He laid his hand on the bandage round his right arm, that covered a still aching wound.
The little senseless chatter of the birds in the branches, the faint murmurs of the wind, were not so strong as a tumult of imaginary sounds that beat loud and threatening on the inner senses of John de Witt.
The cries of an angry crowd, the beating of alarm bells, the hurrying of eager feet, swelling in volume, coming nearer.…
Through the green and gold and blue glimpsed a vision of these people: furious faces, threatening gestures, brandished weapons; dangerous, powerful, irresistible; a hymn of triumph, of hatred, on their lips, and their hearts hot for blood.
John de Witt rose and held out his hand before him as if sound and sight were real, and so stood for a moment, in the attitude of an orator, pleading before his enemies.
Then he turned quickly from the window and walked up and down the long, sunny room.
After a few moments he stopped and took down a gilt-clasped Bible from the shelf.
He opened it; but before his eyes were still the furious faces of his countrymen, and in his ears the ominous sound of their greedy, oncoming hate.