with Maurice, which was followed by a very secret one between them both and Count William.  The three were locked up together, three hours long, in the Prince’s private cabinet.  It was then decided that Count William should go, as if of his own accord, to the Princess-Dowager Louise, and induce her to send for some one of Barneveld’s children and urge that the family should ask pardon for him.  She asked if this was done with the knowledge of the Prince of Orange, or whether he would not take it amiss.  The Count eluded the question, but implored her to follow his advice.

The result was an interview between the Princess and Madame de Groeneveld, wife of the eldest son.  That lady was besought to apply, with the rest of the Advocate’s children, for pardon to the Lords States, but to act as if it were done of her own impulse, and to keep their interview profoundly secret.

Madame de Groeneveld took time to consult the other members of the family and some friends.  Soon afterwards she came again to the Princess, and informed her that she had spoken with the other children, and that they could not agree to the suggestion.  “They would not move one step in it—­ no, not if it should cost him his head.”

The Princess reported the result of this interview to Count William, at which both were so distressed that they determined to leave the Hague.

There is something almost superhuman in the sternness of this stoicism.  Yet it lay in the proud and highly tempered character of the Netherlanders.  There can be no doubt that the Advocate would have expressly dictated this proceeding if he had been consulted.  It was precisely the course adopted by himself.  Death rather than life with a false acknowledgment of guilt and therefore with disgrace.  The loss of his honour would have been an infinitely greater triumph to his enemies than the loss of his head.

There was no delay in drawing up the sentence.  Previously to this interview with the widow of William the Silent, the family of the Advocate had presented to the judges three separate documents, rather in the way of arguments than petitions, undertaking to prove by elaborate reasoning and citations of precedents and texts of the civil law that the proceedings against him were wholly illegal, and that he was innocent of every crime.

No notice had been taken of those appeals.

Upon the questions and answers as already set forth the sentence soon followed, and it may be as well that the reader should be aware, at this point in the narrative, of the substance of that sentence so soon to be pronounced.  There had been no indictment, no specification of crime.  There had been no testimony or evidence.  There had been no argument for the prosecution or the defence.  There had been no trial whatever.  The prisoner was convicted on a set of questions to which he had put in satisfactory replies.  He was sentenced on a preamble.  The sentence was a string of vague generalities, intolerably long, and as tangled as the interrogatories.  His proceedings during a long career had on the whole tended to something called a “blood bath”—­but the blood bath had never occurred.