John de Witt perceived his motive, but did not quarrel with it, since it equally well served his turn.
There were pen and ink on the table; tearing the fly-leaf from the French volume he wrote on it an urgent message to Van Ouvenaller, entreating him to conduct his children into a place of safety. He handed it to M. Ruysch.
“Give this to my clerk who is below,” he said; and with an earnest look of nobility that brought the blood to Ruysch’s cheek, he added simply, “I know very well what is ahead of me, and I ask you, as you fear God, to see my children safe.”
“I will do it,” answered Ruysch awkwardly.
He left, meanly glad to escape the task of protecting the brothers.
“I wish,” he said as he stepped from the prison, “that I had never seen the MM. de Witt.”
John now turned to the two burgher officers; with a disarming courtesy he bid them sit at the table, and Cornelius offered them wine.
“You are brave men and honourable citizens, my brother is innocent—you will defend him, you will assure the people he is innocent.”
The statesman who had guided his country through the storms of European politics for twenty years found no trouble in influencing a couple of ignorant burghers whom he employed all his arts to gain.