“If I had pen and ink you would soon see,” said Cornelius.
“Here is a pencil, at any rate.”
“Have you any paper? for they have left me nothing.”
“Here, take this Bible, and tear out the fly-leaf.”
“Very well, that will do.”
“But your writing will be illegible.”
“Just leave me alone for that,” said Cornelius. “The executioners have indeed pinched me badly enough, but my hand will not tremble once in tracing the few lines which are requisite.”
And really Cornelius took the pencil and began to write, when through the white linen bandages drops of blood oozed out which the pressure of the fingers against the pencil squeezed from the raw flesh.
A cold sweat stood on the brow of the Grand Pensionary.
Cornelius wrote:—