Opposite one of these windows the gaoler stopped, slipped back the bolts from a low, heavy wooden door, and stood aside for M. de Witt to enter.
He stepped into a fair-sized room with a rough-beamed ceiling, plaster walls, a low-arched, brick fireplace, and one window overlooking the Plaats and barred lengthwise and across with iron.
There were a few chairs, rush-bottomed, a handsome carved table, and opposite the fireplace, and sideways to the window, a simple wooden bed, on which lay Cornelius in his nightgown, a red coverlet over him; near him stood a second, smaller table, on which were a few books and a shining, brass candlestick.
Seeing the door open, Cornelius raised himself on his elbow expectantly.
John de Witt crossed the room, the clerks, servant, and the gaoler behind him.
When the brothers had parted, four months ago, one had been the governor of his country at home, the other the guardian of her honour at sea; they had been treated with deference, surrounded with respect; the greatest men in the land … four months ago.
They were both stately and of austere manners, both mindful that they were not alone.
“How are you, brother?” asked John, advancing to the bedside. “I have not seen you since your return from the Fleet.”
Cornelius was equally resolved not to show the feeling that was too deep indeed for expression.
“Nor I you since your wounds and illness,” he answered.