tulip-fancier, was, as Delphi of old, interdicted to the
profane uninitiated.

Never had any of his servants been bold enough to set his
foot there. Cornelius admitted only the inoffensive broom of
an old Frisian housekeeper, who had been his nurse, and who
from the time when he had devoted himself to the culture of
tulips ventured no longer to put onions in his stews, for
fear of pulling to pieces and mincing the idol of her foster
child.

At the mere mention of the dry-room, therefore, the servants
who were carrying the lights respectfully fell back.
Cornelius, taking the candlestick from the hands of the
foremost, conducted his godfather into that room, which was
no other than that very cabinet with a glass front into
which Boxtel was continually prying with his telescope.

The envious spy was watching more intently than ever.

First of all he saw the walls and windows lit up.

Then two dark figures appeared.

One of them, tall, majestic, stern, sat down near the table
on which Van Baerle had placed the taper.

In this figure, Boxtel recognised the pale features of
Cornelius de Witt, whose long hair, parted in front, fell
over his shoulders.