Mary turned her eyes from the fleet that was gradually becoming enveloped in the mists of the darkening afternoon. "How—not all?" "There are always the children," answered the other lady, with a bright tenderness. "I have three, Madam, whom we keep in Amsterdam, as The Hague is so expensive——" Mary’s horse started, and she caught up the reins and clutched them to her bosom. "They are—boys?" she asked, in a changed voice. "Two, Madam. If they had gone I should indeed be desolate—but they are too young, and I am selfish enough to be glad of it." Mary sat motionless. The whole sky was darkening, and hurrying clouds hastened the twilight. The waves were growing in size and making a longer roar as they curled over on to the land; the great ships of war could be seen tossing as their wind-filled sails drove them forwards, and the little boats were pitched low on their sides. "It indeed seemeth like a storm," said Mary faintly; her courage, her pride, had utterly gone; the eyes she strained to fix on the blue flag were sad and wild. "A storm?" echoed Mrs. Marston. "O God, protect us!" Suddenly a low deep murmur rose from the distant multitude. "What is that?" "They have lit the lantern on the Prince his ship," said Mary, very low. The English exile thrilled to see the great clear light hoisted amid the masts and cordage, sparkling, a beacon through the stormy dusk; her thoughts travelled from her children, whom so lately she had spoken of. "It is sad," she remarked, "that the Prince hath no heir." "His cousin, the Stadtholder of Friseland, is his heir," answered Mary, with sudden harshness. "Ah yes; I meant no child. My husband saith it is cruel for any man and terrible for a great Prince—for how useless all seemeth with none to inherit! And such an ancient family to end so suddenly——" Mary murmured something incoherent, of which Mrs. Marston took no notice. "I would not be the Princess," she continued, "for her chances of a crown, would you, Madam? It is a cruel thing—I met in Utrecht a Scotswoman who had been her tirewoman, and she told me that the poor lady was like a maniac after her second hopes were disappointed and for ever——" Mary put out her hand; her face was concealed by the deeping dusk and the shade of her hat. "Please stop," she said, in a hard voice. "I—you do not understand—do people _talk_ of this? God is hard, it seems—and you have children, and I _pitied_ you. I have been too proud—but humbled enough, I think." Her speech was so confused and broken that the English lady could make no sense of it; she stared at her in surprise. "Why, my speech annoys you, Madam." Mary was facing the sea again.