“What do you want me to do?” he asked them. “Where do you want me to go?”
He was as calm and resigned as he had been before the torture. He tried to draw on his violet stocking over his maimed foot, but was so threatened with a dagger at his throat that he had to stumble to the floor undressed as he was.
“What do you want with me?” he repeated haughtily.
“You will soon find out!” they shouted back; and Tichelaer turned on John, who was advancing towards his brother.
“Do you wish my life?” asked de Witt. “Very well, then take it.”
But Verhoef caught Tichelaer back.
“These traitors must die on the gibbet!” he cried. “Spare them till then.”
Again the hideousness of his death presented itself overwhelmingly to de Witt; he drew back against the plaster walls, sick at heart.
“Are you all less than men?” he demanded. “Give me a sword——”
He made a futile effort to snatch one from the crowd ringing him round.