Van Baerle had proposed to write to Rosa, but where was she?
He also would have wished to write to the Hague to be beforehand with Gryphus, who, he had no doubt, would, by denouncing him, do his best to bring new storms on his head.
But how should he write? Gryphus had taken the paper and pencil from him; and even if he had both, he could hardly expect Gryphus to despatch his letter.
Then Cornelius revolved in his mind all those stratagems resorted to by unfortunate prisoners.
He had thought of an attempt to escape, a thing which never entered his head whilst he could see Rosa every day; but the more he thought of it, the more clearly he saw the impracticability of such an attempt. He was one of those choice spirits who abhor everything that is common, and who often lose a good chance through not taking the way of the vulgar, that high road of mediocrity which leads to everything.
“How is it possible,” said Cornelius to himself, “that I should escape from Lœvestein, as Grotius has done the same thing before me? Has not every precaution been taken since? Are not the windows barred? Are not the doors of double and even of treble strength? and the sentinels ten times more watchful? And have not I, besides all this, an Argus so much the more dangerous, as he has the keen eyes of hatred? I am losing my patience, since I have lost the joy and company of Rosa, and especially since I have lost my tulip. Undoubtedly, one day or other, Gryphus will attack me in a manner painful to my self-respect, or to my love, or even threaten my personal safety. I don’t know how it is, but since my imprisonment I feel a strange and almost irresistible pugnacity. Well, I
