flesh of its victims, but faithfully carried the remainder to the gibbet, to have a pretext for a double inscription, written on a huge placard, on which Cornelius, with the keen sight of a young man of twenty-eight, was able to read the following lines, daubed by the coarse brush of a sign-painter,—
“Here are hanging the great rogue of the name of John De Witte, and the little rogue Cornelius De Witte, his brother, two enemies of the people, but great friends of the king of France.”
Cornelius uttered a cry of horror, and in the agony of his frantie terror, knocked with his hands and feet at his door so violently and continuously, that Gryphus, with his huge bunch of keys in his hand, ran furiously up to him.
The jailer opened the door, with terrible imprecations against the prisoner, who disturbed him at an hour at which master Gryphus was not accustomed to be aroused.
“Well, now, I declare, he is mad, this new De Witte,” he cried; “but all those De Wittes have the devil in them.”
“Master, master,” cried Cornelius, seizing the jailer by the arm and dragging him towards the window; “master, what have I read down there?”
“Where, down there?”
“On that placard.”
And trembling, pale and gasping for breath, he pointed to the gibbet at the other side of the yard, with the cynic inscription surmounting it.
Gryphus broke out in a laugh.
“Eh! Eh!” he answered, “so, you have read it. Well, my good sir, that’s what people will get for corresponding with the enemies of His Highness the Prince of Orange.”
“The brothers De Witte are murdered!” Cornelius
