William, looking with his cold glance on Cornelius, listened to his anxious and urgent request.
Then addressing himself to the officer, he said,—
“Is this person the mutinous prisoner who has attempted to kill his jailer at Loewestein?”
Cornelius heaved a sigh and hung his head. His good-tempered honest face turned pale and red at the same instant. These words of the all-powerful Prince, who by some secret messenger unavailable to other mortals had already been apprised of his crime, seemed to him to forebode not only his doom, but also the refusal of his last request.
He did not try to make a struggle, or to defend himself; and he presented to the Prince the affecting spectacle of despairing innocence, like that of a child,—a spectacle which was fully understood and felt by the great mind and the great heart of him who observed it.
“Allow the prisoner to alight, and let him see the black tulip; it is well worth being seen once.”
“Thank you, Monseigneur, thank you,” said Cornelius, nearly swooning with joy, and staggering on the steps of his carriage; had not the officer supported him, our poor friend would have made his thanks to his Highness prostrate on his knees with his forehead in the dust.
After having granted this permission, the Prince proceeded on his way over the green amidst the most enthusiastic acclamations.
He soon arrived at the platform, and the thunder of cannon shook the air.