M. de Witt pushed back the long dark hair from his ravaged face, and fixed the secretary with a cold and undaunted look.
“Why are you come here to read me that?” he demanded.
The soldier replied—
“We desire your signature.”
“I think,” said the Ruard scornfully, “ye do not find it necessary.”
“As collector of taxes, superintendent of the dykes, magistrate of Dordt, and Ruard of Putten—your signature is indeed necessary.”
Maria de Witt raised her face.
“Do you not hear them in the street?” she whispered.
Her husband neither answered her nor looked in her direction.
“Read this document,” he ordered curtly.