“You are right, good people,” said Burgomaster Baersdorp, who, clad in his costly fur-bordered cloak, was coming from the town-hall and had heard the last speaker’s words.  “But let me set you right.  To-day the credulous are beginning to hope again, and the time for pressing your just desire is ill-chosen.  Wait a few days and then, if the relief does not appear, urge your views.  I’ll speak for you, and with me many a good man in the magistracy.  We have nothing to expect from Valdez, but gentleness and kindness.  To rise against the King was from the first a wicked deed—­to fight against famine, the plague and death is sin and madness.  May God be with you, men!”

“The burgomaster is sensible,” cried a cloth-dyer.

“Van Swieten and Norden think as he does, but Meister Peter rules through the Prince’s favor.  If the Spaniards rescue us, his neck will be in danger, when they make their entrance into the city So no matter who dies; he and his are living on the fat of the land and have plenty.”

“There goes his wife,” said a master-weaver, pointing to Maria.  “How happy she looks!  The leather business must be doing well.  Holloa—­Frau Van der Werff!  Holloa!  Remember me to your husband and tell him, his life may be valuable; but ours are not wisps of straw.”

“Tell him, too,” cried a cattle-dealer, who did not yet seem to have been specially injured by the general distress, “tell him oxen can be slaughtered, the more the better; but Leyden citizens—­”

The cattle-dealer did not finish his sentence, for Herr Aquanus had seen from the Angulus what was happening to the burgomaster’s wife, came out of the tavern into the street, and stepped into the midst of the malcontents.

“For shame!” he cried.  “To assail a respectable lady in the street!  Are these Leyden manners?  Give me your hand, Frau Maria, and if I hear a single reviling word, I’ll call the constables.  I know you.  The gallows Herr Van Bronkhorst had erected for men like you, is still standing by the Blue Stone.  Which of you wants to inaugurate them?”

The men, to whom these words were addressed, were not the bravest of mortals, and not a syllable was heard, as Aquanus led the young wife into the tavern.  The landlord’s wife and daughter received her in their own rooms, which were separated from those occupied by guests of the inn, and begged her to make herself comfortable there until the crowd had dispersed.  But Maria longed to reach home, and when she said she must go, Aquanus offered his company.

Georg von Dornburg was standing in the entry and stepped back with a respectful bow, but the innkeeper called to him, saying: 

“There is much to be done to-day, for many a man will doubtless indulge himself in a glass of liquor after the good news.  No offence, Frau Van der Werft; but the Junker will escort you home as safely as I—­and you, Herr von Dornburg—­”