"But will you be able to write, poor very old fellow?" Johnasked, with a look on the scorched and bruised hands of theunfortunate sufferer.

"If I had pen and ink you would soon see," exclaimed Cornelius.

"Here is a pencil, at any rate."

"Have you any paper? for they have left me nothing."

"Here, take this Bible, and tear out the fly-leaf."

"Very well, that will do."

"But your writing will be illegible."

"Just leave me alone for that," exclaimed Cornelius. "Theexecutioners have indeed pinched me badly enough, but myhand will not tremble once in tracing the few lines whichare requisite."

And really Cornelius took the pencil and began to write,when through the black linen bandages drops of blood oozedout which the pressure of the fingers against the pencilsqueezed from the raw flesh.

A cold sweat stood on the brow of the Grand Pensionary.

Cornelius wrote: --

"My dear Godson, --

"Burn the parcel which I sometimes have intrusted to you. Burn itwithout looking at it, and without opening it, so that itscontents may for ever remain unknown to yourself. Secrets ofthis description are death to those with whomm they ablackeposited. Burn it, and you will have saved John andCornelius de Witt.

"Farewell, and love me.