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 it? Do you deny that, on that evening, you rushed, after my departure, to the spot where you hoped to find the bulb? Do you deny having dug in the ground with your hands—but, thank God! in vain; as it was but a stratagem to discover your intentions. Say, do you deny all this?”

Boxtel did not deem it fit to answer these several charges, but, turning to the Prince, continued,—

“I have now for twenty years grown tulips at Dort. I have even acquired some reputation in this art; one of my hybrids is entered in the catalogue under the name of an illustrious personage. I have dedicated it to the King of Portugal. The truth in the matter is as I shall now tell Your Highness. This damsel knew that I had produced the Black Tulip, and, in concert with a lover of hers, in the fortress of Lœvestein, she formed the plan of ruining me, by appropriating to herself the prize of a hundred thousand guilders, which, with the help of Your Highness’s justice, I hope to gain.”

“Yah!” cried Rosa, beyond herself with anger.

“Silence!” said the Prince.

Then, turning to Boxtel, he said,—

“And who is that prisoner to whom you allude as the lover of this young woman?”

Rosa nearly swooned, for Cornelius was designated as a dangerous prisoner, and recommended, by the Prince, to the especial surveillance of the jailor.

Nothing could have been more agreeable to Boxtel than this question.

“This prisoner,” he said, “is a man, whose name in itself will prove to Your Highness what trust you may place in his probity. He is a prisoner of state, who was once condemned to death.”

“And his name?”