“I do not think of myself.”
“Of whom then?”
“My brother.”
A shade crossed William’s face.
“Your brother,” he repeated.
John de Witt rose.
“My brother—unjustly accused, unjustly tried; a victim to the fears of the magistrates, the passions of the crowd.”
William faced him.
“I cannot believe your brother guilty,” he said; “yet he has failed to clear himself on his trial—and the man who was killed at my feet in the camp mentioned his name—yet—I do not believe it.”
“Then,” cried M. de Witt, “save him, for you alone can!”