At the door of the prison-house, on the right, a small, mean entrance, were two soldiers of the burgher guard.
They had been placed there ever since the attempt of the mob to carry forth Cornelius de Witt.
John de Witt set his lips.
The moment cost him something.
M. Van Ouvenaller rang the heavy iron bell.
The gaoler opened to them, and almost immediately.
“Which way?” asked M. de Witt.
The gaoler stared.
“Come,” said M. Van Ouvenaller, “you know M. John de Witt.”
The man pulled off his cap at that, and M. de Witt followed him across the narrow threshold and up a narrow stairway, worn, old and dark, that wound up to a long, dark corridor lit by small windows giving on the inner courtyard.