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which the pain in his wrist, and shame for having allowed

himself to be disarmed, would have made desperate, Cornelius

took a decisive step, belaboring his jailer with the most

heroic self-possession, and selecting the exact spot for

every blow of the terrible cudgel.

It was not long before Gryphus begged for mercy. But before

begging for mercy, he had lustily roared for help, and his

cries had roused all the functionaries of the prison. Two

turnkeys, an inspector, and three or four guards, made their

appearance all at once, and found Cornelius still using the

stick, with the knife under his foot.

At the sight of these witnesses, who could not know all the

circumstances which had provoked and might justify his

offence, Cornelius felt that he was irretrievably lost.

In fact, appearances were sadly against him.

In one moment Cornelius was disarmed, and Gryphus raised and

supported; and, bellowing with rage and pain, he was able to

count on his back and shoulders the bruises which were

beginning to swell like the hills dotting the slopes of a

mountain ridge.

A protocol of the violence practiced by the prisoner against

his jailer was immediately drawn up, and as it was made on

the depositions of Gryphus, it certainly could not be said

to be too tame; the prisoner being charged with neither more

nor less than with an attempt to murder, for a long time

premeditated, with open rebellion.

Whilst the charge was made out against Cornelius, Gryphus,

whose presence was no longer necessary after having made his

depositions, was taken down by his turnkeys to his lodge,

groaning and covered with bruises.

During this time, the guards who had seized Cornelius busied

themselves in charitably informing their prisoner of the

usages and customs of Loewestein, which however he knew as

well as they did. The regulations had been read to him at

the moment of his entering the prison, and certain articles

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in them remained fixed in his memory.

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.”

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