As he leant, exhausted, against the door-post it occurred to him that his appearance would frighten his sister and daughter, who might still be up.
He tried to fling his velvet mantle over himself, but could not.
A great giddiness came over him; he opened the door and stumbled into the quiet hall.
At the bottom of the stairs stood Anna de Witt in a white gown, her fair hair shining in the glimmer of the lamp she held.
“Oh!” she cried brokenly. “O—oh!” and ran forward.
John de Witt was blood from head to foot; his collar soaked from the wound in his throat, his hands red and torn, his shirt stained, his forehead bruised, and the hair clotted with the slow drippings from the gash in his head.
He tried to reassure his daughter.
“Dearest … I have escaped … why, this is nothing at all—get me a surgeon, Anna——”
The girl did not lose her presence of mind; she made no lamentations.
“Aunt Johanna!” she called strongly. “Aunt Johanna!”