morning
walking up and down, muttering to himself as he walked. He was not a
tall man and rather thin in figure, with brown eyes and beard, hair
tinged with grey, and a wide brow lined by thought. This was William of
Orange, called the Silent, one of the greatest and most noble of human
beings who ever lived in any age; the man called forth by God to whom
Holland owes its liberties, and who for ever broke the hideous yoke of
religious fanaticism among the Teuton races.

Sore was his trouble on this May morning. But last month two more of his
brothers had found death beneath the sword of the Spaniard, and now this
same Spaniard, with whom he had struggled for all these weary years, was
marching in his thousands upon Leyden.

"Money," he was muttering to himself. "Give me money, and I will save
the city yet. With money ships can be built, more men can be raised,
powder can be bought. Money, money, money--and I have not a ducat! All
gone, everything, even to my mother's trinkets and the plate upon my
table. Nothing is left, no, not the credit to buy a dozen geldings."

As he thought thus one of his secretaries entered the room.

"Well, Count," said the Prince, "have you been to them all?"

"Yes, sir."

"And with what success?"

"The burgomaster, van de Werff, promises to do everything he can, and
will, for he is a man to lean on, but money is short. It has all left
the country and there is not much to get."

"I know it," groaned Orange, "you can't make a loaf from the crumbs
beneath the table. Is the proclamation put up inviting all good citizens
to give or lend in this hour of their country's need?"

"Yes, sir."

"Thank you, Count, you can go; there is nothing more to do. We will ride
for Delft to-night."

"Sir," said the secretary, "there are two men in the courtyard who wish
to see you."

"Are they known?"

"Oh yes, perfectly. One is Foy van Goorl, who went through the siege of
Haarlem and escaped, the son of the worthy burgher, Dirk van Goorl, whom
they did to death yonder in the Gevangenhuis; and the other a Friesland
giant of a man called Red Martin, his servant, of whose feats of arms
you may have heard. The two of them held a shot tower in this town
against forty or fifty Spaniards, and killed I don't know how many."

The Prince nodded. "I know. This Red Martin is a Goliath, a brave
fellow. What do they want?"

"I am not sure," said the secretary with a smile, "but they have brought
a herring-ca