"Read, Monseigneur, for Heaven's sake, read!"
William handed the third bulb to Van Systens, took the

paper, and read.
No sooner had he looked at it than he began to stagger; his

hand trembled, and very nearly let the paper fall to the
ground; and the expression of pain and passion" target="_blank" title="n.同情；怜悯">compassion in his

features was really frightful to see.
It was that fly-leaf, taken from the Bible, which Cornelius

de Witt had sent to Dort by Craeke, the servant of his
brother John, to request Van Baerle to burn the

correspondence of the Grand Pensionary with the Marquis de
Louvois.

This request, as the reader may remember, was couched in the
following terms: --

"My Dear Godson, --
"Burn the parcel which I have intrusted 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 Witt.
"Farewell, and love me.

Cornelius de Witt.
"August 20, 1672."

This slip of paper offered the proofs both of Van Baerle's
innocence and of his claim to the property of the tulip.

Rosa and the Stadtholder exchanged one look only.
That of Rosa was meant to express, "Here, you see yourself."

That of the Stadtholder signified, "Be quiet, and wait."
The Prince wiped the cold sweat from his forehead, and

slowly folded up the paper, whilst his thoughts were
wandering in that labyrinth without a goal and without a

guide, which is called remorse and shame for the past.
Soon, however, raising his head with an effort, he said, in

his usual voice, --
"Go, Mr. Boxtel; justice shall be done, I promise you."

Then, turning to the President, he added, --
"You, my dear Mynheer van Systens, take charge of this young

woman and of the tulip. Good-bye."
All bowed, and the Prince left, among the deafening cheers

of the crowd outside.
Boxtel returned to his inn, rather puzzled and uneasy,

tormented by misgivings about that paper which William had
received from the hand of Rosa, and which his Highness had

read, folded up, and so carefully put in his pocket. What
was the meaning of all this?

Rosa went up to the tulip, tenderly kissed its leaves and,
with a heart full of happiness and confidence in the ways of

God, broke out in the words, --
"Thou knowest best for what end Thou madest my good

Cornelius teach me to read."
Chapter 28

The Hymn of the Flowers
Whilst the events we have described in our last chapter were

taking place, the unfortunate Van Baerle, forgotten in his
cell in the fortress of Loewestein, suffered at the hands of

Gryphus all that a prisoner can suffer when his jailer has
formed the determination of playing the part of hangman.

Gryphus, not having received any tidings of Rosa or of
Jacob, persuaded himself that all that had happened was the

devil's work, and that Dr. Cornelius van Baerle had been
sent on earth by Satan.

The result of it was, that, one fine morning, the third
after the disappearance of Jacob and Rosa, he went up to the

cell of Cornelius in even a greater rage than usual.
The latter, leaning with his elbows on the window-sill and

supporting his head with his two hands, whilst his eyes
wandered over the distant hazy horizon where the windmills

of Dort were turning their sails, was breathing the fresh
air, in order to be able to keep down his tears and to

fortify himself in his philosophy.
The pigeons were still there, but hope was not there; there

was no future to look forward to.
Alas! Rosa, being watched, was no longer able to come. Could

she not write? and if so, could she convey her letters to
him?

No, no. He had seen during the two preceding days too much
fury and malignity in the eyes of old Gryphus to expect that

his vigilance would relax, even for one moment. Moreover,
had not she to suffer even worse torments than those of

seclusion and separation? Did this brutal, blaspheming,
drunken bully take revenge on his daughter, like the

ruthless fathers of the Greek drama? And when the Genievre
had heated his brain, would it not give to his arm, which

had been only too well set by Cornelius, even double force?
The idea that Rosa might perhaps be ill-treated nearly drove

Cornelius mad.
He then felt his own powerlessness. He asked himself whether

God was just in inflicting so much tribulation on two
innocent creatures. And certainly in these moments he began

to doubt the wisdom of Providence. It is one of the curses
of misfortune that it thus begets doubt.

Van Baerle had proposed to write to Rosa, but where was she?
He also would have wished to write to the Hague to be

beforehand with Gryphus, who, he had no doubt, would by
denouncing him do his best to bring new storms on his head.

But how should he write? Gryphus had taken the paper and
pencil from him, and even if he had both, he could hardly

expect Gryphus to despatch his letter.
Then Cornelius revolved in his mind all those stratagems

resorted to by unfortunate prisoners.
He had thought of an attempt to escape, a thing which never

entered his head whilst he could see Rosa every day; but the
more he thought of it, the more clearly he saw the

impracticability of such an attempt. He was one of those
choice spirits who abhor everything that is common, and who

often lose a good chance through not taking the way of the
vulgar, that high road of mediocrity which leads to

everything.
"How is it possible," said Cornelius to himself, "that I

should escape from Loewestein, as Grotius has done the same
thing before me? Has not every precaution been taken since?

Are not the windows barred? Are not the doors of double and
even of treble strength, and the sentinels ten times more

watchful? And have not I, besides all this, an Argus so much
the more dangerous as he has the keen eyes of hatred?

Finally, is there not one fact which takes away all my
spirit, I mean Rosa's absence? But suppose I should waste

ten years of my life in making a file to file off my bars,
or in braiding cords to let myself down from the window, or

in sticking wings on my shoulders to fly, like Daedalus? But
luck is against me now. The file would get dull, the rope

would break, or my wings would melt in the sun; I should
surely kill myself, I should be picked up maimed and

crippled; I should be labelled, and put on exhibition in the
museum at the Hague between the blood-stained doublet of

William the Taciturn and the female walrus captured at
Stavesen, and the only result of my enterprise will have