“Is this No. 11?” he asked.
“Yes, Captain,” answered a non-commissioned officer.
“Then this is the cell of the prisoner Cornelius Van Baerle?”
“Exactly, Captain.”
“Where is the prisoner?”
“Here I am, sir,” answered Cornelius, growing rather pale, notwithstanding all his courage.
“You are Doctor Cornelius Van Baerle?” asked he, this time addressing the prisoner himself.
“Yes, sir.”
“Then follow me.”
“Oh! oh!” said Cornelius, whose heart felt oppressed by the first dread of death. “What quick work they make here in the fortress of Lœvestein. And the rascal talked to me of twelve hours!”
“Ah! what did I tell you?” whispered the communicative guard into the ear of the culprit.
“A lie.”
“How so?”
“You promised me twelve hours.”
“Ah, yes, but here comes to you an aid-de-camp of His Highness, even one of his most intimate companions, Van Decken. Zounds! they did not grant such an honour to poor Mathias.”
“Come, come!” said Cornelius, drawing a long breath. “Come, I’ll show to these people that an honest burgher, godson of Cornelius De Witte, can, without flinching, receive as many musket-balls as that Mathias.”
Saying this, he passed proudly before the clerk, who, being interrupted in his work, ventured to say to the officer,—
“But, Captain Van Decken, the protocol is not yet finished.”
