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,
was to be so extensive and so deadly. There was that flower of Flemish
chivalry, the, lineal descendant of ancient Frisian kings, already
distinguished for his bravery in many fields, but not having yet won
those two remarkable victories which were soon to make the name of Egmont
like the sound of a trumpet throughout the whole country. Tall,
magnificent in costume, with dark flowing hair, soft brown eye, smooth