In short, viewed as a measure by which government, without disarming itself of its terrible powers, was to pacify the popular mind, the amnesty was a failure.  Viewed as a net, by which fresh victims should be enticed to entangle themselves, who had already made their way into the distant atmosphere of liberty, it was equally unsuccessful.  A few very obscure individuals made their appearance to claim the benefit of the act, before the six months had expired.  With these it was thought expedient to deal gently; but no one was deceived by such clemency.  As the common people expressed themselves, the net was not spread on that occasion for finches.

The wits of the Netherlands, seeking relief from their wretched condition in a still more wretched quibble, transposed two letters of the word Pardona, and re-baptized the new measure Pandora.  The conceit was not without meaning.  The amnesty, descending from supernal regions, had been ushered into the presence of mortals as a messenger laden with heavenly gifts.  The casket, when opened, had diffused curses instead of blessings.  There, however, the classical analogy ended, for it would have puzzled all the pedants of Louvain to discover Hope lurking, under any disguise, within the clauses of the pardon.

Very soon after the promulgation of this celebrated act, the new bride of Philip, Anne of Austria, passed through the Netherlands, on her way to Madrid.  During her brief stay in Brussels, she granted an interview to the Dowager Countess of Horn.  That unhappy lady, having seen her eldest son, the head of her illustrious house, so recently perish on the scaffold, wished to make a last effort in behalf of the remaining one, then closely confined in the prison of Segovia.  The Archduchess solemnly promised that his release should be the first boon which she would request of her royal bridegroom, and the bereaved countess retired almost with a hope.

A short digression must here be allowed, to narrate the remaining fortunes of that son, the ill-starred Seigneur de Montigny.  His mission to Madrid in company of the Marquis Berghen has been related in a previous volume.  The last and most melancholy scene in the life of his fellow envoy has been described in a recent chapter.  After that ominous event, Montigny became most anxious to effect his retreat from Spain.  He had been separated more than a year from his few months’ bride.  He was not imprisoned, but he felt himself under the most rigid although secret inspection.  It was utterly impossible for him to obtain leave to return, or to take his departure without permission.  On one occasion, having left the city accidentally for a ride on horseback to an adjoining village, he found himself surrounded by an unexpected escort of forty troopers.  Still, however, the King retained a smiling mien.  To Montigny’s repeated and urgent requests for dismissal, Philip graciously urged his desire for a continuance of his visit.  He