When she returned to the hall she found John de Witt senseless in the chair outside the dining-room door and his sister bending over him, her spotless gown stained with blood as she strove to stanch the wound in his throat.
In a moment the whole house was in a commotion. M. de Witt had only two men-servants, one of whom had been with him at the Binnenhof; but the coachman and the other private clerk, M. Bacherus, carried him up to his room; then hurried out with torches to fetch a doctor and search for the other victims.
Jacob de Witt lost his usual resignation; he wrung his hands and cried out for Cornelius, for he was very old.
Anna led him gently away.
“God does not will that my father should die,” she said. “We must not complain, but rather rejoice that through a miracle he hath been saved.”
“God’s will be done,” said the old man, but the tears rolled down his pale cheeks.
Anna sat beside him, holding his hand, in the dining-room, where the untouched supper showed pleasant in the candlelight, while the doctors went upstairs.
Presently M. Wilde entered.
“The wounds are not mortal,” he said. “M. de Witt will live.”