There, by the dim light of a lamp, sat his servant asleep.
“Van den Wissel,” said John de Witt.
The man woke with a start and a confused excuse.
“No matter,” answered his master. “I am going home now.”
He gave the servant the candle, and the three traversed the silent corridors of the Binnenhof.
In the courtyard was a little delay while Van den Wissel lit a torch with which to guide them home.
As the chimes of the Groote Kerk struck twelve, they set out across the Buitenhof, the servant ahead bearing the torch, and Van Ouvenaller following with the dispatch-bag.
The outer air and the movement refreshed the Grand Pensionary. He found the dark night and the darker outlines of the fine buildings grateful to his tired eyes, the silence pleasant after the scratching of the quills and the weary voice of the little clerk.
His anxious thoughts took a more peaceful turn; his pious fancy imagined the serene stars promised protection from the God they concealed.