“I see,” said Cornelius, “this is a trap you are laying for me.”
“Now, for the last time, will you tell me where my daughter is?”
“Guess it, you rogue, if you don’t know it.”
“Only wait, only wait,” growled Gryphus, white with rage, and with quivering lips, as his brain began to turn. “Ah, you will not tell me anything? Well, I’ll unlock your teeth!”
He advanced a step towards Cornelius, and said, showing him the weapon which he held in his hands—
“Do you see this knife? Well, I have killed more than fifty black cocks with it, and I vow I’ll kill their master, the devil, as well as them.”
“But, you blockhead,” said Cornelius, “will you really kill me?”
“I shall open your heart to see in it the place where you hide my daughter.”
Saying this, Gryphus in his frenzy rushed towards Cornelius, who had barely time to retreat behind his table to avoid the first thrust; but as Gryphus continued, with horrid threats, to brandish his huge knife, and as, although out of the reach of his weapon, yet, as long as it remained in the madman’s hand, the ruffian might fling it at him, Cornelius lost no time, and availing himself of the stick, which he held tight under his arm, dealt the jailer a vigorous blow on the wrist of that hand which held the knife.
The knife fell to the ground, and Cornelius put his foot on it.
Then, as Gryphus seemed bent upon engaging in a struggle 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 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 staircase.
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 noncommissioned 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!”
