“Oh, my good master Gryphus,” said Van Baerle, imploringly, and anxious, like the partridge robbed of her young by the reaper.
In fact, Gryphus was beginning to dig the soil with his crooked fingers.
“Take care, sir, take care,” said Cornelius, growing quite pale.
“Care of what! zounds of what?” roared the jailor.
“Take care, I say, you will crush it, Master Gryphus!”
And with a rapid and almost frantic movement he snatched the jug from the hands of Gryphus, and hid it like a treasure under his arms.
But Gryphus, obstinate, like an old man, and more and more convinced that he was discovering here a conspiracy against the Prince of Orange, rushed up to his prisoner, raising his stick; seeing, however, the impassible resolution of the captive to protect his flower-pot, he was convinced that Cornelius trembled much less for his head than for his jug.
He, therefore, tried to wrest it from him by force.
“Halloa!” said the jailor, furious, “here you see, you are rebelling.”
“Leave me my tulip,” cried Van Baerle.
“Ah, yes, tulip,” replied the old man, “we know well the shifts of prisoners.”
“But I vow to you”
“Let go,” repeated Gryphus, stamping his foot, “let go, or I shall call the guard.”
“Call who ever you like, but you shall not have this flower except with my life.”
Gryphus, exasperated, plunged his finger a second time into the soil, and now he drew out the bulb; which certainly looked quite black; and whilst Vau
