“Then make an end now,” he exclaimed passionately. “I would rather be stabbed in my bed than be torn to pieces by the mob.”
“Oh, my dear Mynheer, if you would only sign!” cried the secretary.
“I cannot.”
Maria de Witt went on her knees, clasping her hands against the coverlet.
“Oh, Cornelius—I must entreat.”
He turned his sad brown eyes on her with an expression of gentle reproach.
“Ah, you!” he said. “You have always been so brave—so careful of my honour.”
“I cannot face this,” she answered desperately. “I cannot—they will murder you—and the children are in the house.”
“You must send them away.”
“It is impossible—there is a crowd back and front.”