"No; we will have the Lilyard!" cried the Butchers; "he must die: the traitor—the dastard, degenerate Fleming!"
This exclamation echoed hideously in Van Gistel's ears, and it seemed to him as though he already felt the sharp edge of the ax upon his neck. De Mortenay allowed the stormy cries for vengeance to pass away, and then again called out:
"You promised me that my house should be an asylum and sanctuary; why, then, do you violate the pledge you have given?"
"We will not violate your dwelling," answered Breydel; "but I swear to you that neither De Chatillon nor Van Gistel shall leave the city alive; their blood must atone for the blood of our brothers, and we will not leave this spot until our axes have given them the death blow."
"And may I leave the city without molestation?"
"You, Messire de Mortenay, are at liberty to go whithersoever you please, with your personal retinue; and no one shall touch a hair of your head. But do not attempt to deceive us; for we are too well acquainted with those of whom we are in quest."
"I give you notice, then, that in an hour from this time I shall take my departure for Courtrai."
"May God protect you!"
"And have you no compassion for unarmed knights?"
"They had no compassion on our brethren, and their blood must be shed. The gallows which they themselves erected still stands in the market-place."
De Mortenay closed the window, and said to the knights:
"I commiserate you, Messires; they insist on shedding your blood. You are in very great peril; but I hope that, by God's assistance, I shall yet be able to rescue you. There is an outlet behind the courtyard, through which you may be fortunate enough to escape from your bloodthirsty enemies. Disguise yourselves, and mount your horses; then I and my servants will leave the house by the principal entrance; and while I thus draw off the attention of the Butchers on myself, you may be able to make your escape along the walls. At the Smiths' Gate there is a breach through which it will not be difficult for you to gain the open country, and your horses will secure you from being overtaken."
De Chatillon and Van Gistel joyfully embraced this last hope. The governor-general put on the clothes of his castellan, and Van Gistel those of one of the meaner servants; the thirty remaining Frenchmen led their horses from the stables and made them ready, in order that they might fly with their commander.
When all were mounted, De Mortenay and his servants issued forth into the street, in which the Butchers lay, as it were, encamped. The latter, having no suspicion of deceit, stood up, and regarded with careful scrutiny all those who accompanied the governor-general. But soon the cry, "The Lion for Flanders! Whoso is French is false! strike home! to the death!" resounded in another street, and the clattering hoofs of horses at full gallop were heard round the corner. In the greatest haste the Flemings ran, bewildered and shouting, to the place whence the sound had come; but it was too late. De Chatillon and Van Gistel had escaped. Of the thirty men who accompanied them twenty were struck down, for they were assailed by the foe on every side; but fortune was propitious to the two knights. They fled to the city wall, and reached the Smiths' Gate; then they sprang into the moat, and swam across it at the peril of their lives. De Chatillon's groom sank with his horse, and was drowned.
The Butchers had pursued the flying Frenchmen as far as the gate; but when they saw the enemies they most detested disappear between the trees in the distance, they raged and yelled in baffled wrath; for now their revenge seemed to them unsated. After remaining some moments gazing on the spot where De Chatillon had disappeared from their view, they left the wall and returned to the Friday market-place. Soon another tumult arrested their attention. From the centre of the city arose a shout of mingled voices, filling the air with prolonged sounds of rejoicing as though a prince were making his festal entry. For some time the Butchers could not distinguish the triumphant cries, for they came from too great a distance; but by degrees the exulting crowd drew nearer and nearer, and the shouts became intelligible :
"Long live the Blue Lion! long live our Dean! Flanders is free!"
An innumerable multitude, consisting of all the inhabitants of Bruges, poured itself through the streets in dense throngs. The acclamations of the liberated Flemings echoed back from the houses, and filled the city as with the booming of thunder. Women and children ran confusedly among the armed Guildsmen; and the joyous clapping of their hands mingled with and harmonized the uninterrupted shouting: "Hail! hail to the Blue Lion!"
From the midst of this crowd rose a white standard, on the waving folds of which was wrought, in blue silk, a lion rampant. It was the great banner of the city of Bruges, which had for so long a time disappeared before the lilies of France. Once more it came forth from its concealment into the light of day; now it waved over the prostrate bodies of its foes; and the resurrection of this holy standard was greeted with ten thousand shouts of rejoicing.
A man of small stature bore the banner, and with his arms crossed over his breast pressed it to his heart, as though it inspired him with the deepest love. Abundant tears flowed down his cheeks— tears of love of fatherland mingled with tears of joy and sadness; and an unutterable expression of happiness beamed from his every feature. He who had shed no tear for his greatest personal misfortunes, now wept when he brought back the Lion to the city of his fathers—to the
