conferences with the illustrious prisoner himself—­came entirely upon his own shoulders, enfeebled as he was by age, physical illness, and by the exhaustion of along imprisonment.  Without books, notes of evidence, or even copies of the charges of which he stood accused, he was obliged to draw up his counter-arguments against the impeachment and then by aid of a faithful valet to conceal his manuscript behind the tapestry of the chamber, or cause them to be sewed up in the lining of his easy-chair, lest they should be taken from him by order of the judges who sat in the chamber below.

While he was thus occupied in preparations for his next encounter with the tribunal, the door opened, and three gentlemen entered.  Two were the prosecuting officers of the government, Fiscal Sylla and Fiscal van Leeuwen.  The other was the provost-marshal, Carel de Nijs.  The servant was directed to leave the room.

Barneveld had stepped into his dressing-room on hearing footsteps, but came out again with his long furred gown about him as the three entered.  He greeted them courteously and remained standing, with his hands placed on the back of his chair and with one knee resting carelessly against the arm of it.  Van Leeuwen asked him if he would not rather be seated, as they brought a communication from the judges.  He answered in the negative.  Von Leeuwen then informed him that he was summoned to appear before the judges the next morning to hear his sentence of death.

“The sentence of death!” he exclaimed, without in the least changing his position; “the sentence of death! the sentence of death!” saying the words over thrice, with an air of astonishment rather than of horror.  “I never expected that!  I thought they were going to hear my defence again.  I had intended to make some change in my previous statements, having set some things down when beside myself with choler.”

He then made reference to his long services.  Van Leeuwen expressed himself as well acquainted with them.  “He was sorry,” he said, “that his lordship took this message ill of him.”

“I do not take it ill of you,” said Barneveld, “but let them,” meaning the judges, “see how they will answer it before God.  Are they thus to deal with a true patriot?  Let me have pen, ink, and paper, that for the last time I may write farewell to my wife.”

“I will go ask permission of the judges,” said van Leenwen, “and I cannot think that my lord’s request will be refused.”

While van Leeuwen was absent, the Advocate exclaimed, looking at the other legal officer: 

“Oh, Sylla, Sylla, if your father could only have seen to what uses they would put you!”

Sylla was silent.

Permission to write the letter was soon received from de Voogt, president of the commission.  Pen, ink, and paper were brought, and the prisoner calmly sat down to write, without the slightest trace of discomposure upon his countenance or in any of his movements.