vastly changed from the brilliant and careless grandee, as he stood at
the hour of the imperial abdication. He was becoming careworn in face,
thin of figure, sleepless of habit. The wrongs of which he was the daily
witness, the absolutism, the cruelty, the rottenness of the government,
had marked his face with premature furrows. "They say that the Prince is
very sad," wrote Morillon to Granvelle; "and 'tis easy to read as much in
his face. They say he can not sleep." Truly might the monarch have
taken warning that here was a man who was dangerous, and who thought too
much. "Sleekheaded men, and such as slept o' nights," would have been
more eligible functionaries, no doubt, in the royal estimation, but, for
a brief period, the King was content to use, to watch, and to suspect the
man who was one day to be his great and invincible antagonist. He
continued assiduous at the council, and he did his best, by entertaining
nobles and citizens at his hospitable mansion, to cultivate good
relations with large numbers of his countrymen. He soon, however, had
become disgusted with the court. Egmont was more lenient to the foul
practices which prevailed there, and took almost a childish pleasure in
dining at the table of the Duchess, dressed, as were many of the younger
nobles, in short camlet doublet with the wheat-sheaf buttons.

The Prince felt more unwilling to compromise his personal dignity by
countenancing the flagitious proceedings and the contemptible supremacy
of Armenteros, and it was soon very obvious, therefore, that Egmont was a
greater favorite at court than Orange. At the same time the Count was
also diligently cultivating the good graces of the middle and lower
classes in Brussels, shooting with the burghers at the popinjay, calling
every man by his name, and assisting at jovial banquets in town-house or
guild-hall. The Prince, although at times a necessary partaker also in
these popular amusements, could find small cause for rejoicing in the
aspect of affairs. When his business led him to the palace, he was