And all this human wretchedness was the elaborate work of one man—­one dull, heartless bigot, living, far away, a life of laborious ease and solemn sensuality; and, in reality, almost as much removed from these fellow-creatures of his, whom he called his subjects, as if he had been the inhabitant of another planet.  Has history many more instructive warnings against the horrors of arbitrary government—­against the folly of mankind in ever tolerating the rule of a single irresponsible individual, than the lesson furnished by the life-work of that crowned criminal, Philip the Second?

The longing for peace on the part of these unfortunate obedient Flemings was intense.  Incessant cries for peace reached the ears of the envoys on every side.  Alas, it would have been better for these peace-wishers, had they stood side by side with their brethren, the noble Hollanders and Zeelanders, when they had been wresting, if not peace, yet independence and liberty, from Philip, with their own right hands.  Now the obedient Flemings were but fuel for the vast flame which the monarch was kindling for the destruction of Christendom—­if all Christendom were not willing to accept his absolute dominion.

The burgomasters of Ghent—­of Ghent, once the powerful, the industrious, the opulent, the free, of all cities in the world now the most abject and forlorn—­came in the morning to wait upon Elizabeth’s envoy, and to present him, according to ancient custom, with some flasks of wine.  They came with tears streaming down their cheeks, earnestly expressing the desire of their hearts for peace, and their joy that at least it had now “begun to be thought on.”

“It is quite true,” replied Dr. Dale, “that her excellent Majesty the Queen—­filled with compassion for your condition, and having been informed that the Duke of Parma is desirous of peace—­has vouchsafed to make this overture.  If it take not the desired effect, let not the blame rest upon her, but upon her adversaries.”  To these words the magistrates all said Amen, and invoked blessings on her Majesty.  And most certainly, Elizabeth was sincerely desirous of peace; even at greater sacrifices than the Duke could well have imagined; but there was something almost diabolic in the cold dissimulation by which her honest compassion was mocked, and the tears of a whole people in its agony made the laughingstock of a despot and his tools.

On Saturday morning, Richardot and Garnier waited upon the envoy to escort him to the presence of the Duke.  Cecil, who accompanied him, was not much impressed with the grandeur of Alexander’s lodgings; and made unfavourable and rather unreasonable comparisons between them and the splendour of Elizabeth’s court.  They passed through an ante-chamber into a dining-room, thence into an inner chamber, and next into the Duke’s room.  In the ante-chamber stood Sir William Stanley, the Deventer traitor, conversing with one Mockett, an Englishman, long resident in