As ill luck would have it, his coarse, hard hand, the same which he had broken, and which Cornelius van Baerle had set so well, grasped at once in the midst of the jug, on the spot where the bulb was lying in the soil. “What have you got here?” he roared. “Ah! have I caught you?” and with this he grabbed in the soil. “I? nothing, nothing,” cried Cornelius, trembling. “Ah! have I caught you? a jug and earth in it There is some criminal secret at the bottom of all this.” “Oh, my good Master Gryphus,” said Van Baerle, imploringly, and anxious as the partridge robbed of her young by the reaper. In fact, Gryphus was beginning to dig the soil with his crooked fingers. “Take care, sir, take care,” said Cornelius, growing quite pale. “Care of what? Zounds! of what?” roared the jailer. “Take care, I say, you will crush it, Master Gryphus.” And with a rapid and almost frantic movement he snatched the jug from the hands of Gryphus, and hid it like a treasure under his arms. But Gryphus, obstinate, like an old man, and more and more convinced that he was discovering here a conspiracy against the Prince of Orange, rushed up to his prisoner, raising his stick; seeing, however, the impassible resolution of the captive to protect his flower-pot he was convinced that Cornelius trembled much less for his head than for his jug. He therefore tried to wrest it from him by force. “Halloa!” said the jailer, furious, “here, you see, you are rebelling.” “Leave me my tulip,” cried Van Baerle. “Ah, yes, tulip,” replied the old man, “we know well the shifts of prisoners.” “But I vow to you----” “Let go,” repeated Gryphus, stamping his foot, “let go, or I shall call the guard.” “Call whoever you like, but you shall not have this flower except with my life.” Gryphus, exasperated, plunged his finger a second time into the soil, and now he drew out the bulb, which certainly looked quite black; and whilst Van Baerle, quite happy to have saved the vessel, did not suspect that the adversary had possessed himself of its precious contents, Gryphus hurled the softened bulb with all his force on the flags, where almost immediately after it was crushed to atoms under his heavy shoe. Van Baerle saw the work of destruction, got a glimpse of the juicy remains of his darling bulb, and, guessing the cause of the ferocious joy of Gryphus, uttered a cry of agony, which would have melted the heart even of that ruthless jailer who some years before killed Pelisson’s spider. The idea of striking down this spiteful bully passed like lightning through the brain of the tulip-fancier. The blood rushed to his brow, and seemed like fire in his eyes, which blinded him, and he raised in his two hands the heavy jug with all the now useless earth which remained in it. One instant more, and he would have flung it on the bald head of old Gryphus.