Here he hesitated, for the agitated face of Escovedo, who entered with a despatch in his hand, showed that something unexpected and startling had occurred.

The secretary, Don John’s friend and counsellor, did not allow himself to be intimidated by the angry gesture with which his master waved him back, but handed him the paper, exclaiming in a tone ringing with the horror the news had inspired:  “Antwerp attacked by his Majesty’s rebellious troops, those in Alst, headed by their Eletto—­burned to ashes, plundered, destroyed!”

With a hasty snatch Don John seized the parchment announcing the misfortune, and read it, panting for breath.

The Council of Antwerp had addressed it to King Philip, and sent a copy to him, the newly appointed governor.

When he let the hand which held the paper fall, he was deadly pale, and gazed around him as though seeking assistance.

Then his eyes met those of his mother who, seized with anxious fears, was watching his every movement, and he handed her the fatal sheet, with the half-sorrowful, half-disdainful exclamation: 

“And I am to lead this abused people back to love the man who sent them the Duke of Alba, that he might heal their wounds with his pitiless iron hand, and who let the poor, brave fellows in his service starve and go in rags until, in fierce despair, they seized for themselves what their employer denied.”

The sheet Barbara’s son had handed to her trembled in her hand as she read half aloud:  “It is the greatest commercial city in Europe, the fosterer of art, knowledge, manufactures, and the Catholic faith, which never wavered in obedience to the King, hurled in a single day from the height of honour and happiness to a gulf of misery, and become a den of robbers and murderers, who know nothing of God and the King.  Old men, women, and children have been slaughtered by them without distinction, the goods belonging partly to foreign owners have been stolen and burned, and the magnificent Town Hall, with all its treasures of documents and patents, has become a prey of the flames.”

“Horrible! horrible!” cried Barbara, and Don John repeated her words, and added in a hollow tone:  “And this happened yesterday, on the selfsame Sunday which saw me ride into the Netherlands!  These are the bonfires which redden the heavens on my arrival!”

“William of Orange will call them incendiary flames crying aloud for vengeance,” fell in half-stifled accents from Barbara’s lips.

“And this time with some reason,” replied Don John in a tone of assent, “for the men who kindled them are mercenaries of the King, formerly our own troops, who have been driven to desperation.”  Then he continued passionately:  “And Philip sends me—­me, a man of the sword—­to these provinces.  What is the warrior to do here?  This blade is too good to deal the death-blow to the body which is already bleeding from a thousand wounds.  If, nevertheless, I did it, I should