Town-hall opened, and a man came forth to address the people.
“Who is that on the balcony?” asked the young man, glancing at the orator.
“It is the Deputy Bowelt,” replied the officer.
“What sort of a man is he? Do you know anything of him?”
“An honest man; at least I believe so, Monseigneur.”
Hearing this character given of Bowelt, the young man showed signs of such a strange disappointment and evident dissatisfaction that the officer could not but remark it, and therefore added,—
“At least people say so, Monseigneur. I cannot say anything about it myself, as I have no personal acquaintance with Mynheer Bowelt.”
“Well,” the young man muttered half to himself and half to his companion, “let us wait, and we shall soon see.”
The officer bowed his head in token of his assent, and was silent.
“If this Bowelt is an honest man,” his Highness continued, “he will give to the demand of these furibund petitioners a very queer reception.”
The nervous quiver of his hand, which moved on the shoulder of his companion as the fingers of a player on the keys of a harpsichord, betrayed his burning impatience, so ill concealed at certain times, and particularly at that moment, under the icy and sombre expression of his face.
The chief of the deputation of the burghers was then heard addressing an interpellation to Mynheer Bowelt, whom he requested to let them know where the other deputies, his colleagues, were.
“Gentlemen,” Bowelt repeated for the second time,
