"’Tis such a beautiful night," she said in a strange voice; "it maketh me feel I must die." He, who all his life had lived on the verge of death, smiled to hear these words uttered by blooming youth. "You," he said calmly, "have no need to think of that for many a year. Death and you! Come, you have stared too long into the dark." Reluctantly she let his hand free, and latched the window with something of a shiver, but smiled too at the same time, in a breathless way. "What will you do now?" she asked. The Prince went to the table and snuffed the candles with the shining brass snuffers, and the flames rose up still and pointed. "I have sent for M. Dyckfelt and M. Fagel," he answered, and seated himself on one of the stiff walnut chairs. His face was bloodless under the tan of his outdoor life. The excitement that had shown when Mr. Herbert left had utterly gone; he was composed, even sombre and melancholy, and his thoughts were not to be guessed by his countenance. Mary looked at him with an almost terrified longing for him to disclose his mind, to some way speak to her, but he seemed every second to sink deeper into a silence that was beyond her meddling. She moved about the room softly, picked up her sewing from a cabinet in the corner, and began disentangling the coloured cottons that had been hastily flung together. The Prince looked round at her suddenly. "Have you seen Dr. Burnet of late?" he asked. "Yes—he came yesterday when you were out hunting." "Well," said William, "not a word of this to him—I would not trust him with anything I would not say before my coachman." Mary smiled; she shared her husband’s dislike to the officious, bustling clergyman who considered himself so indispensable to the Protestant cause, and who was tolerated for the real use he had been to the Prince. "Can you not trust my discretion?" she asked. He gave her a brilliant smile. "Why, I think you are a fair Politic, after all——" The usher, entering to say that the Grand Pensionary and M. Dyckfelt were without, interrupted him, and the Princess, pale and grave again, said hastily— "I will go—but I shall be in the withdrawing-room when they have gone——" She waited till William had dismissed the usher, then added, in a tremble— "—You will let me know what you have decided? I could not sleep else," she added piteously. He held out his hand and drew her up to him. "Child," he said earnestly, "’tis already decided; ’tis only the means to be discussed—and those thou shalt hear at once." He patted her hand and let her go. With a kind of wild gaiety she caught up her sewing silks. She was laughing, but it was a laughter more desperate than her gravity. She did not look at the Prince again, but hurried from the room, a gleam of satins in the sombre setting. The Prince looked after her, then picked up the two letters from England. CHAPTER VIII THE POLICY OF THE PRINCE