The window commanded a view of the Plaats, the Vyver, and the Kneuterdyk Avenue, with John de Witt’s house at the corner, and the window in the narrow corridor looked on to the court enclosed by the prison building, but they were without any means of discovering what was happening in the Buitenhof opposite the prison door.
In a few moments M. Ouvenaller returned, pallid and trembling.
“Ah, Mynheer,” he exclaimed, “there is an angry crowd gathered—they have sent away your carriage, and I fear that M. Bacherus will not be able to return.”
“What is this?” cried Cornelius, starting up. “John, you must go at once—I should never have sent for you!”
“What do they say?” asked the younger de Witt.
“They say that they will not have Mynheer Cornelius leave in triumph, but that he must go on foot.”
“Is Tichelaer there?”
“Yes, among the ringleaders—calling horrid names on you both, Mynheeren!”
“John,” said Cornelius firmly, “you must leave me while you—can.”