# The Silent Prince/Chapter 4

CHAPTER IV.
THE SILENT PRINCE.
The market-place was a dark, heaving sea of humanity—soldiers, priests, magistrates, courtiers, countrymen and townsmen, who had gathered by common consent about a space which had been cleared of snow. Look where you would, there was nothing to be seen but heads. All eyes were fixed with curiosity on the open square, with its significant stake, its iron chains and heaps of faggots. Men were jostled and buffeted in their desire to see the awful spectacle. Silence reigned supreme. It was like the ominous stillness which precedes the thunder-storm.
Soon from out the gloomy prison came the soldiers, who conducted their victim to the place of execution. The unfortunate man was gagged, yet no one could help seeing that he was a terrified and unwilling actor in this tragedy. As he neared the market-place, the silence was broken by groans and hisses, and cries of “Coward!” “Renegade!” burst spontaneously from a hundred throats.
Just at this moment the crowd parted, to make ​way for a splendid equipage, on which was emblazoned the escutcheon of the Prince of Orange. In an instant the tumult ceased, and all but the soldiers uncovered their heads as the nobleman rode slowly toward the royal palace. There were two occupants in the carriage. The younger man had a handsome face, a dark complexion, large and expressive brown eyes, and symmetrical features. His forehead was high and spacious. He wore a mustache and a pointed beard, There were threads of silver in the dark hair, and the forehead was wrinkled by anxious thought. His frame was slightly bent, as if the weight of public affairs rested too heavily upon his shoulders. He was dressed in the magnificent costume for which the Netherlanders were famous. This man was William of Nassau, the Prince of Orange.
Born of Protestant parentage, William was sent to Brussels to be educated when but eleven years of age. He served the Emperor Charles in the capacity of page. The Emperor soon discovered that the lad was no ordinary boy. Even at this early age he showed remarkable prudence, judgment, and the power, so rare, of reading and using men. His royal patron soon raised him to the rank of confidential adviser. His natural abilities were stimulated and developed in this favorable atmosphere. During his long apprenticeship at the court of the most powerful monarch of his age, William ​carefully observed the great events of history which were taking place. When he arrived at man's estate, Charles rapidly advanced his young favorite, and the highest and most important duties were confided to his discretion. Before he was twenty-one years of age, William was made commander-in-chief of the army on the French frontier.
It was on the arm of William that the Emperor leaned in that magnificent scene of his abdication; and William was also selected by Philip, on account of his wonderful gift of diplomacy, to arrange the terms of the famous treaty with France. It was during his absence from the Netherlands on this embassy that he made the discovery which earned for him the title “The Silent Prince.”
While hunting with King Henry in the forest at Vincennes, William and his royal host became separated from the rest of the company. The King was full of a plot, which he and Philip were concocting, to extirpate Protestantism from France and the Netherlands. Feeling confident of the sympathy of William, whom he believed to be aware of the plan, Henry opened the subject without reserve. His discreet companion manifested no surprise, even when Henry with cruel cynicism explained the details of the projected massacre, and volunteered the information that the Spanish troops were being retained in the Netherlands for no other ​purpose than the extermination of the “accursed vermin.”
Burning with indignation at this cold-blooded narrative, and horror-stricken at the imminent peril of his fellow countrymen, William nevertheless assumed a mask which his life at court had taught him, and received the news with a serene countenance. When his friends learned of this incident, they called him thereafter “William the Taciturn.”
From this moment the seeds of Protestantism which had been planted in his infant mind by his pious mother, Juliana of Stolberg, began to take root. He made it in his way to return to the Netherlands as speedily as possible, fully determined to compel the King to recall the Spanish troops and to crush the Inquisition.
On this occasion the Prince of Orange was actuated by philanthropic motives alone. He was not a religious enthusiast, nor an advocate of the Reformation. He simply detested murder, and was unwilling to see thousands of his innocent fellow countrymen slaughtered in cold blood. At this period in his career William concerned himself very little with questions of theology. He was a Catholic both in belief and outward observance. He was a generous, courteous, liberal-minded nobleman, beloved and honored by all. The subtlety and breadth of his intellect, his adroitness in conducting State affairs, his broad and tolerant views, ​and his profound knowledge of human nature, made him the leading man in the Netherlands.
