“I am wounded——”
“Where is Borrebagh?”
“Here.”
“Where shall we go?”
“To Van Dyck’s house.”
“Make haste.”
So four hoarse voices passed to and fro as the assassins stumbled among their victims; then they made off across the Plaats with all the haste terror, exultation, and their wounds would permit them.
Once more it was utterly silent on the Plaats.
The great chimes of the Groote Kerk struck through a warm stillness.
John de Witt sat up and fumbled in the dark.