“And why that?”
“Because Van Baerle will neither give up the parcel nor burn it without a special command to do so.”
“But will you be able to write, poor old fellow?” John asked, with a look on the scorched and bruised hands of the unfortunate sufferer.
“If I had pen and ink you would soon see,” said Cornelius.
“Here is a pencil, at any rate.”
“Have you any paper? for they have left me nothing.”
“Here, take this Bible, and tear out the fly leaf.”
“Very well, that will do.”
“But your writing will be illegible.”
“Just leave me alone for that,” said Cornelius. “The executioners have indeed pinched me badly enough, but my hand will not tremble once in tracing the few lines which are requisite.”
And really Cornelius took the pencil and began to write, when through the white linen bandages drops of blood oozed out which the pressure of the fingers against the pencil squeezed from the raw flesh.
A cold sweat stood on the brow of the Grand Pensionary.
Cornelius wrote:—
“My dear Godson,—
“Burn the parcel which I have entrusted to you. Burn it without looking at it, and without opening it, so that its contents may for ever remain unknown to yourself. Secrets of this description are death to those with whom they are deposited. Burn it, and you will have saved John and Cornelius de Witte.
“August 20th, 1672.” “Cornelius de Witte.”
