to a line of kings, even to some who ‘two-fold balls and treble sceptres carried’, and smiling on them for his.  But such considerations as these had no effect upon the Prince of Orange.  He knew himself already proscribed, and he knew that the secret condemnation had extended to Egmont also.  He was anxious that his friend should prefer the privations of exile, with the chance of becoming the champion of a struggling country, to the wretched fate towards which his blind confidence was leading him.  Even then it seemed possible that the brave soldier, who had been recently defiling his sword in the cause of tyranny, might be come mindful of his brighter and earlier fame.  Had Egmont been as true to his native land as, until “the long divorce of steel fell on him,” he was faithful to Philip, he might yet have earned brighter laurels than those gained at St. Quentin and Gravelines.  Was he doomed to fall, he might find a glorious death upon freedom’s battle-field, in place of that darker departure then so near him, which the prophetic language of Orange depicted, but which he was too sanguine to fear.  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.