John was silent.
“I will answer you—William of Nassau—I think his agents are there now below urging the people on.”
“Cornelius—I do not credit it—ah! do not let us fill our thoughts with such images.”
He moved away from the window, his hand to his brow.
“Not now,” he added—“not now.”
Cornelius looked at him with a fierce tenderness. He had never from the first alarm thought to save himself, but he had not anticipated the horror of involving his brother in his fate.
“I was mad to send for you,” he said bitterly.
John de Witt did not speak.
He sat droopingly in one of the rush-bottomed chairs, his black velvet mantle hanging from his shoulders, his long hair and the silk ties of his cravat falling over his breast; the clear-cut, fine lines of his face were set off by the heavy lace round his throat; his thick brows were slightly contracted; the firm, full lips set resolutely under the slight moustache.
He gazed absently at the rough prison floor and mean walls to which his destiny had narrowed: endeavour, achievement, dignities, honour, labour, the council, the Cabinet, high hopes, noble toil, all come to this paltry square of boards and plaster where he sat forsaken.