But the Count was not the man to allow them to approach within an inconvenient distance.
“Stop!” he cried, “stop, and keep off from my horse, or I shall give the word of command to advance.”
“Here is the order!” a hundred insolent voices answered at once.
He took it in amazement, cast a rapid glance on it, and said quite aloud:—
“Those who have signed this order are the real murderers of Cornelius de Witte. I would rather have my two hands cut off than have written one single letter of this infamous order.”
And, pushing back with the hilt of his sword the man who wanted to take it from him, he added:—
“Wait a minute, papers like this are of importance, and are to be kept.”
Saying this, he folded up the document, and carefully put it in the pocket of his coat.
Then, turning round towards his troop, he gave the word of command:—
“Tilly’s dragoons, wheel to the right!”
After this, he added, in an undertone, yet loud enough for his words to be not altogether lost to those about him:—
“And now, ye butchers, do your work!”
A savage yell, in which all the keen hatred and ferocious triumph rife in the precincts of the prison simultaneously burst forth, and accompanied the departure of the dragoons, as they were quietly filing off.
The Count tarried behind, facing to the last the infuriated populace, which advanced at the same rate as the Count retired.
John de Witte, therefore, had by no means exaggerated the danger, when, assisting his brother in getting up, he hurried his departure. Cornelius,
