“Take it to Dirk van Goorl.  He’ll be glad of it soon.”

Now Adrian understood.  All these people knew of his infamy; the whole of Leyden knew that tale.  His lips turned dry, and the sweat broke out upon his body.  What should he do?  Brave it out?  He sat down, and the fierce ring of silent faces drew a pace or two nearer.  He tried to bid the man to bring more meat, but the words stuck in his throat.  Now the mob saw his fear, and of a sudden seemed to augur his guilt from it, and to pass sentence on him in their hearts.  At least, they who had been so dumb broke out into yells and hoots.

“Traitor!” “Spanish spy!” “Murderer!” they screamed.  “Who gave evidence against our Dirk?  Who sold his brother to the rack?”

Then came another shriller note.  “Kill him.”  “Hang him up by the heels and stone him.”  “Twist off his tongue,” and so forth.  Out shot a hand, a long, skinny, female hand, and a harsh voice cried, “Give us a keepsake, my pretty boy!” Then there was a sharp wrench at his head, and he knew that from it a lock of hair was missing.  This was too much.  He ought to have stopped there and let them kill him if they would, but a terror of these human wolves entered his soul and mastered him.  To be trodden beneath those mire-stained feet, to be rent by those filthy hands, to be swung up living by the ankles to some pole and then carved piecemeal—­he could not bear it.  He drew his sword and turned to fly.

“Stop him,” yelled the mob, whereon he lunged at them wildly, running a small boy through the arm.

The sight of blood and the screech of the wounded lad settled the question, and those who were foremost came at him with a spring.  But Adrian was swifter than they, and before a hand could be laid upon him, amidst a shower of stones and filth, he was speeding down the street.  After him came the mob, and then began one of the finest man-hunts ever known in Leyden.

From one street to another, round this turn and round that, sped the quarry, and after him, a swiftly growing pack, came the hounds.  Some women drew a washing-line across the street to trip him.  Adrian jumped it like a deer.  Four men got ahead and tried to cut him off.  He dodged them.  Down the Bree Straat he went, and on his mother’s door he saw a paper and guessed what was written there.  They were gaining, they were gaining, for always fresh ones took the place of those who grew weary.  There was but one chance for him now.  Near by ran the Rhine, and here it was wide and unbridged.  Perhaps they would not follow him through the water.  In he went, having no choice, and swam for his life.  They threw stones and bits of wood at him, and called for bows but, luckily for him, by now the night was falling fast, so that soon he vanished from their sight, and heard them crying to each other that he was drowned.

But Adrian was not drowned, for at that moment he was dragging himself painfully through the deep, greasy mud of the opposing bank and hiding among the old boats and lumber which were piled there, till his breath came to him again.  But he could not stay long, for even if he had not been afraid that they would come and find him, it was too cold.  So he crept away into the darkness.