And now, with the dismantled and desolate Harlem before their eyes, a prophetic phantom, perhaps, of their own imminent fate, did the handful of people shut up within Alkmaar prepare for the worst.  Their main hope lay in the friendly sea.  The vast sluices called the Zyp, through which an inundation of the whole northern province could be very soon effected, were but a few miles distant.  By opening these gates, and by piercing a few dykes, the ocean might be made to fight for them.  To obtain this result, however, the consent of the inhabitants was requisite, as the destruction of all the standing crops would be inevitable.  The city was so closely invested, that it was a matter of life and death to venture forth, and it was difficult, therefore, to find an envoy for this hazardous mission.  At last, a carpenter in the city, Peter Van der Mey by name, undertook the adventure, and was entrusted with letters to Sonoy, to the Prince of Orange, and to the leading personages, in several cities of the province:  These papers were enclosed in a hollow walking-staff, carefully made fast at the top.

Affairs soon approached a crisis within the beleaguered city.  Daily skirmishes, without decisive result; had taken place outside the walls.  At last, on the 18th of September, after a steady cannonade of nearly twelve hours, Don Frederic, at three in the afternoon, ordered an assault.  Notwithstanding his seven months’ experience at Harlem, he still believed it certain that he should carry Alkmaar by storm.  The attack took place at once upon the Frisian gate and upon the red tower on the opposite side.  Two choice regiments, recently arrived from Lombardy; led the onset, rending the air with their shouts, and confident of an easy victory.  They were sustained by what seemed an overwhelming force of disciplined troops.  Yet never, even in the recent history of Harlem, had an attack been received by more dauntless breasts.  Every living man was on the walls.  The storming parties were assailed with cannon, with musketry, with pistols.  Boiling water, pitch and oil, molten lead, and unslaked lime, were poured upon them every moment.  Hundreds of tarred and burning hoops were skilfully quoited around the necks of the soldiers, who struggled in vain to extricate themselves from these fiery ruffs, while as fast as any of the invaders planted foot upon the breach, they were confronted face to face with sword and dagger by the burghers, who hurled them headlong into the moat below.

Thrice was the attack renewed with ever-increasing rage—­thrice repulsed with unflinching fortitude.  The storm continued four hours long.  During all that period, not one of the defenders left his post, till he dropped from it dead or wounded.  The women and children, unscared by the balls flying in every direction, or by the hand-to-hand conflicts on the ramparts; passed steadily to and fro from the arsenals to the fortifications, constantly supplying