The three men stood close together, sword in hand. To the excited gaze of the crowd they scarcely seemed to be using their swords or to heed those of their aggressors who came threateningly nigh. They stood quite quietly up against the wall hardly making a movement, their sword hand and wrist never appeared to stir, but many who had been in the forefront had retired howling and the snow all around was deeply stained with red: Jan Tiele and Willem had broken noses and Piet had lost one ear.
The three men were hatless and the faces of two of them were smeared with blood. The third—taller and broader than the others—stood between them, and with those that pressed him closely he bandied mocking words.
"Spaniards! Papists!" yelled the crowd.
"If I hear those words again," he retorted pleasantly, "I'll run three of you through on Bucephalus as on a spit, and leave you thus ready for roasting in hell. We are no Spaniards. My father was English and my friend Pythagoras here was born in a donkey shed, whilst Socrates first saw the light of day in a travelling menagerie. So we are none of us Spaniards, and you can all disperse."
"Papists!"
"And if I hear that again I'll send the lot of you to hell."
"Art thou Samson then, to think thyself so strong?" shouted a shrill voice close to him.
"Give me thy jawbone and I'll prove thee that I am," he retorted gaily.
"Spies!" they cried.
"Dondersteen!" he shouted in his turn, swearing lustily, "I am tired of this rabble. Disperse! disperse, I tell ye! Bucephalus my friend wilt have a taste of Dutch guts? Another ear? a nose or two? What, ye will not go?"