which greeted his presence was hollow, that no real attachment was felt for his person, that his fate was leading him into a false position, that the hearts of the people were fixed upon another, and that they were never to be won by himself.  Instinctively he seemed to feel a multitude of invisible threads twining into a snare around him, and the courageous heart and the bounding strength became uneasily conscious of the act in which they were to be held captive till life should be wasted quite away.

The universal affection for the rebel Prince, and the hopeless abandonment of the people to that deadliest of sins, the liberty of conscience, were alike unquestionable.  “They mean to remain free, sire,” wrote Escovedo to Philip, “and to live as they please.  To that end they would be willing that the Turk should come to be master of the country.  By the road which they are travelling, however, it will be the Prince of Orange—­which comes to quite the same thing.”  At the same time, however, it was hoped that something might be made of this liberty of conscience.  All were not equally sunk in the horrible superstition, and those who were yet faithful to Church and King might be set against their besotted brethren.  Liberty of conscience might thus be turned to account.  While two great parties were “by the ears, and pulling out each other’s hair, all might perhaps be reduced together.”  His Majesty was warned, nevertheless, to expect the worst, and to believe that the country could only be cared with fire and blood.  The position of the Governor was painful and perplexing.  “Don John,” said Escovedo, “is thirty years old.  I promise your Majesty nothing, save that if he finds himself without requisite assistance, he will take himself off when your Majesty is least thinking of such a thing.”

Nothing could be more melancholy than the tone of the Governor’s letters.  He believed himself disliked, even in the midst of affectionate demonstrations.  He felt compelled to use moderate counsels, although he considered moderation of no avail.  He was chained to his post, even though the post could, in his opinion, be more advantageously filled by another.  He would still endeavour to gain the affections of the people, although he believed them hopelessly alienated.  If patience would cure the malady of the country, he professed himself capable of applying the remedy, although the medicine had so far done but little good, and although he had no very strong hopes as to its future effects.  “Thus far, however,” said he, “I am but as one crying in the wilderness.”  He took occasion to impress upon his Majesty, in very strong language, the necessity of money.  Secret agents, spies, and spies upon spies, were more necessary than ever, and were very expensive portions of government machinery.  Never was money more wanted.  Nothing could be more important than, to attend faithfully to the financial suggestions of Escovedo, and Don John, therefore, urged his Majesty, again and again,