"You see that light there—the first to be lit in the Binnenhof?—that was his room, and M. Bentinck said that always when one passed late one would see that candle shine and know that M. de Witt was still waking." "He got a poor reward," said Mr. Fletcher. "He was torn to bits on the Plaats, was he not?" "Anyone whose memory goeth back sixteen years will give you an account of it," answered my Lord Mordaunt dryly. "I wish I had been beside M. de Witt that day with a sword in my hand!" The Earl sighed. "How cold it bloweth! A severe winter is presaged, do you not think, my lord?" he said. Then abruptly: "Why should good men meet such ends?" Lord Mordaunt laughed. "You ask me to explain ingratitude? By Heaven, I have not the wit for the task." "Ingratitude!" frowned Shrewsbury; "but these people love the Prince because he hath done them great services——" "But shall we?" interrupted Mordaunt. "Ah, sir, I think the Prince will meet the same spirit as did John de Witt, should he ever rule in England——" "Why, God forbid!" exclaimed Mr. Fletcher. "What?" demanded Mordaunt sharply—"that we should ever be ungrateful?" "No; that His Highness should ever rule in Britain." Lord Mordaunt answered with some intensity— "Are you so simple, sir, as to think we can have a man like that among us _not_ ruling us?" Lord Shrewsbury was doubtfully silent. His timorous nature had been startled by the sudden action into which circumstances had spurred it. A sense of loyalty, a terror of underhand methods, a dread of anything so violent as a revolution made him already secretly regret the part he had so far played so well. Mr. Fletcher answered carelessly and thoughtlessly— "You set too high a value on the little Prince. His life is not worth a year’s purchase." Lord Mordaunt flashed an extraordinary look over the fine person of the speaker, and the comely youth of the Earl. His thin hand clutched on to his sword-belt, and his haggard face flushed. "You set too high a value on bone and muscle!" he cried, with a passionate sneer. "You are jolly fellows, both of you; but who will remember you when you have been dead a year? But men," he added with a terrible energy, "will talk of the Prince of Orange, and of me." They stared at him, amazed at this outburst, and Shrewsbury, seeing what a frail, deformed creature he was, blushed with a kind of shame. "Good God!" said Mr. Fletcher, "I am not working for fame, my lord." "No!" flashed Lord Mordaunt; "creatures of clay—of clay! Prettily coloured, but a breath of the fire that burneth in the little plain vessels would crack you in a day." He gave a flourishing bow, and walked off towards the Stadhuis. "An Eccentric," remarked Mr. Fletcher, looking after him. "I fear so. He will put himself into a passion at a word; but he would pledge his whole fortune for you if you were in need of it," answered the Earl. "How suddenly dark it is; let us, sir, go home."