As his hat fell to the ground, the man made a formal bow to the yelling and hooting crowd:
“Since one of you has been so kind as to lift my hat for me, allow me formally to present myself and my friends here. I am known to my compeers and to mine enemies as Diogenes,” he said gravely, “a philosopher of whom mayhap ye have never heard. On my left stands Pythagoras, on my right Socrates. We are all at your service, including even my best friend who is slender and is made of steel and hath name Bucephalus—he tells me that within the next few minutes he means to become intimately acquainted with Dutch guts, unless ye disperse and go peaceably back to church and pray God to forgive ye this act of cowardice on New Year’s Eve!”
The answer was another volley of stones, one of which hit Socrates on the side of the head:
“With the next stone that is hurled,” continued Diogenes calmly, “I will smash Jan Tiele’s nose: and if more than one come within reach of my hand, then Willem’s nose shall go as well.”
The warning was disregarded: a shower of stones came crashing against the wall just above the postern gate.
“How badly these Dutchmen throw,” growled Socrates in his gruff voice.
“This present from thy friends in the rear, Jan Tiele,” rejoined Diogenes, as he seized that worthy by the collar and brandished a stone which he had caught in its flight. “ ’Tis they obviously who do not like the shape of thy nose, else they had not sent me the wherewithal to flatten it for thee.”
“I’ll do that, good Diogenes,” said Pythagoras gently, as he took both the stone and the struggling Jan Tiele from his friend’s grasp, “and Socrates will see to Willem at the same time. No trouble, I give thee my word—I like to do these kind of jobs for my friends.”
An awful and prolonged howl from Jan Tiele and from Willem testified that the jobs had been well done.
“Papists! Spaniards! Spies!” roared the crowd, now goaded to fury.
“Bucephalus, I do humbly beg thy pardon,” said Diogenes as he rested the point of his sword for one moment on the frozen ground, then raised it and touched it with his forehead and with his lips, “I apologize to thee for using thee against such rabble.”
“More stones please,” came in a shrill falsetto from Pythagoras, “here’s Piet whose nose is itching fit to make him swear.”
He was a great adept at catching missiles in midair. These now flew thick and fast, stones, short staves, heavy leather pouches as well as hard missiles made of frozen snow. But the throwers were hampered by one another: they had no elbow-room in this narrow street.
The missiles for the most part fell wide of the mark. Still! the numbers might tell in the end. Socrates’ face was streaming with blood: a clump of mud and snow had extinguished one of the torches, and a moment ago a stone had caught Diogenes on the left shoulder.
The three men stood close together, sword in hand. To the excited gaze of the crowd they scarcely seemed to be using their swords or to heed those of their aggressors who came threateningly nigh. They stood quite quietly up against the wall hardly making a movement, their sword hand and wrist never appeared to stir, but many who had been in the forefront had retired howling and the snow all around was deeply stained with red: Jan Tiele and Willem had broken noses and Piet had lost one ear.
The three men were hatless and the faces of two of them were smeared with blood. The third—taller and broader than the others—stood between them, and with those that pressed him closely he bandied mocking words.
“Spaniards! Papists!” yelled the crowd.
“If I hear those words again,” he retorted pleasantly, “I’ll run three of you through on Bucephalus as on a spit, and leave you thus ready for roasting in hell. We are no Spaniards. My father was English and my friend Pythagoras here was born in a donkey shed, whilst Socrates first saw the light of day in a travelling menagerie. So we are none of us Spaniards, and you can all disperse.”
“Papists!”
“And if I hear that again I’ll send the lot of you to hell.”
“Art thou Samson then, to think thyself so strong?” shouted a shrill voice close to him.
“Give me thy jawbone and I’ll prove thee that I am,” he retorted gaily.
“Spies!” they cried.
“Dondersteen!” he shouted in his turn, swearing lustily, “I am tired of this rabble. Disperse! disperse, I tell ye! Bucephalus my friend wilt have a taste of Dutch guts? Another ear? a nose or two? What, ye will not go?”
“Spaniards! Spies! Papists!”
The crowd was gathering unto itself a kind of fury that greatly resembled courage. Those that were behind pushed and those that were in front could no longer retreat. Blood had begun to flow more freely and the groans of the wounded had roused the bellicose instincts of those whose skin was still whole. One or two of the more venturesome had made close and gruesome acquaintance with the silent but swift Bucephalus, whilst from the market place in the rear the numbers of the crowd thus packed in this narrow street corner swelled dangerously. The newcomers did not know what had happened before their arrival. They could not see over the heads of the crowd what was going on at this moment. So they pushed from behind and the three combatants with their backs against the wall had much difficulty in keeping a sufficiently wide circle around them to allow their swords free play.
Already Socrates, dizzy from the blood that was streaming down his sharp, hooked nose, had failed to keep three of his foremost assailants at bay: he had been forced to yield one step and then another, and the elbow of his sword arm was
