“Yes, a little hanging will do him no harm—­you are sure this is his writing?”

“There can be no doubt of it, your Majesty, I have compared it.”

“You will see to this, my lord:  and now to the syndic.”

“He has, as your Majesty will perceive, been grossly deceived, and suspected without reason.”

“And the woman?”

“Was here yesterday, and fully convinced me that Vanslyperken was a traitor, and that she was innocent.  His Grace of Portland was present.”

“Well, my lord, you may give orders for their release; of course a little surveillance will be advisable.  You will justify the proceedings to the council, this afternoon.”

“But may I presume to submit to your Majesty, that the public affront offered to the syndic should be repaired.”

“Certainly—­send for him,” replied his Majesty, carelessly.  “I will receive him to-morrow morning,” and his Majesty left the room.

Lord Albemarle immediately despatched a courier with an order for the release of the syndic and the Frau Vandersloosh, with a note to the former, stating that his Majesty would receive him on the following day at noon.  But while this act of justice had been preparing at the palace of the Hague, there were other acts, not quite so justifiable performing at the town of Amsterdam.

The sun made its appearance more than an hour, before the troops of the royal Guard.  Mobs were collected in knots in the street, and in front of the Hotel de Ville, or Stadt House, and the object of their meeting, was to canvas the treason and imprisonment of the syndic, Mynheer Van Krause.  “Shame—­shame,”—­“Death to the traitor,”—­“Tear him to pieces,”—­and “Long life to King William,” were the first solitary remarks made—­the noise and hubbub increased.  The small knots of people gradually joined together, until they formed a large mob, all burning with loyalty, and each individual wishing to give a practical evidence of it—­again were the cries of “Long live the King!” and “Death to traitors!” to be heard, with loud huzzas.  A confused din followed, and the mob appeared, as if simultaneously, to be all impelled in one direction.  At last the word was given, which they all waited for.  “To his house—­to his house—­down with it—­death to the traitor!” and the loyal mob hastened on, each individual eager to be first to prove his loyalty, by helping himself to Mynheer Krause’s goods and chattels.

In the low countries, this species of loyalty always has been, and is now very much the fashion.  In ten minutes, the gates were forced open—­old Koop knocked down, and trod under foot till he was dead—­every article of value that was portable, was secured; chairs, tables, glasses, not portable, were thrown out of the window; Wilhelmina’s harp and pianoforte battered to fragments; beds, bedding, everything flew about in the air, and then the fragments of the furniture were set fire to, and in less than an hour Mynheer Krause’s splendid house was burning furiously, while the mob cheered and cried, “Long live King William!”