his thoughts recurred to that horrible day not a
year ago when the brutal mob had torn to pieces the noblest men in the
realm--his friends, the brothers De Witt. He could scarcely retain his
tears even now at the memory of the martyred patriots, whose
ignominiously gibbeted bodies the police had only dared remove in the
secrecy of the small hours. It was hard even for the philosopher to
remember that the brutes did but express the essence of their being,
even as he expressed his. Nevertheless Reason did not demand that
theirs should destroy his: the reverse sooner, had he the power. So,
turning the corner of the street, he slipped into his favorite
book-shop in the Spuistraat and sought at once safety and delectation
among the old folios and the new Latin publications and the beautiful
productions of the Elzevirs of Amsterdam.

"Hast thou Stoupe's _Religion des Hollandois_?" he asked, with a
sudden thought.

"Inquire elsewhere," snapped the bookseller surlily.

"_Et tu, Brute!_" said Spinoza, smiling. "Dost thou also join the hue
and cry? Methinks heresy should nourish thy trade. A wilderness of
counterblasts, treatises, tractlets, pasquinades--the more the
merrier, eh?"

The bookseller stared. "Thou to come in and ask for Stoupe's book?
'Tis--'tis--brazen!"

Spinoza was perplexed. "Brazen? Is it because he talks of me in it?"

"Heer Spinoza," said the bookseller solemnly, "thy Cartesian
commentary has brought me a many pence, and if thou thyself hast
browsed more than bought, thou wast welcome to take whatever thou
couldst carry away in that long head of thine. But to serve thee now
is more than I dare, with the populace so wrought up against thee.
What! Didst thou think thy doings in Utrecht would not penetrate
hither?"

"My doings in Utrecht!"

"Ay, in the enemy's headquarters--betraying us to the periwigs!"

Spinoza was taken aback. This was even more serious than he had
thought. It was for supposed leaning to the French that the De Witts
had been massacred. Political odium was even more sinister than
theological. Perhaps he had been unwise to accept in war-time the
Prince of Conde's flattering invitation to talk philosophy. To get to
the French camp with the Marshal's safe-conduct had been easy enough:
to get back to his own headquarters bade fair to be another matter.
But then why had the Dutch authorities permitted him to go? Surely
such unique confidence was testimonial enough.

"Oh, but this is ab