The scholars rose; Van Hout wiped the perspiration from his high forehead, and while the boys were collecting books, pencils, and pens, said slowly, as if apologizing to himself for the words already uttered: 

“What I have told you perhaps does not belong to the school-room; but, my lads, this battle is still far from being ended, and though you must occupy the school-benches for a while, you are the future soldiers.  Lowing, remain behind, I have something to say to you.”

He slowly turned his back to the boys, who rushed out of doors.  In a corner of the yard of St. Peter’s church, which was behind the building and entered by few of the passers-by, they stood still, and from amid the wild confusion of exclamations arose a sort of consultation, to which the organ-notes echoing from the church formed a strange accompaniment.

They were trying to decide upon the game to be played in the afternoon.

It was a matter of course, after what Van Hout had said, that there should be a battle; it had not even been proposed by anybody, but the discussion that now arose proceeded from the supposition.

It was soon decided that patriots and Spaniards, not Greeks and Persians, were to appear in the lists against each other; but when the burgomaster’s son, Adrian Van der Werff, a lad of fourteen, proposed to form the two parties, and in the imperious way peculiar to him attempted to make Paul Van Swieten and Claus Dirkson Spaniards, he encountered violent opposition, and the troublesome circumstance was discovered that no one was willing to represent a foreign soldier.

Each boy wanted to make somebody else a Castilian, and fight himself under the banner of the Netherlands.  But friends and foes are necessary for a war, and Holland’s heroic courage required Spaniards to prove it.  The youngsters grew excited, the cheeks of the disputants began to flush, here and there clenched fists were raised, and everything indicated that a horrible civil war would precede the battle to be given the foes of the country.

In truth, these lively boys were ill-suited to play the part of King Philip’s gloomy, stiff-necked soldiers.  Amid the many fair heads, few lads were seen with brown locks, and only one with black hair and dark eyes.  This was Adam Baersdorp, whose father, like Van der Werff’s, was one of the leaders of the citizens.  When he too refused to act a Spaniard, one of the boys exclaimed: 

“You won’t?  Yet my father says your father is half a Glipper,—­[The name given in Holland to those who sympathized with Spain]—­and a whole Papist to boot.”

At these words young Baersdorp threw his books on the ground, and was rushing with upraised fist upon his enemy—­but Adrian Van der Werff hastily interposed, crying: 

“For shame, Cornelius.—­I’ll stop the mouth of anybody who utters such an insult again.  Catholics are Christians, as well as we.  You heard it from Van Hout, and my father says so too.  Will you be a Spaniard, Adam, yes or no?”