The noon bell now rang from the neighboring church, and soon after was heard from the tower of the town-hall, the little boys noisily left the room, but—­strange-=the patience of the older ones still held out; they were surely hearing things that did not exactly belong to their lessons.

The man who stood before them was no teacher in the school, but the city clerk, Van Hout, who, to-day filled the place of his sick friend, Verstroot, master of arts and preacher.  During the ringing of the bells he had closed the book, and now said: 

“‘Suspendo lectionem.’  Jan Mulder, how would you translate my ’suspendere’?”

“Hang,” replied the boy.

“Hang!” laughed Van Hout.  “You might be hung from a hook perhaps, but where should we hang a lesson?  Adrian Van der Werff.”

The lad called rose quickly, saying: 

“‘Suspendere lectionen’ means to break off the lesson.”

“Very well; and if we wanted to hang up Jan Mulder, what should we say?”

“Patibulare—­ad patibulum!” cried the scholars.  Van Hout, who had just been smiling, grew very grave.  Drawing a long breath, he said: 

“Patibulo is a bad Latin word, and your fathers, who formerly sat here, understood its meaning far less thoroughly than you.  Now, every child in the Netherlands knows it, Alva has impressed it on our minds.  More than eighteen thousand worthy citizens have come to the gallows through his ‘ad patibulum.’”

With these words he pulled his short black doublet through his girdle, advanced nearer the first desk, and bending his muscular body forward, said with constantly increasing emotion: 

“’This shall be enough for to-day, boys.  It will do no great harm, if you afterwards forget the names earned here.  But always remember one thing:  your country first of all.  Leonidas and his three hundred Spartans did not die in vain, so long as there are men ready to follow their example.  Your turn will come too.  It is not my business to boast, but truth is truth.  We Hollanders have furnished fifty times three hundred men for the freedom of our native soil.  In such stormy times there are steadfast men; even boys have shown themselves great.  Ulrich yonder, at your head, can bear his nickname of Lowing with honor.  ‘Hither Persians—­hither Greeks!’ was said in ancient times, but we cry:  ’Hither Netherlands, hither Spain!’ And indeed, the proud Darius never ravaged Greece as King Philip has devastated Holland.  Ay, my lads, many flowers bloom in the breasts of men.  Among them is hatred of the poisonous hemlock.  Spain has sowed it in our gardens.  I feel it growing within me, and you too feel and ought to feel it.  But don’t misunderstand me!  ‘Hither Spain—­hither Netherlands!’ is the cry, and not:  ‘Hither Catholics and hither Protestants.’  Every faith may be right in the Lord’s eyes, if only the man strives earnestly to walk in Christ’s ways.  At the throne of Heaven, it will not be asked:  Are you Papist, Calvinist, or Lutheran? but:  What were your intentions and acts?  Respect every man’s belief; but despise him who makes common cause with the tyrant against the liberty of our native land.  Now pray silently, then you may go home.”