The Junker withdrew, and when he returned with Nicolas Van Wibisma, who was the messenger, Dominie Verstroot had finished his stirring speech.  Van der Werff was still speaking.  The sacred fire of enthusiasm sparkled in his eyes, and though the few words he addressed to his fellow-combatants in the deepest chest tones of his powerful voice were plain and unadorned, they found their way to the souls of his auditors.

Nicolas also followed the speech with a throbbing heart; it seemed as if the tall, earnest man under the linden were speaking directly to him and to him alone, when at the close he raised his voice once more and exclaimed enthusiastically: 

“And now let what will, come!  A brave man from your midst has said to-day:  ’We will not yield, so long as an arm is left on our bodies, to raise food to our lips and wield a sword!’ If we all think thus, twenty Spanish armies will find their graves before these walls.  On Leyden depends the liberty of Holland.  If we waver and fall, to escape the misery that only threatens us to-day, but will pitilessly oppress and torture us later, our children will say:  ’The men of Leyden were blind cowards; it is their fault, that the name of Hollander is held in no higher esteem, than that of a useless slave.’  But if we faithfully hold out and resist the gloomy foreigner to the last man and the last mouthful of bread, they will remember us with tears and joyfully exclaim:  ’We owe it to them, that our noble, industrious, happy people is permitted to place itself proudly beside the other nations, and need no longer tolerate the miserable cuckoo in its own nest.  Let whoever loves honor, whoever is no degenerate wretch, that betrays his parents’ house, whoever would rather be a free man than a slave, ere raising his hand before God to take the oath, exclaim with me:  ’Long live our shield, Orange, and a free Holland!’”

“They shall live!” shouted hundreds of powerful voices, five, ten, twenty times.  The gunner discharged the cannon planted near the target, drums beat, one flourish of trumpets after another filled the air, the ringing of bells from all the towers of the city echoed over the heads of the enthusiastic crowd, and the cheering continued until the commissioner waved his hand and the swearing fealty began.

The guilds and the armed defenders of the city pressed forward in bands under the linden.  Now impetuously, now with dignified calmness, now with devout exaltation, hands were raised to take the oath, and whoever clasped hands did so with fervent warmth.  Two hours elapsed before all had sworn loyalty, and many a group that had passed under the linden together, warmly grasped each other’s hands on the grounds in pledge of a second silent vow.

Nicolas Van Wibisma sat silently, with his letter in his lap, beside a target opposite the spot where the oath was taken, but sorrowful, bitter emotions were seething in his breast.  How gladly he would have wept aloud and torn his father’s letter!  How gladly, when he saw the venerable Herr Van Montfort come hand in hand with the grey-haired Van der Does to be sworn, he would have rushed to their side to take the oath, and call to the earnest man beneath the linden: