“Is the Stadtholder still at the Hague?” asked M. de Witt.
“Mynheer, he left for Woerden at half-past eight this morning.”
John de Witt entered in silence his brother’s room, leaving his clerk and servant below. He found Cornelius reading a little Elzevir Horace, which he held awkwardly in his bandaged hands.
“Cornelius.”
“John—returned!”
They were alone now, unwatched; their one care to conceal their uneasiness from each other.
“I cannot leave the prison,” said John, seating himself beside the bed, “the streets are too disordered——”
“Trapped!” muttered Cornelius, “trapped!—that rogue Tichelaer means my death.”
“The gaoler has sent his servant to the States,” answered his brother quickly, “to demand protection for the prison.”