“Shall we bait the Papists too, O Diogenes?” came in dulcet tones from out the shadow of the stuccoed wall.
“Bah! women and old men, and only twenty of these,” said his companion with a laugh and a shrug of his broad shoulders, “whilst there are at least an hundred of the others.”
“More amusing certainly,” growled Socrates under the brim of his hat.
“For the love of Christ,” wailed the woman piteously, as her bare feet buried in the snow finally slid away from the protecting threshold, and she appeared in the full light of the resin torches, with black unkempt hair, ragged shift and kirtle and a wild terror-stricken look in her black eyes.
“Black eyes! I guessed as much!” shouted one of the men excitedly. “Spaniards I tell you, friends! Spanish spies all of them! Out you come, wench! out you come!”
“Out you come!” yelled the crowd. “Papists! Spanish spies!”
The woman gave a scream of wild terror as half a dozen stones hurled from the rear of the crowd over the heads of the ringleaders came crashing against the wall and the gate all around her.
One of these stones was caught in mid air.
“I thank thee, friend,” cried a loud, mocking voice that rang clearly above the din, “my nose was itching and thou didst strive to tickle it most effectually. Tell me does thine itch too? Here’s a good cloth wherewith to wipe it.”
And the stone was hurled back into the thick of the crowd by a sure and vigorous hand even whilst a prolonged and merry laugh echoed above the groans and curses of the throng.
For an instant after that the shouts and curses were still, the crowd—as is usual in such cases—pausing to see whence this unexpected diversion had come. But all that could be seen for the moment was a dark compact mass of plumed hats and mantles standing against the wall, and a triple glint as of steel peeping from out the shadows.
“By St. Bavon, the patron saint of this goodly city, but here’s a feast for philosophers,” said that same laughter-loving voice, “four worthy burghers grappling with a maid. Let go her arm I say or four pairs of hands will presently litter the corner of this street, and forty fingers be scattered amongst the refuse. Pythagoras, wilt take me at two guilders to three that I can cut off two of these ugly, red hands with one stroke of Bucephalus whilst Socrates and thou thyself wilt only account for one apiece?”
Whilst the merry voice went rippling on in pleasant mocking tones, the crowd had had ample time to recover itself and to shake off its surprise. The four stalwarts on in front swore a very comprehensive if heterogeneous oath. One of them did certainly let go the wench’s arm somewhat hastily, but seeing that his companions had recovered courage and the use of their tongue, he swore once again and more loudly this time.
“By that same St. Bavon,” he shouted, “who is this smeerlap whose interference I for one deeply resent. Come out, girl, and show thyself at once, we’ll deal with thy protector later.”
After which there were some lusty shouts of applause at this determined attitude, shouts that were interrupted by a dulcet high-pitched voice saying quietly:
“I take thee, friend Diogenes. Two guilders to three: do thou strike at the pair of hands nearest to thee and while I count three. …”
From the torches up above there came a sharp glint of light as it struck three steel blades, that swung out into the open.
“One—two—”
Four pairs of hands, which had been dragging on the woman’s arm with such determined force, disappeared precipitately into the darkness, and thus suddenly released, the woman nearly fell backwards against the gate.
“Pity!” said the dulcet voice gently, “that bet will never be decided now.”
An angry murmur of protest rose from the crowd. The four men who had been the leaders of the gang were pushed forward from the rear amidst shouts of derision and brandishing fists.
“Cowards! cowards! cowards! Jan Tiele, art not ashamed? Piet, go for them! There are only three! Cowards to let yourselves be bullied!”
The crowd pushed from behind. The street being narrow, it could only express its desire for a fight by murmurs and by shouts, it had no elbow-room for it, and could only urge those in the forefront to pick a quarrel with the interfering strangers.
“The blessing of God upon thee, stranger, and of the Holy Virgin …” came in still quivering accents from out the darkness of the passage.
“Let the Holy Virgin help thee to hold thy tongue,” retorted he who had name Diogenes, “and do thou let my friend Socrates close this confounded door.”
“Jan Tiele!” shouted someone in the crowd, “dost see what they are doing? the gate is being closed. …”
“And bolted,” said a flute-like voice.
“Stand aside, strangers!” yelled the crowd.
“We are not in your way,” came in calm response.
The three muffled figures side by side in close if somewhat unnumerical battle array had taken their stand in front of the postern gate, the heavy bolts of which were heard falling into their sockets behind them with a loud clang. A quivering voice came at the last from behind the iron judas in the door.
“God will reward ye, strangers! we go pray for you to the Holy Virgin. …”
“Nay!” rejoined Diogenes lightly, “ ’twere wiser to pray for Jan Tiele, or for Piet or their mates—some of them will have need of prayers in about five minutes from now.”
“Shame! cowards! plepshurk! At them Jan! Piet! Willem!” shouted the crowd lustily.
Once more stones were freely hurled followed by a regular fusillade of snowballs. One of these struck the crown of a plumed hat and knocked it off the wearer’s head. A face, merry, a trifle fleshy perhaps, but with fine, straight brow, eyes that twinkled and mocked and a pair of full, joyous lips adorned by a fair upturned moustache, met the gaze of an hundred glowering eyes
