Frantic with fury, wild with rage and shame, he snatched the dagger from his belt.

The boys now raised a frightful yell, and two of them rushed upon Nicolas to wrest the weapon from him.  This was quickly accomplished; the dagger flew on the pavement, but Van Swieten sprang back with a low cry, for the sharp blade had struck his arm, and the bright blood streamed on the ground.

For several minutes the shouts of the lads and the piteous cries of the black page drowned the beautiful melody of the organ, pouring from the windows of the church.  Suddenly the music ceased; instead of the intricate harmony the slowly-dying note of a single pipe was heard, and a young man rushed out of the door of the sacristy of the House of God.  He quickly perceived the cause of the wild uproar that had interrupted his practising, and a smile flitted over the handsome face which, framed by a closely-cut beard, had just looked startled enough, though the reproving words and pushes with which he separated the enraged lads were earnest enough, and by no means failed to produce their effect.

The boys knew the musician, Wilhelm Corneliussohn, and offered no resistance, for they liked him, and his dozen years of seniority gave him an undisputed authority among them.  Not a hand was again raised against Wibisma, but the boys, all shouting and talking together, crowded around the organist to accuse Nicolas and defend themselves.

Paul Van Swieten’s wound was slight.  He stood outside the circle of his companions, supporting the injured left arm with his right hand.  He frequently blew upon the burning spot in his flesh, over which a bit of cloth was wrapped, but curiosity concerning the result of this entertaining brawl was stronger than the wish to have it bandaged and healed.

As the peace-maker’s work was already drawing to a close, the wounded lad, pointing with his sound hand in the direction of the school, suddenly called warningly: 

“There comes Herr von Nordwyk.  Let the Glipper go, or there will be trouble.”

Paul Van Swieten again clasped his wounded arm with his right hand and ran swiftly around the church.  Several other boys followed, but the new-comer of whom they were afraid, a man scarcely thirty years old, had legs of considerable length, and knew how to use them bravely.

“Stop, boys!” he shouted in an echoing voice of command.  “Stop!  What has Happened here?”

Every one in Leyden respected the learned and brave young nobleman, so all the lads who had not instantly obeyed Van Swieten’s warning shout, stood still until Herr von Nordwyk reached them.

A strange, eager light sparkled in this man’s clever eyes, and a subtle smile hovered around his moustached lip, as he called to the musician: 

“What has happened here, Meister Wilhelm?  Didn’t the clamor of Minerva’s apprentices harmonize with your organ-playing, or did—­but by all the colors of Iris, that’s surely Nico Matanesse, young Wibisma!  And how he looks!  Brawling in the shadow of the church—­and you here too, Adrian, and you, Meister Wilhelm?”