Strange that between these men there was no need of oaths. Pythagoras and Socrates had said nothing: silent and furtive they disappeared into the darkness. Diogenes' head sank down upon his breast with a last sigh of satisfaction. He knew that his compeers would do what he had asked. Jan's footsteps rang on the hard-frozen ground—silently the living circle had parted and the philosophers were swallowed up by the gloom.
Jan looks suspiciously at the groups of men who now stand desultorily around.
"Who was standing beside the prisoner just now?" he asks curtly.
"When, captain?" queries one of the men blandly.
"A moment ago. I was descending the steps. The lanthorn was close to the prisoner; I saw two forms—that looked unfamiliar to me—close to him."
"Oh!" rejoined Piet the Red unblushingly, "it must have been my back that you saw, captain. Willem and I were looking to see that the ropes had not given way. The prisoner is so restless...."
Jan—not altogether re-assured—goes up to the prisoner. He raises the lanthorn and has a good and comprehensive look at all the ropes. Then he examines the man's face.
"What ho!" he cries, "a bottle of spiced wine from my wallet. The prisoner has fainted."