entered into correspondence with Parma. It is singular with how much
indulgence his conduct and character were regarded both before and
subsequently to his treason. There was something attractive about the
man. In an age when many German and Netherland nobles were given to
drunkenness and debauchery, and were distinguished rather for coarseness
of manner and brutality of intellect than for refinement or learning,
Count Renneberg, on the contrary, was an elegant and accomplished
gentleman--the Sydney of his country in all but loyalty of character.
He was a classical scholar, a votary of music and poetry, a graceful
troubadour, and a valiant knight. He was "sweet and lovely of
conversation," generous and bountiful by nature. With so many good
gifts, it was a thousand pities that the gift of truth had been denied
him. Never did treason look more amiable, but it was treason of the
blackest die. He was treacherous, in the hour of her utmost need, to the
country which had trusted him. He was treacherous to the great man who
had leaned upon his truth, when all others had abandoned him. He was
treacherous from the most sordid of motives jealousy of his friend and
love of place and pelf; but his subsequent remorse and his early death
have cast a veil over the blackness of his crime.

While Cornelia de Lalain was in Groningen, Orange was in Holland.
Intercepted letters left no doubt of the plot, and it was agreed that the
Prince, then on his way to Amsterdam, should summon the Count to an
interview. Renneberg's trouble at the proximity of Orange could not be
suppressed. He felt that he could never look his friend in the face
again. His plans were not ripe; it was desirable to dissemble for a
season longer; but how could he meet that tranquil eye which "looked
quite through the deeds of men?" It was obvious to Renneberg that his
deed was to be done forthwith, if he would escape discomfiture. The
Prince would soon be in Groningen, and his presence would dispel the