apply it to their own realms, for the ancient charters—­which in reality constituted a republican form of government—­had all been re-established by the agreement with Anjou.  The first-fruits of the ban now began to display themselves.  Sunday, 18th of March, 1582, was the birthday of the Duke of Anjou, and a great festival had been arranged, accordingly, for the evening, at the palace of Saint Michael, the Prince of Orange as well as all the great French lords being of course invited.  The Prince dined, as usual, at his house in the neighbourhood of the citadel, in company with the Counts Hohenlo and Laval, and the two distinguished French commissioners, Bonnivet and Des Pruneaux.  Young Maurice of Nassau, and two nephews of the Prince, sons of his brother John, were also present at table.  During dinner the conversation was animated, many stories being related of the cruelties which had been practised by the Spaniards in the provinces.  On rising from the table, Orange led the way from the dining room to his own apartments, showing the noblemen in his company as he passed along, a piece of tapestry upon which some Spanish soldiers were represented.  At this moment, as he stood upon the threshold of the ante-chamber, a youth of small stature, vulgar mien, and pale dark complexion, appeared from among the servants and offered him a petition.  He took the paper, and as he did so, the stranger suddenly drew a pistol and discharged it at the head of the Prince.  The ball entered the neck under the right ear, passed through the roof of the mouth, and came out under the left jaw-bone, carrying with it two teeth.  The pistol had been held so near, that the hair and beard of the Prince were set on fire by the discharge.  He remained standing, but blinded, stunned, and for a moment entirely ignorant of what had occurred.  As he afterwards observed, he thought perhaps that a part of the house had suddenly fallen.  Finding very soon that his hair and beard were burning, he comprehended what had occurred; and called out quickly, “Do not kill him—­I forgive him my death!” and turning to the French noblemen present, he added, “Alas! what a faithful servant does his Highness lose in me!”

These were his first words, spoken when, as all believed, he had been mortally wounded.  The, message of mercy came, however, too late; for two of the gentlemen present, by an irresistible impulse, had run the assassin through with their rapiers.  The halberdiers rushed upon him immediately after wards, so that he fell pierced in thirty-two vital places.  The Prince, supported by his friends, walked to his chamber, where he was put to bed, while the surgeons examined and bandaged the wound.  It was most dangerous in appearance, but a very strange circumstance gave more hope than could otherwise have been entertained.  The flame from the pistol had been so close that it had actually cauterized the wound inflicted by the ball.  But for this, it was supposed that the