When the assembly was over, the Duchess, thus put in possession of the recorded wisdom of these special councillors, asked her constitutional advisers what she was to do with it.  Orange, Egmont, Horn, Mansfeld replied, however, that it was not their affair, and that their opinion had not been demanded by his Majesty in the premises.  The Duchess accordingly transmitted to Philip the conclusions of the assembly, together with the reasons of the seigniors for refusing to take part in its deliberations.  The sentiments of Orange could hardly be doubtful, however, nor his silence fail to give offense to the higher powers.  He contented himself for the time with keeping his eyes and ears open to the course of events, but he watched well.  He had “little leisure for amusing himself,” as Brederode suggested.  That free-spoken individual looked upon the proceedings of the theological assembly with profound disgust.  “Your letter,” he wrote to Count Louis, “is full of those blackguards of bishops and presidents.  I would the race were extinct, like that of green dogs.  They will always combat with the arms which they have ever used, remaining to the end avaricious, brutal, obstinate, ambitious, et cetera.  I leave you to supply the rest.”

Thus, then, it was settled beyond peradventure that there was to be no compromise with heresy.  The King had willed it.  The theologians had advised it.  The Duchess had proclaimed it.  It was supposed that without the axe, the fire, and the rack, the Catholic religion would be extinguished, and that the whole population of the Netherlands would embrace the Reformed Faith.  This was the distinct declaration of Viglius, in a private letter to Granvelle.  “Many seek to abolish the chastisement of heresy,” said he; “if they gain this point, actum est de religione Catholica; for as most of the people are ignorant fools, the heretics will soon be the great majority, if by fear of punishment they are not kept in the true path.”

The uneasiness, the terror, the wrath of the people seemed rapidly culminating to a crisis.  Nothing was talked of but the edicts and the inquisition.  Nothing else entered into the minds of men.  In the streets, in the shops, in the taverns, in the fields; at market, at church, at funerals, at weddings; in the noble’s castle, at the farmer’s fireside, in the mechanic’s garret, upon the merchants’ exchange, there was but one perpetual subject of shuddering conversation.  It was better, men began to whisper to each other, to die at once than to live in perpetual slavery.  It was better to fall with arms in hand than to be tortured and butchered by the inquisition.  Who could expect to contend with such a foe in the dark?