ane of
mighty fury had vented itself upon it.

About four o'clock a return of the noise was heard, but of no
threatening character to Gryphus and his daughter. The people were only
dragging in the two corpses, which they came back to gibbet at the usual
place of execution.

Rosa hid herself this time also, but only that she might not see the
ghastly spectacle.

At midnight, people again knocked at the gate of the jail, or rather
at the barricade which served in its stead: it was Cornelius van Baerle
whom they were bringing.

When the jailer received this new inmate, and saw from the warrant the
name and station of his prisoner, he muttered with his turnkey smile,--

"Godson of Cornelius de Witt! Well, young man, we have the family cell
here, and we will give it to you."

And quite enchanted with his joke, the ferocious Orangeman took his
cresset and his keys to conduct Cornelius to the cell, which on that
very morning Cornelius de Witt had left to go into exile, or what in
revolutionary times is meant instead by those sublime philosophers who
lay it down as an axiom of high policy, "It is the dead only who do not
return."

On the way which the despairing florist had to traverse to reach that
cell he heard nothing but the barking of a dog, and saw nothing but the
face of a young girl.

The dog rushed forth from a niche in the wall, shaking his heavy
chain, and sniffing all round Cornelius in order so much the better to
recognise him in case he should be ordered to pounce upon him.

The young girl, whilst the prisoner was mounting the staircase, appeared
at the narrow door of her chamber, which opened on that very flight of
steps; and, holding the lamp in her right hand, she at the same time
lit up her pretty blooming face, surrounded by a profusion of rich
wavy golden locks, whilst with her left she held her white night-dress
closely over her breast, having been roused from her first slumber by
the unexpected arrival of Van Baerle.

It would have made a fine picture, worthy of Rembrandt, the gloomy
winding stairs illuminated by the reddish glare of the cresset of
Gryphus, with his scowling jailer's countenance at the top, the
melancholy figure of Cornelius bending over the banister to look down
upon the sweet face of Rosa, standing, as it were, in the bright frame
of the door of her chamber, with embarrassed mien at being thus seen by
a stranger.

And at the bottom, quite in the shade, where the details ar