“Well, if you have seen it with your own eyes, that’s a different case altogether.”
“At all events,” said the servant, “I shall go and inquire once more; be you quiet, sir, I shall let you know all about it.”
Boxtel contented himself with signifying his approval of the zeal of his servant by dumb-show.
The man went out, and returned in half an hour.
“Oh, sir! all that I told you is indeed quite true.”
“How so?”
“Mynheer Van Baerle is arrested, and has been put into a carriage, and they are driving him to the Hague.”
“To the Hague?”
“Yes, to the Hague; and if what people say is true, it won’t do him much good.”
“And what do they say?” Boxtel asked.
“Faith, sir, they say—but it is not quite sure that by this hour the burghers must be murdering Mynheer Cornelius and Mynheer John De Witte.”
“Oh!” muttered, or rather growled, Boxtel, closing his eyes from the dreadful picture which presented itself to his imagination.
“Why, to be sure,” said the servant to himself, whilst leaving the room, “Mynheer Isaac Boxtel must be very sick not to have jumped from his bed on hearing such good news.”
And, in reality, Isaac Boxtel was very sick, like a man who has murdered another.
But he had murdered his man with a double object; the first was attained, the second was still to be attained.
Night closed in. It was the night which Boxtel had looked forward to.
As soon as it was dark he got up.
He then climbed into his sycamore.
He had correctly calculated; no one thought of keep-
