see from heaven above, at Ceylon, or Bengal, or elsewhere, when he would be able to look with pity on this earth, where John and Cornelius De Witte had been murdered, for having thought too much of politics, and where Cornelius Van Baerle was about to be murdered for having thought too much of tulips.
“It is only one stroke of the axe,” said the philosopher to himself, “and my beautiful dream will begin to be realised.”
Only there was still a chance, just as it had happened before to M. De Chalais, to M. De Thou, and other slovenly-executed people, that the headsman might inflict more than one stroke, that is to say, more than one martyrdom, on the poor tulip-fancier.
Yet, notwithstanding all this, Van Baerle mounted the scaffold not the less resolutely, proud of having been the friend of that illustrious John, and godson of that noble Cornelius De Witte, whom the ruffians, who were now crowding to witness his own doom, had torn to pieces and burnt three days before.
He knelt down, said his prayers, and observed, not without a feeling of sincere joy, that laying his head on the block, and keeping his eyes open, he would be able, to his last moment, to see the grated window of the Buitenhof.
At length the fatal moment arrived, and Cornelius placed his chin on the cold, damp block. But in this moment, his eyes closed involuntarily, to receive more resolutely the terrible avalanche which was about to fall on his head, and to engulf his life.
A gleam, like that of lightning, passed across the scaffold: it was the executioner raising his sword.
Van Baerle bade farewell to the grand black tulip, certain of awaking in another world full of light and glorious tints.
