But a cry stopped him; a cry of agony, uttered by poor Rosa, who, trembling and pale, with her arms raised to heaven, made her appearance behind the grated window, and thus interposed between her father and her friend. Gryphus then understood the danger with which he had been threatened, and he broke out in a volley of the most terrible abuse. “Indeed,” said Cornelius to him, “you must be a very mean and spiteful fellow to rob a poor prisoner of his only consolation, a tulip bulb.” “For shame, my father,” Rosa chimed in, “it is indeed a crime you have committed here.” “Ah, is that you, my little chatter-box?” the old man cried, boiling with rage and turning towards her; “don’t you meddle with what don’t concern you, but go down as quickly as possible.” “Unfortunate me,” continued Cornelius, overwhelmed with grief. “After all, it is but a tulip,” Gryphus resumed, as he began to be a little ashamed of himself. “You may have as many tulips as you like: I have three hundred of them in my loft.” “To the devil with your tulips!” cried Cornelius; “you are worthy of each other: had I a hundred thousand millions of them, I would gladly give them for the one which you have just destroyed.” “Oh, so!” Gryphus said, in a tone of triumph; “now there we have it. It was not your tulip you cared for. There was in that false bulb some witchcraft, perhaps some means of correspondence with conspirators against his Highness who has granted you your life. I always said they were wrong in not cutting your head off.” “Father, father!” cried Rosa. “Yes, yes! it is better as it is now,” repeated Gryphus, growing warm; “I have destroyed it, and I’ll do the same again, as often as you repeat the trick. Didn’t I tell you, my fine fellow, that I would make your life a hard one?” “A curse on you!” Cornelius exclaimed, quite beyond himself with despair, as he gathered, with his trembling fingers, the remnants of that bulb on which he had rested so many joys and so many hopes. “We shall plant the other to-morrow, my dear Mynheer Cornelius,” said Rosa, in a low voice, who understood the intense grief of the unfortunate tulip-fancier, and who, with the pure sacred love of her innocent heart, poured these kind words, like a drop of balm, on the bleeding wounds of Cornelius. Chapter 18. Rosa’s Lover Rosa had scarcely pronounced these consolatory words when a voice was heard from the staircase asking Gryphus how matters were going on. “Do you hear, father?” said Rosa. “What?” “Master Jacob calls you, he is uneasy.” “There was such a noise,” said Gryphus; “wouldn’t you have thought he would murder me, this doctor? They are always very troublesome fellows, these scholars.” Then, pointing with his finger towards the staircase, he said to Rosa: “Just lead the way, Miss.” After this he locked the door and called out: “I shall be with you directly, friend Jacob.” Poor Cornelius, thus left alone with his bitter grief, muttered to himself,--