"No—continue—people _talk_ of this?" She was facing the overwhelming bitterness of the discovery that her inmost anguish, which had been too sacred to take on her own lips, was matter for common gossip. It was an extraordinary shock, so carefully had the subject always been ignored before her, and yet, she told herself fiercely, she might have known that it was discussed in the very streets, for it was a matter that affected nations. "You must have heard it spoken of if you have lived any time in Holland," answered Mrs. Marston—"ay, or in England either—they say ’tis a pity the Princess cannot do as the Queen did, and smuggle an heir out of a warming-pan—why, see, the ships are moving out of sight!" A great wind had risen which tore the clouds across the paling sky and drove the ships across the rising sea; already a widening expanse of waves showed between the fleet and the sands from which the people were beginning to depart in silent groups; all mist had gone, swept away like vapour from a mirror, and every tumbling crested wave was clear in the storm-light. Mary held herself rigid, watching the blue flag lurching to the pitching of the high vessel; a mere speck it was now, and near the horizon, and she watched it with no feeling of pride now, that was; the momentary exaltation had passed, been crushed utterly by a few careless words. Mrs. Marston spoke again, but Mary did not hear her; she was alone in a world of her own. The rapidly disappearing fleet was blurred to her vision, but she could still see the great light at the prow of the "Brill" as the crowded canvas bent and leapt before the sudden fury of the wind. "A storm," she said, aloud—"a storm." Her horse moved along the dunes and she did not check him; against the blue-black clouds was the indistinct figure of Dorothy Marston on her little knock-kneed hack, excitedly waving her handkerchief to the disappearing ships. Mary passed her without speaking, then suddenly turned and galloped back towards Scheveningen, where, in front of the church, her attendants were waiting for her; she rode in among them, and, for some reason she could not have herself explained, passed her own friends and singled out Lady Sunderland. "Let us go home," she said; "it is going to be a stormy night." The Countess at once noticed the change in her manner—the brave calm changed to piteously controlled trouble, the superb pride turned to trembling sorrow. "Those ships, Highness," she answered, "can weather very fierce storms." "Yet a little accident might sink them," returned Mary, in a quivering voice—"like hearts, Madam, that are so hurt with little pricks yet will survive a deep thrust——"