In the body of the nobly proportioned banqueting-hall, a vast concourse of guests had assembled around two huge tables, which were decked out with costly linen and plate, and literally groaned under the succulent dishes which serving-men repeatedly placed there for the delectation of the merry party. Roast capons and geese, fish from the Rhyn and from the sea, pasties made up of oysters and quails, and, above all, a constant supply of delicious Rhine or Spanish wines, according as the guests desired light or heady liquor.
A perpetual buzz of talk, intermingled with many an outburst of hilarity and an occasional song, filled the somewhat stuffy air of the room to the exclusion of any individual sound.
The ladies plied their fans vigorously, and some of the men, warmed by good cheer, had thrown their padded doublets open and loosened their leather belts. The brides-elect sat one on each side of the Stadtholder; a strange contrast, in truth. Kaatje van den Poele, just a young edition of her mother, her well-rounded figure already showing signs of the inevitable coming stoutness, comely to look at, with succulent cheeks shining like rosy apples, her face with the wide-open, prominent eyes, beaming with good-nature and the vigorous application of cold water. Well-mannered, too, for she never spoke unless spoken to, but sat munching her food with naive delight, and whenever her somewhat moody bridegroom hazarded a laboured compliment or joke, she broke into a pleasant giggle, jerked her elbow at him, and muttered a “Fie, Klaas!” which put and end to further conversation.
Gilda Beresteyn, who sat at the Stadtholder’s right hand, was silent, too; demure, not a little prim, but with her, even the most casual observer became conscious that beneath the formal demeanor there ran an undercurrent of emotional and pulsating life. The terrible experience which she had gone through a few brief months ago had given to her deep blue eyes a glance that was vividly passionate, yet withal resposeful, and with a curiously childlike expression of trust within its depth.
The stiff bridal robes which convention decreed that she should wear gave her an air of dignity, even whilst it enhanced the youthfulness of her personality. There was all the roundness in her figure which is the attribute of her race; yet, despite her plump shoulders and full throat, her little round face and firm bosom, there remained something ethereal about her, a spirituality and a strength which inspired reverence, even whilst her beauty provoked admiring glances.
“Your Highness is not eating,” she remarked timidly.
“My head aches,” Maurice of Nassau replied moodily. “I cannot eat. I think I must be overtired,” he went on more pleasantly as he met the girl’s kind blue eyes fixed searchingly upon him. “A little fresh air will do me good. Don’t disturb anyone,” he continued hastily, as he rose to his feet and turned to go to the nearest open window.
Beresteyn quickly followed him. The prince looked faint and ill, and had to lean on his host’s arm as he tottered towards the window. The little incident was noticed by a few. It caused consternation and the exchange of portentful glances.
A grave-looking man in sober black velvet doublet and sable hose quickly rose from the table and joined the Stadtholder and Mynheer Beresteyn at the window. He was the English physician especially brought across to watch over the health of the illustrious sufferer.
Gilda turned to her neighbour. Her eyes had suddenly filled with tears, but when she met his glance the ghost of a smile immediately crept around her mouth.
“It seems almost wicked,” she said simply “to be so happy now.”
Unseen by the rest of the company, the man next to her took her tiny hand and raised it to his lips.
“At times, even today,” she went on softly, “it all seems like a dream. Your wooing, my dear lord, hath been so tempestuous. Less than three months ago I did not know of your existence—”
“My wooing hath been over-slow for my taste!” he broke in with a short, impatient sigh. “Three months, you say? And for me you are still a shadow, an exquisite sprite that eludes me behind an impenetrable, a damnable wall of conventions, even though my very sinews ache with longing to hold you in mine arms forever and for aye!”
He looked her straight between the eyes, so straight and with such a tantalizing glance that a hot blush rose swiftly to her cheeks; whereupon he laughed again—a merry, a careless, infectious laugh it was—and squeezed her hand so tightly that he made her gasp.
“You are always ready to laugh, my lord,” she murmured reproachfully.
“Always,” he riposted. “And now, how can I help it? I must laugh, or else curse with impatience. It is scarce three o’clock now, and not before many hours can we be free of this chattering throng.”
Then, as she remained silent, with eyes cast down now and the warm flush still lingering in her cheeks, he went on, with brusque impatience, his voice sunk to a quick, penetrating whisper:
“If anything should part me from you now, ma donna, I verily believe that I should kill someone or myself!”
He paused, almost disconcerted. It had never been his wont to talk of his feelings. The transient sentiments that in the past had grazed his senses, without touching his heart, had only led him to careless protestations, forgotten as soon as made. He himself marvelled at the depth of his love for this exquisite creature who had so suddenly come into his life, bringing with
