They worked themselves up again into the fury the actual presence of the de Witts had cowed. Tichelaer and his followers, among them a lusty butcher armed with an axe, pushed between the brothers, separating them by the width of the room.
Some one struck John de Witt on the face, cursing him.
The insult brought the blood to his cheek.
“Fellow, I will not take that!” he said, and cast the man down.
It was the signal; here was the incentive. A dozen clutching hands laid hold on John de Witt’s mantle.
“Ah, do you lay hands on me!” he cried, and lifted high his mantle to screen his face.
Verhoef gave him a push that made him stagger and fall.
“Behold the downfall of the Perpetual Edict!” shrieked Tichelaer.
John de Witt got to his feet again; there was a look of startled horror on his face. The handkerchief was shaken from his head and the blood ran down his collar.
They were quick to see his anguish, and laughed, seizing him by the arms and dragging him towards the door.