“I would not have believed they would have done it … no … have given that order … not that.…” said John faintly.
He stood with his hand on his breast, his eyes wide.
The refined and beautiful body shrank from the thought of torture and humiliation as the noble soul blenched from degradation and shame.
He was afraid of the manner of his death; drew back from it with loathing as he would from a sight of horror.
A volley of musketry sounded, and violent blows; the crowd were attacking the prison door.
John put his hand over his eyes; an awful, sick giddiness overcame him.
Cornelius struggled to his feet and caught his blue mantle round him.
“Is there no way out?” muttered John. He moved desperately from one side of the prison to the other, and beat his hand against the cruel iron bars—trapped—forsaken.
With a hideous, harsh crash of iron on iron the door below gave way; yells and the crash of weapons came up the narrow stairway, and one of the burgher officers rushed in, crying—
“They are in! They are forcing Van Bossi to give them the keys.”