If indeed it be pleasure to look on such hideous scarecrows a few hours before death.
Jan is not here. He is with my lord, helping with those heavy boxes.
"Five minutes, you old mushroom-face," suggests he who has been left in charge.
And all the others nod approval.
But they will take no risks about the prisoner. Pleasure and five minutes' conversation with his friends, yes! but no attempt at escape. So the men make a wide circle sitting out of ear-shot, but shoulder to shoulder the thirty of them who happen to be awake. In the centre of the circle is the Laughing Cavalier tied to a beam, trussed like a fowl since he is to hang on the morrow.
Close beside his feet is the lanthorn so that he may have a last look at his friends, and some few paces away his naked sword which Jan took from him when the men brought him down.
He has listened to the whispered conversation—he knows that his brother philosophers are here. May the God of rogues and villains bless them for their loyalty.
"And now St. Bavon show me the best way to make use of them!"
There is still something to be done, which hath been left undone, a word hath been given and that pledge must be fulfilled, and the promised fortune still awaits him who will bring the jongejuffrouw safely to her father!
"My God, if it were not for that broken shoulder and that torn hip! ... there are many hours yet before the morrow."