“Out of my way!” said the youth in a haughty, resolute tone, trying to push Mulder aside with the back of his hand.

“Hands off, Glipper!” cried the school-boys, raising their clenched hands threateningly.

“Then let me alone,” replied Wibisma, “I want no quarrel, least of all with you.”

“Why not with us?” asked Adrian Van der Werff, irritated by the supercilious, arrogant tone of the last words.

The youth shrugged his shoulders, but Adrian cried:  “Because you like your Spanish costume better than our doublets of Leyden cloth.”

Here he paused, for Jan Mulder stole behind Wibisma, struck his hat down on his head with a book, and while Nicolas Van Wibisma was trying to free his eyes from the covering that shaded them, exclaimed: 

“There, Sir Grandee, now the little hat sits firm!  You can keep it on, even before the king.”

The negro could not go to his master’s assistance, for his arms were filled with parcels, but the young noble did not call him, knowing how cowardly his black servant was, and feeling strong enough to help himself.

A costly clasp, which he had just received as a gift on his seventeenth birthday, confined the plume in his hat; but without a thought he flung it aside, stretched out his arms as if for a wrestling-match, and with florid cheeks, asked in a loud, resolute tone:  “Who did that?”

Jan Mulder had hastily retreated among his companions, and instead of coming forward and giving his name, called: 

“Look for the hat-fuller, Glipper!  We’ll play blindman’s buff.”

The youth, frantic with rage, repeated his question.  When, instead of any other answer, the boys entered into Jan Mulder’s jest, shouting gaily:  “Yes, play blind-man’s buff!  Look for the hat-fuller.  Come, little Glipper, begin.”  Nicolas could contain himself no longer, but shouted furiously to the laughing throng: 

“Cowardly rabble!”

Scarcely had the words been uttered, when Paul Van Swieten raised his grammar, bound in hog-skin, and hurled it at Wibisma’s breast.

Other books followed, amid loud outcries, striking him on the legs and shoulders.  Bewildered, he shielded his face with his hands and retreated to the church-yard wall, where he stood still and prepared to rush upon his foes.

The stiff, fashionable high Spanish ruff no longer confined his handsome head with its floating golden locks.  Freely and boldly he looked his enemies in the face, stretched the young limbs hardened by many a knightly exercise, and with a true Netherland oath sprang upon Adrian Van der Werff, who stood nearest.

After a short struggle, the burgomaster’s son, inferior in strength and age to his opponent, lay extended on the ground; but the other lads, who had not ceased shouting, “Glipper, Glipper,” seized the young noble, who was kneeling on his vanquished foe.

Nicolas struggled bravely, but his enemies’ superior power was too great.