quietly said the Grand Pensionary, approaching the window.
“No, on the contrary, John, we shall at the same time save our lives and regain our popularity.”
“But what have you done with these letters?”
“I have entrusted them to the care of Cornelius van Baerle, my godson, whom you know, and who lives at Dort.”
“Poor honest Van Baerle! who knows so much, and yet thinks of nothing but of flowers and of God who made them. You have entrusted him with this fatal secret; it will be his ruin, poor soul!”
“His ruin?”
“Yes, for he will either be strong or he will be weak. If he is strong, he will, when he hears of what has happened to us, boast of our acquaintance; if he is weak, he will be afraid on account of his connection with us: if he is strong, he will betray the secret by his boldness; if he is weak, he will allow it to be forced from him. In either case he is lost, and so are we. Let us, therefore, fly, fly, as long as there is still time.”
Cornelius de Witte, raising himself on his couch, and grasping the hand of his brother, who shuddered at the touch of his linen bandages, replied:—
“Do not I know my godson? have not I been enabled to read every thought in Van Baerle’s mind, and every sentiment in his heart? You ask whether he is strong or weak. He is neither the one nor the other; but that is not now the question. The principal point is, that he is sure not to divulge the secret, for the very good reason that he does not know it himself.”
John turned round in surprise.
“You must know, my dear brother, that I have been trained in the school of that distinguished politician John De Witte; and I repeat to you, that Van Baerle
