"The first man that leaves the ranks shall be severely punished l" he exclaimed.
He himself, tortured by a terrible presentiment, rushed impetuously to the bier, and tore away the veil that concealed the faces; but, oh God! how fearful the sight that met his eyes! He uttered not a sound, he moved not a limb; he stood there as struck with sudden and universal palsy. Paler he was than the corpses themselves, and his hair stood on end upon his head. His lips quivering, his eyes fixedly bent upon the eyes now glazed in death, one would have said that he felt his last hour upon him.
Thus he stood, but for a few moments only. Soon, with a mighty bound, he sprang forward in front of the ranks, threw both arms up into the air, and in a voice of agony exclaimed:
"Woe! woe is me! My aged mother! my poor sister!"
With these words he flung himself into Deconinck's arms, and lay powerless and almost senseless upon his friend's bosom. With vague and wandering eyes he stared around, while his comrades shuddered with horror and compassion. Anon he furiously raised his ax; but it was instantly caught away out of his hand. Deconinck now gave the word for all to return to their work until further orders. The men, indeed, thought of naught else but speedy vengeance; but no one ventured to dispute the command, for they knew that the Dean of the Clothworkers had been duly appointed their general-in-chief. Giving vent, therefore, to their feelings in murmurs, they returned into the wood, and resumed, though unwillingly, the labors which this incident had interrupted.
By Deconinck's care Breydel was speedily conveyed to his own tent, where, exhausted alike in mind and body, he threw himself upon a seat, and rested his head upon the table. He said nothing; but when his eyes met those of his friend, there was a singular expression in them. A bitter mocking smile distorted his features; it was as though he were scoffing at his own wretchedness.
At last Deconinck broke the silence. "My unhappy friend," he said, "be calm, for God's sake!"
"Calm! calm!" repeated Breydel; "am I not calm? Have you ever seen me so calm before?"
"Oh, my friend!" resumed the Clothworker, "full well can I conceive how intense must be the agony of your soul; I seem to see death upon your countenance. Comfort you I can not; your calamity is too great. I know of no balm for such a wound."
"Not so, say I," replied Breydel; "the balm for my wound I know well enough; it is the power to procure it that fails me. Oh, my poor mother I they have shed your blood because your son is a true Fleming; and that son—oh, misery!—can not avenge you!"
As he uttered these words, the expression of his countenance altered; he ground his teeth violently together; his hands grasped the legs of the table as though he would snap them asunder. Then, again, he became more quiet, and seemed to sink into a state of the deepest depression.
"Now, Master Breydel, bear up like a man," Deconinck began again, "and give not way to despair, that worst enemy of the soul. Strengthen your heart against the bitter calamity that has this day befallen you; your mother's blood shall not have cried in vain for vengeance."
Again the fearful smile curled Breydel's lip. "Vengeance!" he exclaimed; "how easily you promise what it is not in your power to accomplish —who can avenge me? Can you yourself? and could torrents of French blood refill my mother's veins? Can the tyrant's life redeem his victims from the grave? No; they are dead, gone from me forever, my friend. I will suffer in silence and without complaint. There is no comfort left for me; we are too weak, and our foes too mighty."
Deconinck made no reply to Breydel's lament, and seemed to be revolving something weighty in his mind. He appeared like one who was putting violence on himself, and controlling some strong inward feeling. The Dean of the Butchers regarded him with an inquiring look, deeming that something unusual was at work within him. Soon the painful expression passed away from Deconinck's face; he rose slowly from his seat, and in a tone of deep earnestness thus addressed his friend:
"Our foes are too mighty, say you? To-morrow you shall say so no more. They have gained their ends by fraud and treachery, and have not feared to pour out innocent blood like water, as though the avenging angel no longer stood before the throne of the Most High. They know not that the life of every one of them is even now in my hands; that I can break them in pieces, as though God had put His power into my hands. They seek their advantage in deceit, and cruelty, and all evil arts. Well, then, their own sword shall pierce them, and they shall perish by it. I have said it!"
At this moment Deconinck looked like an inspired prophet pronouncing the malediction of the Lord upon the crimes and backslidings of Jerusalem. There was such an authority in his voice and bearing, as he declared God's judgments on the foe, that Breydel listened to him with awe-struck emotion.
"Wait a little," he proceeded; "I will send for one of these newcomers, that we may know how it has all happened; but, I entreat you, do not let your feelings carry you away whatever account he may give. I promise you vengeance even beyond what you would yourself demand; for matters are now arrived at a point at which endurance would be disgrace."
His cheeks glowed with the intensity of his indignation. He who was usually so calm, was now inflamed with fiercer passion than Breydel
