This brief incident naturally exasperated the crowd: it acted as a signal for a fresh outburst of rage and a fresh volley of insults, which were hurled at the stranger from every side.

'Miserable Spaniard!' exclaimed one man. 'How dare you lay a hand on a free burgher of the city?'

'If a free burgher of the city chooses deliberately to insult me,' retorted Gilles, who, for obvious reasons, was trying to keep his temper, 'I do what every one of you would have done under like circumstances—knock the impudent fellow down.'

'Impudent fellow!' came from a harsh voice at the rear of the crowd. 'Hark at the noble Spanish Senor! Flemish burghers are like the dust beneath his feet.'

'I am no Spaniard!' said Gilles loudly. 'And whoever calls me one again is a liar. So, come out of there,' he added lightly, 'you who spoke from a safe and convenient distance; and Fleming, French or Spaniard, we'll soon see whose is the harder fist.'

'Fight with a masked spy like you?' was the defiant riposte. 'Not I! The devil, your accomplice, has taught you some tricks, I'll warrant, against which no simple Christian could stand.'

'Well said!' shouted one of the women. 'If you are no Spaniard and no spy, throw down that mask and show your face like an honest man!'

'Yes! Yes! Throw down the mask!' another in the crowd assented. 'We know you dress like a fine gallant; but we want to see how like your face is to the picture of Beelzebub which hangs in the Town Hall.'

A prolonged shout of ribald laughter, which had no merriment in it, was the unanimous response to this sally. The women were already raising their fists: the ever-recurring insult, 'Spanish spy!' had the effect of whipping up everybody's temper against the stranger. Gilles was defenceless save for his sword, which it would obviously have been highly impolitic to draw against that rabble. Whilst he parleyed with them, he had succeeded by a deliberate manoeuvre in drawing considerably nearer to the high wall of the Archiepiscopal Palace, where the latter abuts on the cathedral close, and he hoped with some good luck, or a sudden, well-thought-out ruse, to reach the gates ere the hostility of the crowd turned to open attack.

That both the men and the women—oh! especially the women!—meant mischief, there could be no doubt. There was that gruff murmur going the round, which means threats muttered between closed teeth; sleeves were being rolled above brawny or gaunt arms; palms moistened ere they gripped stick or even knife a little closer. Gilles saw all these signs with the quick, practised eye of the soldier, and it was his turn to grind his teeth with rage at his own impotence to defend himself adequately if it came to blows. Just for the moment the crowd was still sullen rather than openly aggressive, and, much as the thought of beating a retreat went against the grain of Gilles' hot temperament, there was no doubt that it were by far the wisest course to pursue.