“Oh, my lady!” cried the coachman, and sat stunned.
The villagers had gathered round and were listening in a bewildered terror. The horseman dismounted, so possessed by what he had seen that he must babble of it.
“I say they cut their hearts out.… They are hanging head downwards on the gibbet—all red … the MM. de Witt!… See, I bought this … for two sous.… They cut off his fingers for he used them to sign the Perpetual Edict.”
He unfolded his cloak from something he carried against his breast and held it out.
“Oh, my lady!” moaned the coachman and let the reins fall.
The coach door was opened, a lady in a garnet-coloured mantle stepped out and came towards the increasing and horrified group.
“What have you got there?” she asked in a strange voice. “Show it to me.”
The horseman turned to her frantically.
“I saw it done—while he lived, too—look!”
He held out a beautiful human hand, torn and bloody, half enwrapped in a length of fine lace.