g should grant
him his dismissal, so soon as his presence should no longer be
imperiously required. He was sure that the people would never believe in
his Majesty's forgiveness until the man concerning whom they entertained
so much suspicion should be removed; for they saw in him only the
"thunderbolt of his Majesty's wrath." Orange and England confirmed their
suspicions, and sustained their malice. Should he be compelled, against
his will, to remain, he gave warning that he might do something which
would be matter of astonishment to everybody.

Meantime, the man in whose hands really lay the question of war and
peace, sat at Middelburg, watching the deep current of events as it
slowly flowed towards the precipice. The whole population of Holland and
Zealand hung on his words. In approaching the realms of William the
Silent, Don John felt that he had entered a charmed, circle, where the
talisman of his own illustrious name lost its power, where his valor was
paralyzed, and his sword rusted irrevocably in its sheath. "The people
here," he wrote, "are bewitched by the Prince of Orange. They love him,
they fear him, and wish to have him for their master. They inform him of
everything, and take no resolution without consulting him."

While William was thus directing and animating the whole nation with his
spirit, his immediate friends became more and more anxious concerning the
perils to which he was exposed. His mother, who had already seen her
youngest-born, Henry, her Adolphus, her chivalrous Louis, laid in their
bloody graves for the cause of conscience, was most solicitous for the
welfare of her "heart's-beloved lord and son," the Prince of Orange.
Nevertheless, the high-spirited old dame was even more alarmed at the
possibility of a peace in which that religious liberty for which so much
dear blood had been, poured forth should be inadequately secured. "My
heart longs for certain tidings from my lord," she wrote to William, "for
methinks the peace now in prospect will prove but an oppression for soul
and conscience. I trust my heart's dearly-beloved lord and son will be
supported by Divine grace to do nothing against God and his own soul's
salvation. 'Tis better to lose the temporal than the eternal." Thus wrote
the mother of William, and we can feel the sympathetic thrill which such
tender and lofty words awoke in his breast. His son, the ill-starred
Philip, now for ten years long a compulsory sojourner in Spain, was