Popular passion is as unjust as it is violent in its excesses.  Cornelius van Witt, but lately sharing with his brother the public confidence, had just been dragged, as a criminal, to the Hague, accused by a wretched barber of having planned the assassination of the Prince of Orange.  In vain did the magistrates of the town of Dordrecht claim their right of jurisdiction over their fellow-citizen.  Cornelius van Witt was put to the torture to make him confess his crime.  ’You will not force me to confess a thing I never even thought of,” he said, whilst the pulleys were dislocating his limbs.  His baffled judges heard him repeating Horace’s ode:  Just um et tenacem propositi virum. . . .  At the end of three hours he was carried back to his cell, broken but indomitable.  The court condemned him to banishment; his accuser, Tichelaer, was not satisfied.

Before long, at his instigation, the mob collected about the prison, uttering imprecations against the judges and their clemency.  “They are traitors!” cried Tichelaer, “but let us first take vengeance on those whom we have.”  John van Witt had been brought to the prison by a message supposed to have come from the ruart.  In vain had his daughter conjured him not to respond to it.  “What are you come here for?” exclaimed Cornelius, on seeing his brother enter.  “Did you not send for me?” “No, certainly not.”  Then we are lost,” said John van Witt, calmly.  The shouts of the crowd redoubled; a body of cavalry still preserved order; a rumor suddenly spread that the peasants from the environs were marching on the Hague to plunder it; the States of Holland sent orders to the Count of Tilly to move against them; the brave soldier demanded a written order.  “I will obey,” he said, “but the two brothers are lost.”

[Illustration:  The Brothers Witt——­436]

The troops had scarcely withdrawn, and already the doors of the prison were forced; the ruart, exhausted by the torture, was stretched upon his bed, whilst his brother sat by his side reading the Bible aloud; the madmen rushed into the chamber, crying, “Traitors, prepare yourselves; you are going to die.”  Cornelius van Witt started up, joining his hands in prayer; the blows aimed at him did not reach him.  John was wounded.  They were both dragged forth; they embraced one another; Cornelius, struck from behind, rolled to the bottom of the staircase; his brother would have defended him; as he went out into the street, he received a pike-thrust in the face; the ruart was dead already; the murderers vented their fury on John van Witt; he had lost nothing of his courage or his coolness, and, lifting his arms towards heaven, he was opening his mouth in prayer to God, when a last pistol-shot stretched him upon his back.  “There’s the perpetual edict floored!” shouted the assassins, lavishing upon the two corpses insults and imprecations.  It was only at night, and after having with difficulty recognized them, so disfigured had they been, that poor Jacob van Witt was able to have his sons’ bodies removed; he was before long to rejoin them in everlasting rest.