The light of the sunset was still bright enough for him to see.
“Lucifer calls from Hell, ‘When is Cornelius de Witt coming? I grow impatient—let him come at once, let him bring his brother but leave his head!’
“Lucifer calls from Hell, ‘When are the de Witts coming?’
“The burghers call from the Hague, ‘Expect them to-morrow!’”
John de Witt stood on the church step staring at the paper.
The rapture died from his face; his eyes widened and his cheek paled.
Rapidly the sunset faded.
Another barge went by, a shadow in the dusk; it brought no image of peace now to the man at the door of the church.
What is brewing—what is enmeshing us?
He did not enter the church, but turned back to his own house slowly.