ently 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."

"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!" said Cornelius, drawing a long breath. "Come, I'll show
to these people that an honest burgher, godson of Cornelius de Witt, can
without flinching receive as many musket-balls as that Mathias."

Saying this, he passed proudly before the clerk, who, being interrupted
in his work, ventured to say to the officer,--

"But, Captain van Deken, the protocol is not yet finished."

"It is not worth while finishing it," answered the officer.

"All right," replied the clerk, philosophically putting up his paper and
pen into a greasy and well-worn writing-case.

"It was written," thought poor Cornelius, "that I should not in this
world give my name either to a child to a flower, or to a book,--the
three things by which a man's memory is perpetuated."

Repressing his melancholy thoughts, he followed the officer with a
resolute heart, and car