nature.  His life was in imminent danger.  A furious clothier levelled an arquebus full at his breast.  “Die, treacherous villain?” he cried; “thou who art the cause that our brethren have perished thus miserably in yonder field.”  The loaded weapon was struck away by another hand in the crowd, while the Prince, neither daunted by the ferocious demonstrations against his life, nor enraged by the virulent abuse to which he was subjected, continued tranquilly, earnestly, imperatively to address the crowd.  William of Orange had that in his face and tongue “which men willingly call master-authority.”  With what other talisman could he, without violence and without soldiers, have quelled even for a moment ten thousand furious Calvinists, armed, enraged against his person, and thirsting for vengeance on Catholics.  The postern of the Red Gate had already been broken through before Orange and his colleague, Hoogstraaten, had arrived.  The most excited of the Calvinists were preparing to rush forth upon the enemy at Ostrawell.  The Prince, after he had gained the ear of the multitude, urged that the battle was now over, that the reformers were entirely cut to pieces, the enemy, retiring, and that a disorderly and ill-armed mob would be unable to retrieve the fortunes of the day.  Many were persuaded to abandon the design.  Five hundred of the most violent, however, insisted upon leaving the gates, and the governors, distinctly warning these zealots that their blood must be upon their own heads, reluctantly permitted that number to issue from the city.  The rest of the mob, not appeased, but uncertain, and disposed to take vengeance upon the Catholics within the walls, for the disaster which had been occurring without, thronged tumultuously to the long, wide street, called the Mere, situate in the very heart of the city.

Meantime the ardor of those who had sallied from the gate grew sensibly cooler, when they found themselves in the open fields.  De Beauvoir, whose men, after the victory, had scattered in pursuit of the fugitives, now heard the tumult in the city.  Suspecting an attack, he rallied his compact little army again for a fresh encounter.  The last of the vanquished Tholousians who had been captured; more fortunate than their predecessors, had been spared for ransom.  There were three hundred of them; rather a dangerous number of prisoners for a force of eight hundred, who were just going into another battle.  De Beauvoir commanded his soldiers, therefore, to shoot them all.  This order having been accomplished, the Catholics marched towards Antwerp, drums beating, colors flying.  The five hundred Calvinists, not liking their appearance, and being in reality outnumbered, retreated within; the gates as hastily as they had just issued from them.  De Beauvoir advanced close to the city moat, on the margin of which he planted the banners of the unfortunate Tholouse, and sounded a trumpet of defiance.  Finding that the citizens had apparently no stomach for the fight, he removed his trophies, and took his departure.