All the seats upon the platform were vacant, but the benches below,
assigned to the deputies of the provinces, were already filled. Numerous
representatives from all the states but two--Gelderland and Overyssel--
had already taken their places. Grave magistrates, in chain and gown,
and executive officers in the splendid civic uniforms for which the
Netherlands were celebrated, already filled every seat within the apace
allotted. The remainder of the hall was crowded with the more favored
portion of the multitude which had been fortunate enough to procure
admission to the exhibition. The archers and hallebardiers of the body-
guard kept watch at all the doors. The theatre was filled--the audience
was eager with expectation--the actors were yet to arrive. As the clock
struck three, the hero of the scene appeared. Caesar, as he was always
designated in the classic language of the day, entered, leaning on the
shoulder of William of Orange. They came from the chapel, and were
immediately followed by Philip the Second and Queen Mary of Hungary. The
Archduke Maximilian the Duke of Savoy, and other great personages came
afterwards, accompanied by a glittering throng of warriors, councillors,
governors, and Knights of the Fleece.

Many individuals of existing or future historic celebrity in the
Netherlands, whose names are so familiar to the student of the epoch,
seemed to have been grouped, as if by premeditated design, upon this
imposing platform, where the curtain was to fall forever upon the
mightiest emperor since Charlemagne, and where the opening scene of the
long and tremendous tragedy of Philip's reign was to be simultaneously
enacted. There was the Bishop of Arras, soon to be known throughout
Christendom by the more celebrated title of Cardinal Granvelle, the
serene and smiling priest whose subtle influence over the destinies of so
many individuals then present, and over the fortunes of the whole land,