A coach was drawn by a pair of fresh brown horses, at a gallop through the quiet village of Ryswyck, an hour short of the Hague.
The sun was near its setting, and the peasants leaving their work turned to mark with surprise the haste of the coach as it swung on its leathers along the smooth white road.
It had just reached the little church with the lead cupola when a horseman spurred up from the opposite direction.
“Halt!” he cried.
He spoke with such an air of authority that the coachman drew rein, swerved his vehicle, and stopped.
“Do you ride to the Hague?” asked the horseman, panting.
“Ay, to the Hague;” the man stared at his questioner.
“Then turn back! turn back! … the Hague is no place for honest men … turn back!”
His voice and face were wild, his appearance dishevelled.
“The MM. de Witt have been murdered!” he said hoarsely, “two hours ago—my God! my God! They were to hang them on the gibbet—they dragged them out of the prison for that end—but they had not got them through the gate before they tore them to bits.… There was nought left to tell John from Cornelius save the difference in their height.…”