Emptiness and perfect blackness seemed about him; he put his hand to his head and felt it warm and wet.
“Van Ouvenaller,” he called faintly.
There was no answer.
By the aid of the railings he got to his feet.
His right shoulder gave him exquisite pain; his strength seemed to have been utterly robbed from him.
He clutched at his collar that was all sticky with blood, and gave a soft exclamation.
“God be with me if this is death,” he said dazedly.
Then across the night he saw the light they always left for him in his room—at home.
A sudden waft of perfume from the limes came to his nostrils.
“I will not die in the streets, like a gallant in a tavern brawl,” he thought, and forced his failing strength to drag him on. Clutching the railings, the tree-trunks, staggering, falling once or twice to his knees, John de Witt gained his house at the corner of the Kneuterdyk Avenue.