John de Witt sighed again.
A stork with a fish in its beak, looking like the very arms of the Hague, stood on the bank a moment, then flew off to one of the red roofs mounting like double steps to the highest stone of painted brick.
The sun was setting behind Ryswyck; the sight of the clear sky purged with celestial fire from all vapours and clouds animated the heart of John de Witt like prayer or music.
He bared his head.
It was quiet here, no one to molest or insult the melancholy, divine dignity of evening.
He crossed the little bridge before the church, walking lightly like one who does not think of the earth on which he treads.
It was over; his life-work done; nor was he afraid of God’s judgment on his actions though man had condemned them all.
He advanced to the church thinking to pray there, for his mood was exalted.
As he opened the door a paper pinned to it caught his eye.
It bore bold writing, and he stepped back to read.