What seemed at first an unfortunate accident turned the scale.  A messenger bearing despatches from the Prince of Orange fell into Spanish hands and Don Frederic learned that the sea was to be let in.  Motley continues:  “The resolution taken by Orange, of which Don Frederic was thus unintentionally made aware, to flood the country far and near rather than fail to protect Alkmaar, made a profound impression upon his mind.  It was obvious that he was dealing with a determined leader, and with desperate men.  His attempt to carry the place by storm had signally failed, and he could not deceive himself as to the temper and disposition of his troops ever since that repulse.  When it should become known that they were threatened with submersion in the ocean, in addition to all the other horrors of war, he had reason to believe that they would retire ignominiously from that remote and desolate sand hook, where, by remaining, they could only find a watery grave.  These views having been discussed in a council of officers, the result was reached that sufficient had been already accomplished for the glory of the Spanish arms.  Neither honour nor loyalty, it was thought, required that sixteen thousand soldiers should be sacrificed in a contest, not with man, but with the ocean.

“On the 8th of October, accordingly, the siege, which had lasted seven weeks, was raised, and Don Frederic rejoined his father in Amsterdam.  Ready to die in the last ditch, and to overwhelm both themselves and their foes in a common catastrophe, the Hollanders had at last compelled their haughty enemy to fly from a position which he had so insolently assumed.”

Every one is agreed that Hoorn should be approached by water, because it rises from the sea like an enchanted city of the East, with its spires and its Harbour Tower beautifully unreal.  And as the ship comes nearer there is the additional interest of wondering how the apparently landlocked harbour is to be entered, a long green bar seeming to stretch unbrokenly from side to side.  At the last minute the passage is revealed, and one glides into this romantic port.  I put Hoorn next to Middelburg in the matter of charm, but seen from the sea it is of greater fascination.  In many ways Hoorn is more remarkable as a town, but more of my heart belongs to Middelburg.

I sat on the coping of the harbour at sundown and watched a merry party dining in the saloon of a white and exceedingly comfortable-looking yacht, some thirty or forty yards away.  Two neat maids continually passed from the galley to the saloon, and laughter came over the water.  The yacht was from Arnheim, its owner having all the appearance of a retired East Indian official.  In the distance was a tiny sailing boat with its sail set to catch what few puffs of wind were moving.  Its only occupant was a man in crimson trousers, the reflection from which made little splashes of warm colour in the pearl grey sea.  At Hoorn there seems to be a tendency to sail for pleasure, for as we came away a party of chattering girls glided out in the care of an elderly man—­bound for a cruise in the Zuyder Zee.