They slammed the oak door upon us. We lay in the darkness. In the next room when most of them departed, we fancied some half a dozen had been left to guard us. We heard their voices; the light from their candles showed through the chinks of the interior log wall.
We whispered to each other. We were worried about Nanette but she was unhurt.
"Yes, all right, Alan. But I'm so frightened."
"At least it's better than being in Turber's hands, Nanette." If we could escape now, there might still be time to get back to the tower. If not—well, we might be stranded here to live out our lives in New Amsterdam. But at least, these Dutchmen probably would not murder us.
But could we escape? It seemed impossible. We lay in the darkness on the log floor, bound securely.
An interval went by. There was a stir outside. Thumping. More voices. The door opened. Peter Stuyvesant came in. He stood, balanced upon his wooden leg and regarded us in the light of a candle held aloft. Eyed us as though we were some monstrosities; poked at us with the peg of his leg; and turned and stumped back to the doorway.
And in the doorway then, I saw Wolf Turber standing! Turber, in his black cloak, his white shirt gleaming beneath it. His sardonic gaze upon us.
The thing struck us with such surprise and horror that neither Alan nor I moved, or spoke. The door was left open. Turber and Stuyvesant sat at a table. The candlelight showed them plainly. There seemed now only one other man in the room—some trusted patroon, no doubt.
Turber spoke this contemporary Dutch. They conversed. We could hear them, but could not understand a word.