But as he neared the Gevangenpoort he must needs think of John Van Olden Barnenveldt and gloomy auguries.
They turned under the prison, through the low gate on which it was built; the spreading light of the torch showed the heavy walls closely confining them, and John de Witt shivered in his velvet.
He was glad when they reached the trees surrounding the Vyver.
It was solitary, as always at this time of night, but he thought he heard an unaccountable sound.
“Van Ouvenaller,” he spoke over his shoulder, “do you hear anything?”
“Nothing, Mynheer,” was the sleepy answer.
“I thought I heard some one draw a sword,” replied John de Witt, peering into the shadows of the trees.
Even as he spoke there was a great cry from his servant; the torch was swung up into the air, where it scattered sparks across the blackness, then dashed to the earth; some dark shapes leapt forward.…
“Ah!” cried John de Witt, with a quick intake of his breath.
“We have been waiting for you,” answered a youthful voice, “watching your light yonder … traitor!”