He spoke with confidence of the royal clemency.  “Alas, Egmont,” answered the Prince, “the King’s clemency, of which you boast, will destroy you.  Would that I might be deceived, but I foresee too clearly that you are to be the bridge which the Spaniards will destroy so soon as they have passed over it to invade our country.”  With these last, solemn words he concluded his appeal to awaken the Count from his fatal security.  Then, as if persuaded that he was looking upon his friend for the last time, William of Orange threw his arms around Egmont, and held him for a moment in a close embrace.  Tears fell from the eyes of both at this parting moment—­and then the brief scene of simple and lofty pathos terminated—­Egmont and Orange separated from each other, never to meet again on earth.

A few days afterwards, Orange addressed a letter to Philip once more resigning all his offices, and announcing his intention of departing from the Netherlands for Germany.  He added, that he should be always ready to place himself and his property at the King’s orders in every thing which he believed conducive to the true service of his Majesty.  The Prince had already received a remarkable warning from old Landgrave Philip of Hesse, who had not forgotten the insidious manner in which his own memorable captivity had been brought about by the arts of Granvelle and of Alva.  “Let them not smear your mouths with honey,” said the Landgrave.  “If the three seigniors, of whom the Duchess Margaret has had so much to say, are invited to court by Alva, under pretext of friendly consultation, let them be wary, and think twice ere they accept.  I know the Duke of Alva and the Spaniards, and how they dealt with me.”

The Prince, before he departed, took a final leave of Horn and Egmont, by letters, which, as if aware of the monumental character they were to assume for posterity, he drew up in Latin.  He desired, now that he was turning his back upon the country, that those two nobles who had refused to imitate, and had advised against his course, should remember that, he was acting deliberately, conscientiously, and in pursuance of a long-settled plan.

To Count Horn he declared himself unable to connive longer at the sins daily committed against the country and his own conscience.  He assured him that the government had been accustoming the country to panniers, in order that it might now accept patiently the saddle and bridle.  For himself, he said, his back was not strong enough for the weight already imposed upon it, and he preferred to endure any calamity which might happen to him in exile, rather than be compelled by those whom they had all condemned to acquiesce in the object so long and steadily pursued.