stream of blood which blinded him, what had become of
Cornelius; "my brother, my brother!"

"Go and run after him!" bellowed another murderer, putting
his musket to his temples and pulling the trigger.

But the gun did not go off.

The fellow then turned his musket round, and, taking it by
the barrel with both hands, struck John de Witt down with
the butt-end. John staggered and fell down at his feet, but,
raising himself with a last effort, he once more called out,
--

"My brother!" with a voice so full of anguish that the young
man opposite closed the shutter.

There remained little more to see; a third murderer fired a
pistol with the muzzle to his face; and this time the shot
took effect, blowing out his brains. John de Witt fell to
rise no more.

On this, every one of the miscreants, emboldened by his
fall, wanted to fire his gun at him, or strike him with
blows of the sledge-hammer, or stab him with a knife or
swords, every one wanted to draw a drop of blood from the
fallen hero, and tear off a shred from his garments.

And after having mangled, and torn, and completely stripped
the two brothers, the mob dragged their naked and bloody