"But, master," remarked one of the captains, "we shall not know the French from our own townspeople, finding them, as we shall, almost all in bed and undressed."
"Oh, there is an easy way to avoid all mistakes on that score. Whenever you can't make out at the first glance whether it's a Frenchman or a Fleming, make him say, “Schild en vriend!'' [shield and friend]. Whoever can not pronounce those words properly has a French tongue, and down with himl"
At this moment the clock of St. Cross resounded thrice over the wood.
''One word more," added Deconinck hastily. "Remember, all of you, that Messire de Mortenay's house is under my especial protection, and I charge you to see it most strictly respected; let no one set his foot over the threshold of our noble foe's dwelling. Now to your companies with all the speed you can; give your men the necessary orders, and in all things do exactly as I have told you. Quick! and as little noise as possible, I pray you."
Thereupon the captains returned to their companies, which they immediately led forward in order to the edge of the road, while Deconinck advanced a large body of Weavers to within a very moderate distance of the city walls. He himself approached still nearer, and endeavored with his eye to penetrate the darkness; a burning port-fire, the end of which he concealed in the hollow of his hand, shed its red glow from between his fingers. So he walked on, keeping a sharp lookout, till at last he espied a head peering over the wall; it was that of the Clothworker Gerard, whom he had visisted.the evening before. The Dean now produced a bundle of flax from under his garment, laid it upon the ground, and blew vigorously upon the port-fire. Soon a clear flame shot up, and gleamed over the plain and the head of the Clothworker disappeared from the wall. A moment more, and the sentinel who was posted on the ram.part fell heavily forward, with a single sharp cry, and lay dead at its foot. Then followed a confused noise behind the gate—the clash of arms mingled with cries of the dying; and then all was still—still as the grave.
The gate was opened: in deepest silence the Guildsmen defiled into the city; and each captain drew ofif his company to the station assigned him by Deconinck. A quarter of an hour later all the sentinels on duty at the gates had been surprised and cut ofl, each Guild had taken up its position, and at the door of every house occupied by a Frenchman stood eight Clawards, ready to force an entrance with hammers and axes. Not a single street was unoccupied; each division of the city swarmed with Clawards, eagerly awaiting the signal to attack.
Deconinck was standing in the middle of the Friday market-place: after a moment of deep thought, he pronounced the doom of the French with the words, "The Lion for Flanders! Whoso is French is false; strike home!"
This order, the doom of the alien, was echoed by five thousand voices; and it is easy to imagine the fearful cries, the appalling tumult that followed. The Clawards, thirsting for revenge, rushed into the bedchambers of the French, and slaughtered all who could not pronounce the vital words, “Schild en vriend” In many of the houses there were more Frenchmen than could be reached in so short a time, so that many had time to dress themselves hurriedly, and seize their weapons; and this was the case especially in the quarter occupied by De Chatillon and his numerous guards. In spite of the furious rapidity of Breydel and his comrades, about six hundred Frenchmen had collected in this manner. Many also, although wounded, contrived to escape from the fray; and the number of the fugitives was thus so much increased that they resolved to stand, and sell their lives as dearly as they could. They stood in a compact mass in front of the houses, and defended themselves against the Butchers with the energy of despair. Many of them had crossbows, with which they shot down some of the Clawards; but the sight of their fallen companions only increased the fury of the survivors. De Chatillon's voice was everywhere heard animating his men to resistance; and De Mortenay was especially conspicuous, his long sword gleaming like a lightningflash in the darkness.
Breydel raged like a madman, and dealt his blows right and left among the French. So many of the foe had fallen before him that he already stoad raised some feet above the ground. Blood was flowing in streams between the dead bodies; and the cry, "The Lion for Flanders! strike home!" mixed its terrible sound with the groans of the dying. John van Gistel was, of course, among the French. As he knew that his death was inevitable if the Flemings gained the victory, he shouted incessantly, "France! France!" hoping thus to sustain the courage of his troops.
But Jan Breydel recognized his voice. "Comrades," said he, wild with rage, "I must have the soul of this traitor. Forward! he has lived long enough. Whoso loves me, let him follow me close."
With these words, he threw himself with his ax among the French, and soon struck down every
