“How far is the Prince’s camp?” asked John de Witt.
“Eight leagues, they say.”
The gaoler added that the Hague was in a hideous state of ferment and passion, and that the States feared a general riot, in which every one of republican sympathies would be massacred.
John de Witt rose with an uncontrollable sound of anguish, for he thought of his family separated from him by only a few yards, yet at the mercy of the mob.
“O God, my God,” he cried, “spare me that at least!”
Cornelius struggled into a sitting position.
“Van Bossi,” he said firmly, “desire some of these burghers to come and speak with us.”
John turned eagerly.
“Yes, bring these men before us—let them state their grievances to our faces.”
“Mynheeren, I dare not bring any of them into the prison.”