Like a genuine citizen of Bruges, Breydel bore no love to the men of Ghent. The two leading cities of Flanders kept up a hereditary rivalry, and almost enmity, with each other; not that the one boasted braver citizens than the other, but simply that each did his best to ruin or divert the trade and traffic of the other. And the same jealousy still continues.
So impossible is it to root out the feelings which are inborn in the mass of the people that, notwithstanding their many revolutions, and the changes of the times, this spirit has been perpetuated to our own day.
The Butchers continued their conversation in this strain for a long time, and many an execration was uttered against the men of Ghent, when suddenly a peculiar noise excited their attention: they heard a sound of quarreling and wrestling at some little distance, as if two men were struggling together. All sprang up to see what it meant, but, before they could leave the tent, one of the Butchers, who had been on guard, entered it, dragging a man with him by main force.
"Masters," said he, pushing the stranger into the tent, "this roving minstrel I found behind the camp; he was listening at all the tents, and slinking about in the dark like a fox. I have been tracking him for some time; and I am convinced that there is some treason at the bottom of it, for look how the rascal is trembling."
The man thus dragged into the tent wore a blue cloak, and had on his head a small cap adorned with a plume; a long beard covered half of his face. In his left hand he held a small musical instrument, which had somewhat the appearance of a harp; and he made as if he would like to play some little piece to the assembled company. Yet he trembled with fright, and his face was pale as though his last hour were come. He evidently wished to avoid the eye of Jan Breydel; for he kept his head turned in the opposite direction, so that the Dean might not see his features.
"What are you doing in the camp?" exclaimed Breydel. "Why are you listening at the tents? Answer me instantly."
The minstrel answered in a language which bore some resemblance to German; so that it was evident he came from another part of the country:
"Master, I come from Luxemburg, and have brought a message from Messire van Lonchyn. I had been told that some of my brothers were in the camp, and I came to find them out. I am overcome with shame and vexation that the sentinel should take me for a spy; but I hope that you will do me no injury."
Breydel felt his heart touched with compassion for the minstrel. Bidding the sentinel stand back, he offered a chair to the stranger, and said:
"You are surely weary with your long journey. There, my good minstrel, sit down and drink; the can is yours. Now sing us a few songs, and we will let you go in peace. Courage, man; you are among good friends."
"Excuse me, master," answered the minstrel; "I can not remain here, for Messire van Lonchyn awaits me. I am sure you would not wish to disappoint the noble knight by detaining me."
"We must have a song!" cried the Butchers. "You shall not go hence until you have sung us a song."
"Quick, then," said Breydel; "for I promise you that, if you do not sing us something, you will be kept here until the morning. If you would only have sung at once and with good-will, you would have finished ere this. Now sing, I bid and command you."
The terror of the stranger was sensibly increased by this peremptory speech. It was with difficulty that he could hold his harp; and he trembled so violenly that the strings, touched by his clothes, gave forth some confused sounds. This yet further whetted the appetite of the Butchers for a lay.
"Are you going to play or sing to us at once?" exclaimed Breydel. "I assure you that if you don't make haste you will have cause to rue it."
The minstrel, in mortal fear, proceeded to touch the strings of the harp with his trembling fingers; but he drew forth only false and discordant tones. The Butchers saw at once that he could not play at all.
"He is a spy!" cried Breydel. "Strip him and search him, to see whether he has any treasonable papers about him."
In a moment the clothes of the stranger were torn from ofif him; and, in spite of his piteous cries for mercy, he was kicked about from one to another, and all that he carried about him thoroughly searched.
"Here it is! here it is!" exclaimed one of the Butchers, who had thrust his hand between the doublet and the breast of the stranger; "here is the treason."
He drew out his hand, and produced a piece of parchment, folded three or four times over, and tied with a thread of flax, from which hung a seal. The minstrel stood aghast, as though he saw his end approaching: he looked at the Dean with anxiety and terror, and muttered a few indistinct words, to which the Butchers paid no attention whatever. Jan Breydel seized the parchment; but, eagerly as he gazed on it, its contents remained unknown to him, for he could not read.
"What is it, villain?" exclaimed the Dean.
"A letter for Messire van Lonchyn," stammered the confounded minstrel, with hesitating and interrupted words.
"We shall soon see that,"
