea by the spring storms; but he believed that the King would not so have written had he been in any danger. Then an extraordinary thing happened to M. Heinsius. He was leaning back in his chair, weary and exhausted, his head aching with a little fever, and a kind of lassitude on his senses, when something caused him to move his head sharply and look through the open door into the next chamber, where two of his secretaries usually worked. They were, however, now absent in the Assembly, and M. Heinsius believed himself alone in the two rooms; he was therefore surprised to see a young man standing in this outer chamber looking out at the Vyverberg and The Hague with an arrested air of intense interest. M. Heinsius moved round in his chair, but felt no desire to speak. Both the rooms were full of early sunshine and absolutely silent. M. Heinsius observed the stranger with a sensation of vague wonder. He was very young—little more than a boy—but of a very grave, still carriage; he wore a violet coat, a black sash, a plain sword, and a cravat of Frisian needlework; his clothes were of the fashion of thirty years ago—of the time of John de Witt. He was very slender and slight; his hair, which was long, thick, and heavily curling, of a deep chestnut colour, fell either side a thin hawk face that M. Heinsius could only imperfectly see; he wore one jewel, and that was the colour of the Garter. M. Heinsius neither spoke nor moved. Presently the youth turned and came towards the Grand Pensionary’s cabinet, walking stiffly, and holding his hat under his arm. M. Heinsius noticed the old-fashioned rosettes on his square-toed shoes. He came steadily through the sunlight, his glance cast thoughtfully down, and advanced to the desk before which M. Heinsius sat; he moved between the Grand Pensionary and the window, and, leaning forward, put his right hand, which was ringless and beautiful, on the letter of William of Orange. Then he lifted a pair of eyes of singular power and of a marvellous brilliancy, and flashed a smile at M. Heinsius. "It is finished," he said, pressing his palm on the letter. "But you will know what to do." Then he turned and looked out of the window with wistful passion, as of one leaving something he loves, and sighed a little. After a moment he moved away, reluctantly it seemed, and went as he had come, slowly and gravely into the outer chamber, with the sunshine all about him. M. Heinsius rose now, and turned to follow him; when he reached the door of the anteroom he found it empty....