tyrant and murderer, have revealed the future to Philip, he, too, might
have beheld his victim, not crowned himself, but pointing to a line of
kings, even to some who 'two-fold balls and treble sceptres carried', and
smiling on them for his. But such considerations as these had no effect
upon the Prince of Orange. He knew himself already proscribed, and he
knew that the secret condemnation had extended to Egmont also. He was
anxious that his friend should prefer the privations of exile, with the
chance of becoming the champion of a struggling country, to the wretched
fate towards which his blind confidence was leading him. Even then it
seemed possible that the brave soldier, who had been recently defiling
his sword in the cause of tyranny, might be come mindful of his brighter
and earlier fame. Had Egmont been as true to his native land as, until
"the long divorce of steel fell on him," he was faithful to Philip, he
might yet have earned brighter laurels than those gained at St. Quentin
and Gravelines. Was he doomed to fall, he might find a glorious death
upon freedom's battle-field, in place of that darker departure then so
near him, which the prophetic language of Orange depicted, but which he
was too sanguine to fear. He spoke with confidence of the royal
clemency. "Alas, Egmont," answered the Prince, "the King's clemency, of
which you boast, will destroy you. Would that I might be deceived, but I
foresee too clearly that you are to be the bridge which the Spaniards
will destroy so soon as they have passed over it to invade our country."
With these last, solemn words he concluded his appeal to awaken the Count
from his fatal security. Then, as if persuaded that he was looking upon
his friend for the last time, William of Orange threw his arms around
Egmont, and held him for a moment in a close embrace. Tears fell from the
eyes of both at this parting moment--and then the brief scene of simple
and lofty pathos terminated--Egmont and Orange separated from each other,
never to meet again on earth.