Jacob de Witt seated himself in his usual place by the hearth; his hands clasped in his lap. His silver-bound Bible was on the table by his side.
With dim but resolute eyes he looked on at his son and his son’s children, and in his heart he gave thanks to God for his noble offspring.
John de Witt was such an one as the pure faith might be proud of; one who had followed in the footsteps of the early members of a stern and persecuted faith; one such as Jacob de Witt would have his son, an upright and humble servant of high things.
Very far away seemed the clamour of the factions, the rumours of wars, the jealousies, the ambitions, the heat of politics; very far from this peaceful home of John de Witt.
Neither did it seem possible that hate or malice should enter here, that lies or calumny, or any ignoble passions, should strike at such goodness and such innocence.
The vilest must love John de Witt, the meanest respect him in his simple, bereaved, and united home.
His helpless children were not more spotless, more free of dishonour, than he who for twenty years had guided a great nation through a difficult and perilous way.
And how are they rewarding him? thought Jacob de Witt grimly. How are they rewarding him?
Into the gathered peace and silence came a distant, ominous sound.