Suddenly a remarkable change came over the countenance of Breydel; he seemed as though paralyzed, and his ax fell powerless at his side. Seized with an irresistible admiration of the courage of the man whose counsels he abhorred, he thrust aside the foremost of the Guildsmen, whose ax was already raised over the head of the Dean, and that so roughly that the stalwart butchef measured his length along the ramparts.
''Hold, my men! hold!" he exclaimed in a voice of thunder, while at the same time he placed himself in front of the Dean; and swinging his heavy ax around him, he warded off the attacks of his comrades. The latter, perceiving the intentions of their chief, immediately lowered their arms, and with threatening murmurs awaited the event.
Meanwhile a fresh incident occurred, which greatly assisted Breydel in quelling the tumult which he had raised, by drawing off the attention of the excited crowd to another quarter. A herald from the French lines made his appearance at the foot of the rampart on which the occurrences just narrated were taking place, and with the usual forms made proclamation as follows:
"In the name of our mighty prince, Philip of France, you, rebellious subjects, are summoned by my general, De Chatillon, to surrender this city to his mercy; and you are warned that, if within the space of one-quarter of an hour you have not answered to this summons, the force of the stormingengines shall overthrow your walls, and everything shall be destroyed with fire and sword."
As soon as this summons was heard, the eyes of all were turned with one accord on Deconinck, as if seeking counsel of him on whom they had so lately glared in murderous rage. Breydel himself looked at his friend with an inquiring gaze; but all in vain. Neither to him nor to the rest did the Dean give utterance to a single word; he stood looking on in silence, and with an air of unconcern, as though in no wise personally interested in what was passing around him.
"Well, Deconinck, what is your advice?" asked Breydel, at length.
"That we surrender," calmly replied the Clothworker.
At this the Butchers began to give signs of another outburst; but a commanding gesture from their Dean speedily restored them to order and' Breydel resumed:
"What, then, do you really feel so sure that, with all our efforts, we can not hold out against the foe —that no courage, no resolution can save us? Oh, that I should see this day!"
And as he thus spoke, the deep grief of his heart plainly displayed itself upon his features. Even as his eyes had lighted up with ardor for the fight, so now was their fury quenched and his countenance darkened.
At last Deconinck, raising his voice so as to be heard by all around him, addressed them thus:
"Bear witness, all of you, that in what I advise I have no other motive than true and honest love of my country. For the sake of my native city, I have exposed myself to your mad fury; for that same sake I am ready to die upon the scaffold that our enemies shall raise for me. I deem it my sacred duty to save this pearl of Flanders; cry me down as a traitor, and heap curses upon my name if you will—nothing shall turn me aside from my noble purpose. For the last time I repeat it, our duty now is to surrender."
During this address Breydel's countenance had exhibited, to an attentive observer, an incessant play of passion; wrath, indignation, sadness seemed in turns to move him. The convulsive twitching of his stalwart limbs told plainly of the storm which raged within, and the struggle which it cost him to restrain it; and now, with the word "surrender" sounding once again in his ear, as though struck by a sentence of death, he stood appalled, motionless, and silent.
The Butchers and the other Guildsmen turned their eyes upon one and the other of the two leaders, and stood waiting in solemn silence for what should happen.
"Master Breydel," cried Deconinck at length, "as you would not have the destruction of us all upon your soul, consent to my proposal. Yonder comes back the French herald; the time has already expired."
Suddenly, as if awakening from a stupor, the chief of the Butchers replied in a mournful and faltering voice:
"And must it be so, master? Well, let it be, then, as you say—let us surrender.''
And as he spoke, he grasped the hand of his friend and pressed it with deep emotion, while tears of intense suffering filled his eyes, and a heavy groan burst from his bosom. The two Deans regarded each other with one of those looks in which the soul speaks from its inmost depths. At that moment they fully understood each other, and a close embrace testified to every beholder the sincerity of their reconciliation.
There stood the two greatest men of Bruges, the representatives respectively of her wisdom and her valor, clasped in each other's arms, heart against heart beating high with mutual admiration.
"Oh, my valiant brother!" cried Deconinck; "oh, great and generous soul! Hard, I see, indeed, has been the struggle; but the victory is yours; the greatest of victories, even that over yourself!"
At the sight of this moving spectacle, a cry of joy ran through the ranks, and the last spark of angry
