He was about to speak, but such a furious shouting rose from the Plaats that he was silent.
John went to the window.
He saw Tichelaer, the foam whitening his horse, ride up to Tilly, a paper in his hand.
“He has the order!” exclaimed John de Witt; and even as he spoke the command was given, the dragoons wheeled round and galloped away across the Plaats, the triumphant crowd making way for them … howling, yelling.
“Have they gone?” asked Cornelius grimly.
John’s beautiful hand clutched the cold bars.
“Oh, this is a bitter way to die!” he murmured.
He turned his head that he might not see the struggling press below; the ferocious, distorted faces of men and women hastening on with shining arms and glittering knives burning in the sunshine.
“Why were not the bullets merciful at Southwold bay?” exclaimed Cornelius. “I would rather have death any way but this—the life beaten out of me by those curs!”
He made a passionate gesture with his bandaged hand towards the window.