lit up by a gleam in which all his hatred was concentrated. He then began to pour forth such a torrent of disgusting imprecations against Cornelius, that the latter, addressing the officer, said,—
“I do not think it very becoming, sir, that I should he thus insulted by this man, especially at a moment like this.”
“Well! hear me,” said the officer, laughing, it is quite natural that this worthy fellow should bear you a grudge,—you seem to have given it him very soundly.”
“But sir, it was only in self-defence.”
“Never mind,” said the Captain, shrugging his shoulders like a true philosopher, “let him talk; what does it matter to you now?”
The cold sweat stood on the brow of Cornelius at this answer, which he looked upon somewhat in the light of brutal irony, especially as coming from an officer of whom he had heard it said that he was attached to the person of the Prince.
The unfortunate tulip-fancier then felt that he had no more resources, and no more friends, and resigned himself to his fate.
“God’s will be done,” he muttered bowing his head; then, turning towards the officer who seemed complacently to wait until he had finished his meditations, he asked,—
“Please, sir, tell me now, where am I to go?”
The officer pointed to a carriage drawn by four horses, which reminded him very strongly of that which, under similar circumstances, had before attracted his attention at the Buitenhof.
“Enter,” said the officer.
“Ah!” muttered Cornelius to himself, “it seems they are not going to treat me to the honours of the Esplanade.”
He uttered these words loud enough for the chatty guard, who was at his heels, to overhear him.
That kind soul very likely thought it his duty to give Cornelius some new information; for, approaching the door of the carriage, whilst the officer, with one foot