The other occupant of the carriage was Count Brederode, a middle-aged nobleman, blunt, honest and sour-faced.
“This sight is sickening,” said William to his companion. “Do you know the poor fellow who is about to be executed?”
“It is that apostate priest, Hendricks,” replied the Count. “The Church held out to him the hope of mercy, and the poor wretch recanted. The Church says now that his repentance was nothing short of hypocrisy, and they are going to burn him as a warning to others. The fellow is not worthy of your sympathy, Prince. He is naught but a coward, and richly deserves punishment, although I grant you it comes from unjust hands.”
“Possibly the fellow is a coward, Count,” said William. “It is easy for us to call him names, sitting as we do in perfect safety. Who knows but what we too would be cowards, with the stake before us, and a single word between us and the fire, I am free to confess, I should not like to be subjected to so rigorous a test.”
“Why did Hendricks and scores of others like him apostatize, then?” demanded the Count. “They all know what that word implies. Heretics must not pose as Scævolas, and thrust their hands into the flames, if they intend to draw back when ​the flesh smarts. It is the same with the field services. The burghers know they are prohibited, yet they attend by thousands. Then a cry of execration arises when they are surprised and punished. They tell me that Antwerp is even now in a tumult, because one of their conventicles was disturbed, and the preacher together with twenty followers put to the sword. As for myself, Prince,” continued Count Brederode with his accustomed recklessness, “I went to church this morning like a good Catholic, and I can say from the bottom of my heart that I am tired of all these sermons and masses. The priests expatiate on God's love and mercy, and entreat people to enter the fold of the one true Church, while between times they torture, hang, behead and burn men and women, for no other offence than daring to worship God in their own way. In truth, I am disgusted with such religion.”
The Prince of Orange smiled as he replied, “My friend, there are some truths which it is the part of wisdom to keep locked in one's breast in times like these.”
They had now reached the royal palace, where their ways diverged, the Count going to a banquet of nobles, and William to take his seat in the State Council.
Before alighting from the carriage, Count Brederode said jocosely, “Tell the Regent that the ​nobles are going to drink an extra toast to-night, to the good understanding between our honored lady and her subjects. Our gracious lady needs nothing so much as a clearer eye to read some documents called privileges; but we nobles hope soon to supply her with an effective kind of eye-salve, which we hope will cure her malady.”
“You are too hard on the Regent, Count. She is simply Philip's tool. She has really as much to contend with from that Spanish despot as we.”
“It seems to me,” retorted his companion, “that lately the Regent has been cruel enough on her own account. She burned Fabricius at Antwerp, and executed no end of heretics in the prisons of the Inquisition. You are making a great mistake in not joining our federation of nobles, Prince.”
“Perhaps so,” was the quiet reply of William as they separated.
The other members of the official board were assembled in the royal council chamber when the Prince of Orange entered. Foremost among the number was Baron Berlaymont, who was the chief of the finance department. Together with his sons, he was ever in the front rank to defend the crown against the nation. Then there was Viglius, a learned Frisian doctor of the law; also that flower of Flemish chivalry, the gallant but ill-fated Lamoral, Count Egmont, whose victories at St. ​Quentin and Gravelines had made him the people's idol. Every eye was fixed inquiringly upon the Prince of Orange as he entered the royal apartment. Well might the Regent and her coadjutors study the finely cut features and composed expression of the man before them. Here was the real ruler of the Netherlands! Margaret, while she could not rule successfully without the counsel of Orange, hated him for his power. No woman was ever more jealous of her authority than Margaret of Parma. The love of power was like a viper, which continually gnawed at her vitals. She hugged her coronet of diamonds close to her bosom, even though she daily and hourly paid the price in unrest of soul. At the smallest cloud in the political sky, which would seem to suggest that her reign was transient, her lips would close in an agony of despair. The Regent was now forty-three years of age, a large, coarse-featured, masculine woman, with the imperious manner which proclaimed her the daughter of Charles the Fifth. She was an energetic woman, but possessed of a meagre education and few accomplishments. The art of dissimulation was the only branch in which she was proficient. She was an ardent Catholic, having sat at the feet of Loyola, and imbibed the jesuitical spirit of her confessor and spiritual guide.
