stumbled, lost his centre of
gravity, rolled over to a distance of some yards, and only rose again,
bruised and begrimed, after the whole rabble of the Hague, with their
muddy feet, had passed over him.

One would think that this was enough for one day, but Mynheer Boxtel did
not seem to think so, as, in addition to having his clothes torn, his
back bruised, and his hands scratched, he inflicted upon himself the
further punishment of tearing out his hair by handfuls, as an offering
to that goddess of envy who, as mythology teaches us, wears a head-dress
of serpents.

Chapter 14. The Pigeons of Dort

It was indeed in itself a great honour for Cornelius van Baerle to be
confined in the same prison which had once received the learned master
Grotius.

But on arriving at the prison he met with an honour even greater. As
chance would have it, the cell formerly inhabited by the illustrious
Barneveldt happened to be vacant, when the clemency of the Prince of
Orange sent the tulip-fancier Van Baerle there.

The cell had a very bad character at the castle since the time when
Grotius, by means of the device of his wife, made escape from it in that
famous book-chest which the jailers forgot to examine.

On the other hand, it seemed to Van Baerle an auspicious omen that this
very cell was assigned to him, for according to his ideas, a jailer
ought never to have given to a second pigeon the cage from which the
first had so easily flown.

The cell had an historical character. We will only state here that,
with the exception of an alcove which was contrived there for the use
of Madame Grotius, it differed in no respect from the other cells of the
prison; only, perhaps, it was a little higher, and had a splendid view
from the grated window.

Cornelius felt himself perfectly indifferent as to the place where he
had to lead an existence which was little more than vegetation. There
were only two things now for which he cared, and the possession of which
was a happiness enjoyed only in imagination.

A flower, and a woman; both of them, as he conceived, lost to him for
ever.

Fortunately the good doctor was mistaken. In his prison cell the most
adventurous life which ever fell to the lot of any tulip-fancier was
reserved for him.

One morning, whilst at his window inhaling the fresh air which came from
the river, and casting a longing look to the windmills of his dear
old city Dort, which were looming in the distance