“You cannot leave without an order!” a soldier shouted.
“Whose order do you require?” asked John de Witt.
“That of our officer.”
The crowd began hurrying up from all quarters; seeing who stood in the doorway, they raised a shout of—
“Fire! Fire!”
A musket was discharged.
John de Witt coloured with anger, and was in the act of forcing his way out, regardless of the threatening yells, when the gaoler thrust him violently back and quickly closed the door.
John de Witt had been handled with such force that he stumbled and fell at the foot of the stairs.
As he rose again he lifted the long, disordered hair from his face, on which was an expression of horror, as if he had seen an image of hideous death.
“I wish I were out of this,” he muttered. “How can I get out of this?”