tin and Gravelines had made him the people's idol. Every eye was fixed inquiringly upon the Prince of Orange as he entered the royal apartment. Well might the Regent and her coadjutors study the finely cut features and composed expression of the man before them. Here was the real ruler of the Netherlands! Margaret, while she could not, rule successfully without the counsel of Orange, hated him for his power. No woman was ever more jealous of her authority than Margaret of Parma. The love of power was like a viper, which continually gnawed at her vitals. She hugged her coronet of diamonds close to her bosom, even though she daily and hourly paid the price in unrest of soul. At the smallest cloud in the political sky, which would seem to suggest that her reign was transient, her lips would close in an agony of despair. The Regent was now forty-three years of age, a large, coarse-featured, masculine woman, with the imperious manner which proclaimed her the daughter of Charles the Fifth. She was an energetic woman, but possessed of a meagre education and few accomplishments. The art of dissimulation was the only branch in which she was proficient. She was an ardent Catholic, having sat at the feet of Loyola, and imbibed the jesuitical spirit of her confessor and spiritual guide.
It was evident that the Regent was in a bad
