Among other things they told him that this regulation had been carried out to its full extent in the case of a prisoner named Mathias, who in 1668, that is to say, five years before, had committed a much less violent act of rebellion than that of which Cornelius was guilty. He had found his soup too hot, and thrown it at the head of the chief turnkey, who in consequence of this ablution had been put to the inconvenience of having his skin come off as he wiped his face. Mathias was taken within twelve hours from his cell, then led to the jailer’s lodge, where he was registered as leaving Loewestein, then taken to the Esplanade, from which there is a very fine prospect over a wide expanse of country. There they fettered his hands, bandaged his eyes, and let him say his prayers. Hereupon he was invited to go down on his knees, and the guards of Loewestein, twelve in number, at a sign from a sergeant, very cleverly lodged a musket-ball each in his body. In consequence of this proceeding, Mathias incontinently did then and there die. Cornelius listened with the greatest attention to this delightful recital, and then said,-- “Ah! ah! within twelve hours, you say?” “Yes, the twelfth hour had not even struck, if I remember right,” said the guard who had told him the story. “Thank you,” said Cornelius. The guard still had the smile on his face with which he accompanied and as it were accentuated his tale, when footsteps and a jingling of spurs were heard ascending the stair-case. The guards fell back to allow an officer to pass, who entered the cell of Cornelius at the moment when the clerk of Loewestein was still making out his report. “Is this No. 11?” he asked. “Yes, Captain,” answered a non-commissioned officer. “Then this is the cell of the prisoner Cornelius van Baerle?” “Exactly, Captain.” “Where is the prisoner?” “Here I am, sir,” answered Cornelius, growing rather pale, notwithstanding all his courage. “You are Dr. Cornelius van Baerle?” asked he, this time addressing the prisoner himself. “Yes, sir.” “Then follow me.” “Oh! oh!” said Cornelius, whose heart felt oppressed by the first dread of death. “What quick work they make here in the fortress of Loewestein. And the rascal talked to me of twelve hours!” “Ah! what did I tell you?” whispered the communicative guard in the ear of the culprit. “A lie.” “How so?” “You promised me twelve hours.” “Ah, yes, but here comes to you an aide-de-camp of his Highness, even one of his most intimate companions Van Deken. Zounds! they did not grant such an honour to poor Mathias.” “Come, come!” said Cornelius, drawing a long breath. “Come, I’ll show to these people that an honest burgher, godson of Cornelius de Witt, can without flinching receive as many musket-balls as that Mathias.” Saying this, he passed proudly before the clerk, who, being interrupted in his work, ventured to say to the officer,-- “But, Captain van Deken, the protocol is not yet finished.”