The Great Roxhythe · Book I · Chapter 1 7 (2/2)

“Have I said that I hoped to overthrow them? I desire to hold my rightful office, but I will raise no hand against a Government that I fully acknowledge. It will be by the people’s will alone that I become Stadtholder.”

“And if the people will it not?”

William’s eyes flashed again.

“Did you not assure me that they were ripe for my standard?”

“For your standard, Sir, yes. But if you raise it not they cannot stand by it. They will not rise for Prince William alone. Prince William with a force to back him, yes. It is a very different matter.”

“I do not fear.” The Prince spoke calmly now.

“Your Highness is young. You do not know the temper of a mob.”

“Then I shall learn, milor’.”

“By bitter experience.”

“Perhaps even that.”

There fell a long silence. It was useless to attempt further argument. The Prince meant what he said, and he knew what he was saying. Yet my lord tried to reason with him once more.

“Highness, I counsel you most sincerely not to reject my master’s offer thus lightly. You must realize what an impossible task it is that you set yourself. You will have your country divided against itself, some standing for you, others for the Pensionary. Also you will have a French army marching upon you; perhaps, too, an English army. You would do well to consider.”

“I have considered. What King Charles asks is impossible. I am not a Stuart⁠—I cannot so unconcernedly sell my country. Milor’ Roxhythe, I beg you will not waste your breath seeking to persuade me. Do you think I have not had just such an offer before? I have considered well, and there lies my answer.”

Roxhythe rose.

“Then there is no more to be said, Highness. I trust you will not regret this day’s work. Again I implore you to consider well. I shall return to the Hague in a few days’ time, staying at the Poisson d’Or. A message will bring me very swiftly. Think it over carefully, Highness, and remember that together England and the Provinces would be very powerful.” He picked up his hat. “I have to thank you for this audience, Sir. I fear it has tired you.”

“No, milor’.” William pressed his handkerchief to his lips again. “I am sorry that you should have been put to this unnecessary trouble. Your King has sent you on a fool’s errand. My answer is final.”

“Nevertheless, Highness, I shall be at the Poisson d’Or for ten days.”

William shook his head. He struck the hand-bell at his side.

Heenvliet appeared.

“Conduct milor’ to Mynheer Dart,” ordered William. “Milor’ ”⁠—he moved his head wearily⁠—“I will not detain you longer. I thank you for your patience.”

Roxhythe bowed as he would have bowed to the King, his master.

“I do not despair, Highness. Permit me to compliment you on your integrity.”

So he left William, Prince of Orange, seated in the high-backed chair, with the scattered scraps of parchment at his feet, a solitary figure, bodily frail, but with the light of indomitable courage shining in his dark eyes, and a steadfast purpose before him.

He knew that he had failed; he knew that the little princeling whom he had pitied⁠—whom he still pitied⁠—was one of the world’s great men; a prince who, one day, would have to be reckoned with; a prince who was not to be bought; a prince who was also an honest man.