“Oh! oh!” said Cornelius, whose heart felt oppressed by the first dread of death. “What quick work they make here in the fortress of Loewestein. And the rascal talked to me of twelve hours!”
“Ah! what did I tell you?” whispered the communicative guard in the ear of the culprit.
“A lie.”
“How so?”
“You promised me twelve hours.”
“Ah, yes, but here comes to you an aide-de-camp of his Highness, even one of his most intimate companions Van Deken. Zounds! they did not grant such an honour to poor Mathias.”
“Come, come!” said Cornelius, drawing a long breath. “Come, I’ll show to these people that an honest burgher, godson of Cornelius de Witt, can without flinching receive as many musket-balls as that Mathias.”
Saying this, he passed proudly before the clerk, who, being interrupted in his work, ventured to say to the officer,—
“But, Captain van Deken, the protocol is not yet finished.”
“It is not worth while finishing it,” answered the officer.