saw and heard nothing of this short interlude; and, after having closed the window, he took the arm of his daughter, left the cell, turned the key twice, drew the bolts, and went off to make the same kind promises to the other prisoners.
He had scarcely withdrawn, when Cornelius went to the door to listen to the sound of his footsteps, and, as soon as they had died away, he ran to the window, and completely demolished the nest of the pigeons.
Rather than expose them to the tender mercies of his bullying jailor, he drove away for ever those gentle messengers, to whom he owed the happiness of having seen Rosa again.
This visit of the jailor, his brutal threats, and the gloomy prospect of the harshness with which, as he had before experienced, Gryphus watched his prisoners,—all this was unable to extinguish in Cornelius the sweet thoughts, and especially the sweet hope, which the presence of Rosa had re-awakened in his heart.
He waited eagerly to hear the clock of the tower of Lœvestein strike nine.
The last chime was still vibrating through the air, when Cornelius heard on the staircase the light step, and the rustle of the flowing dress of the fair Frisian maid, and, soon after, a light appeared at the little grated window in the door, on which the prisoner fixed. his earnest gaze.
The shutter opened on the outside.
“Here I am,” said Rosa, out of breath from running up the stairs; “here I am.”
“Oh, my good Rosa!”
“You are then glad to see me?”
“Can you ask? But how did you contrive to get here? tell me.”
