“Ah! ah!” said William to his dog, “it’s easy to see that she is a countrywoman of yours, and that you recognise her.”
Then, turning towards Rosa, and fixing on her his scrutinising, and, at the same time, impenetrable glance, he said,—
“Now, my child.”
The Prince was scarcely twenty-three, and Rosa, eighteen or twenty. He might, therefore, perhaps, better have said, my sister.
“My child,” he said, with that strangely-commanding accent, which chilled all those who approached him, “We are alone; let us speak together.”
Rosa began to tremble; and yet there was nothing but kindness in the expression of the Prince’s face.
“Monseigneur,” she stammered.
“You have a father at Lœvestein?”
“Yes, your Highness.”
“You do not love him?”
“I do not,—at least, not as a daughter ought to do, Monseigneur.”
“It is not right not to love one’s father, but it is right not to tell a falsehood.”
Rosa cast her eyes to the ground.
“What is the reason of your not loving your father?”
“He is wicked.”
“In what way does he show his wickedness?”
“He ill treats the prisoners.”
“All of them?”
“All.”
“But don’t you bear him a grudge for ill treating some one in particular?”
“My father ill treats in particular Mynheer Van Baerle, who”
“Who is your lover?”
Rosa started back a step.
“Whom I love, Monseigneur,” she answered, proudly.
“Since when?” asked the Prince.
“Since the day when I first saw him.”
“And when was that?”
“The day after that on which the Grand Pensionary
