“In his arms to strangle him,” replied the burgomaster resolutely.  “Have you forgotten the false promises of pardon made in former times, the fate of Egmont and Horn, the noble Montigney and other lords?  They ventured it and entered the tiger’s den.  What we buy to-day will surely be taken from us tomorrow, for what oath would be sacred to Philip?  I am no statesman, but I know this—­if he would restore all our liberties, he will never grant the one thing, without which life is valueless.”

“What is that, Herr Peter?”

“The privilege of believing according to the dictates of our hearts.  You mean fairly, noble sir;—­but you trust the Spaniard, we do not; if we did, we should be deceived children.  You have nothing to fear for your religion, we everything; you believe that the number of troops and power of gold will turn the scales in our conflict, we comfort ourselves with the hope, that God will give victory to the good cause of a brave people, ready to suffer a thousand deaths for liberty.  This is my opinion, and I shall defend it in the town-hall.”

“No, Meister Peter, no!  You cannot, ought not.”

“What I can do is little, what I ought to do is written within, and I shall act accordingly.”

“And thus obey the sorrowing heart rather than the prudent head, and be able to give naught save evil counsel.  Consider, man, Orange’s last army was destroyed on Mock Heath.”

“True, my lord, and for that very reason we will not use the moments for words, but deeds.”

“I’ll take the hint myself, Herr Van der Werf, for many friends of the king still dwell in Leyden, who must be taught not to follow you blindly to the shambles.”

At these words Van der Werff retreated from the nobleman, clenched his moustache firmly in his right hand, and raising his deep voice to a louder tone, said coldly and imperiously: 

“Then, as guardian of the safety of this city, I command you to quit Leyden instantly.  If you are found within these walls after noon to-morrow, I will have you taken across the frontiers by the city-guard.”

The baron withdrew without any form of leave-taking.

As soon as the door had closed behind him, Van der Werff, threw himself into his arm-chair and covered his face with his hands.  When he again sat erect, two large tear-drops sparkled on the paper which had lain under his fingers.  Smiling bitterly, he wiped them from the page with the back of his hand.

“Dead, dead,” he murmured, and the image of the gallant youth, the clever mediator, the favorite of William of Orange, rose before his mind—­he asked himself how this fresh stroke of fate would affect the Prince, whom he revered as the providence of the country, admired and loved as the wisest, most unselfish of men.

William’s affliction grieved him as sorely as if it had fallen upon himself, and the blow that had struck the cause of freedom was a heavy one, perhaps never to be overcome.