It was evident that the Regent was in a bad ​humor. There was a dark frown on her face, and her voice was harsh and strident.
“Yes,” she was saying in reply to a remark of Baron Berlaymont, “I seem to be surrounded by malcontents. I thought that matters were going on smoothly, when, lo! the nobles seem to have espoused the cause of the people, and are evidently plotting mischief. Then there are the heretics! It seems sometimes as though the more we tried to exterminate them the faster they multiplied. I have tried in vain to snare that satrap Huguenot, Francis Junius, who has dared to preach a treasonable discourse before the nobles at Culemborg House. When my spies were confident that they had him, he somehow eluded them. I only wish his Majesty would visit the Netherlands, and set matters right.
“Ho, Prince, you are late! What means the news I hear from Antwerp? They tell me that the people are turbulent and riots frequent.”
“Your Highness, the trouble is with the edicts. They are too rigorous. The Netherlanders will never submit to the Spanish Inquisition.”
“The people of Antwerp must be pacified at any cost,” replied the Regent. “As hereditary burgrave of that city, I wish you to journey there at your earliest convenience, and straighten matters out.”
The Prince bowed in assent. “Gentlemen,” ​pursued the Regent, “I have here a document from his Majesty, which I would like each one of you to read and then affix your signatures to it.”
The message was written in fine, spider-like characters, and was voluminous, as were all of Philip's effusions. After emphasizing the necessity of severity and of the condign punishment of rebellious offenders, the King concluded as follows:
“Rather than permit the least prejudice to the ancient religion, I would sacrifice all these States and lose a hundred lives, had I so many, for I will never consent to be the sovereign of heretics. If the troubles in the Netherlands cannot be adjusted without forcible measures, these latter shall be adopted even at the risk of destroying the whole country.”
At last Philip had made an end of delay, and spoken out in the plainest language. There was no mistaking his policy. The coming atrocities were distinctly outlined.
With the exception of Baron Berlaymont, the members of the State Council, be it said to their credit, signed the paper reluctantly. It was now handed to the Prince of Orange for perusal. William read the document through carefully, and then laid it on the table.
“Your Highness,” he said quietly, “I cannot affix my signature to this royal decree.”
​“Do you refuse to obey your sovereign?” demanded the Regent.
“I beg you to pardon my presumption, your Highness,” replied the Prince. “I would not in matters of such importance affect to be wiser, or to make greater pretensions than my age or experience warrants, yet seeing affairs in such perplexity, I would rather incur the risk of being charged with forwardness than neglect that which I consider my duty. You have not asked me for advice, but I prefer to hazard being censured for my remonstrance rather than to incur the suspicion of connivance at the desolation of my country by my silence. The only reason the whole country has not arisen in a great revolutionary movement has been because of the hope that the Inquisition would never be allowed to become a permanent institution in the Netherlands. With regard to these new and stringent methods for enforcing the edicts, I beg leave to say that it would be unwise to attempt this measure in the face of universal misery and an exasperated people. The King will gain nothing from the execution of this paper, except difficulty for himself. Moreover, a famine is impending, and no worse moment could be chosen in which to enforce such a policy. I am at all times desirous of obeying the command of his Majesty and your Highness, and of discharging the duties of a good Christian.”
​The closing words of the Prince were significant. A year previous he would have said “the duties of a good Catholic.” The moral as well as the political aspects of the Reformation were already occupying his attention, and the time had come when he felt that he could no longer conscientiously ignore these claims.
“As I foresee that I can no longer work in harmony with the State Council,” concluded William, “I herewith tender my resignation as a member of this official board.”
With a courteous bow, the Prince withdrew from the Regent's presence.
“Traitor!” cried the indignant representatives of royalty. “He shall suffer for this.”
“Mark my words, your Highness,” said Baron Berlaymont, “that man will some day become a heretic.”