They were walking towards the Gevangenpoort, the prison gate which rose up by the side of the Vyver. The hazy sky was changing to a tawny colour behind the dark roof lines of the houses, flushed here and there with gold and a stain of purple; little pale, shell-coloured clouds floated away to the uppermost heights of heaven where the clear blue was still untouched, and the water began to glow and burn with the reflected fires of the sky. The clear chimes of the Groote Kerk struck the hour, and the sound of oncoming horsemen caused the few passers-by to pause before entering the narrow way of the prison arch. A cavalcade came into sight from the direction of the Stadhuis, and moved at a swift trot towards the Gevangenpoort—a number of gentlemen, with two riding before the others. As they passed every hat was removed. "The Prince returning from Helvoet," said Lord Mordaunt, and the three uncovered as the horsemen approached. The Stadtholder was mounted on a huge grey Flemish horse, and on his right hand rode the Maréchal de Schomberg, still erect and magnificent; the two were talking with a certain stiff courtesy; behind them came the Spanish envoy, M. Zuylestein, M. Zolms, and M. Auverqueverque, together with a number of Dutch and German nobles. The Prince saw the three Englishmen and saluted very graciously; the setting sun was for a moment full on his grave face, then he passed through the prison arch, and the company clattered over the cobbles out of sight. "No Englishman with him, mark you," said Mr. Fletcher. "Mr. Herbert told me that he _could_ not be open with us," replied Shrewsbury. "Yet Herbert is to have the command of the expedition, is he not?" "They say so; but he is full of discontent. Admiral Evertgen hath spoken against him to the Prince, methinks." Mr. Fletcher saluted one of his countrymen whom he had recognized, and the three turned back. A steady dusk was descending, extinguishing the colours in the sky, in the water, in the windows of the Binnenhof, and blurring those in the dresses of the people passing to and fro; only the trees and the houses retained their distinctness and sharpness of outline, and they took on a marvellous colour of living silver grey. Long deep shadows blended with the water the beautiful irregular buildings that had been the theatre of so many great events; the swans stood out, a dead white, from hues rapidly darkening and mysterious; their feathers were ruffled by a long breeze that swept chilly from the sea and salt dunes at Scheveningen. A yellow light sprang up in one of the lower windows of the Binnenhof, and cast reflections far beneath it in the water. "Did you ever hear the story of John de Witt, the late Grand Pensionary?" asked Shrewsbury, pulling his cloak about him. "M. Bentinck told me, and kept me out of bed with the tale——" "Why should you think of that now?" asked Mordaunt curiously.