“Hurrah for Orange! Down with the traitors!” The presence of Tilly and his horsemen, indeed, exercised a salutary check on these civic warriors; but by degrees they waxed more and more angry by their own shouts, and as they were not able to understand how any one could have courage without showing it by cries, they attributed the silence of the dragoons to pusillanimity, and advanced one step towards the prison, with all the turbulent mob following in their wake. In this moment, Count Tilly rode forth towards them single-handed, merely lifting his sword and contracting his brow whilst he addressed them:-- “Well, gentlemen of the burgher guard, what are you advancing for, and what do you wish?” The burghers shook their muskets, repeating their cry,-- “Hurrah for Orange! Death to the traitors!” “‘Hurrah for Orange!’ all well and good!” replied Tilly, “although I certainly am more partial to happy faces than to gloomy ones. ‘Death to the traitors!’ as much of it as you like, as long as you show your wishes only by cries. But, as to putting them to death in good earnest, I am here to prevent that, and I shall prevent it.” Then, turning round to his men, he gave the word of command,-- “Soldiers, ready!” The troopers obeyed orders with a precision which immediately caused the burgher guard and the people to fall back, in a degree of confusion which excited the smile of the cavalry officer. “Holloa!” he exclaimed, with that bantering tone which is peculiar to men of his profession; “be easy, gentlemen, my soldiers will not fire a shot; but, on the other hand, you will not advance by one step towards the prison.” “And do you know, sir, that we have muskets?” roared the commandant of the burghers. “I must know it, by Jove, you have made them glitter enough before my eyes; but I beg you to observe also that we on our side have pistols, that the pistol carries admirably to a distance of fifty yards, and that you are only twenty-five from us.” “Death to the traitors!” cried the exasperated burghers. “Go along with you,” growled the officer, “you always cry the same thing over again. It is very tiresome.” With this, he took his post at the head of his troops, whilst the tumult grew fiercer and fiercer about the Buytenhof. And yet the fuming crowd did not know that, at that very moment when they were tracking the scent of one of their victims, the other, as if hurrying to meet his fate, passed, at a distance of not more than a hundred yards, behind the groups of people and the dragoons, to betake himself to the Buytenhof. John de Witt, indeed, had alighted from his coach with his servant, and quietly walked across the courtyard of the prison. Mentioning his name to the turnkey, who however knew him, he said,-- “Good morning, Gryphus; I am coming to take away my brother, who, as you know, is condemned to exile, and to carry him out of the town.”