And the blows fell heavy, and the king’s crown was knocked off, and his body, like the duke’s, was no more than a hotch-potch of bones and flesh, without any blood. But the workmen went on with their hammering, saying:
“This is for thine invention of the Tourniquet, wherewith thou didst strangle Montigny, friend of thy son, for thou wast seeker of new tortures.
“This is for the Duke of Alva, for the Counts of Egmont and Hoorn, for all our poor dead, for our merchants who went off to enrich England and Germany, for thou wast death and ruin to our land.
“This is for thy wife, who died by thy deed, for thou wast husband without love.
“This is for thy poor son Charles, who died without any sickness, for thou wast father without bowels.
“This is for the hatred, cruelty, and slaughter with which thou didst make return for the gentleness, confidence, and goodwill of our land, for thou wast king without justice.
“And this is for the Emperor, thy father, who, with his execrable proclamations and edicts, first sounded for our land the stroke of the evil hour. Give him a good drubbing on our account, and tell us thou wilt give back the deed to the baes.”
“Yes,” wept a melancholy voice, coming from the heap of bones and flesh, “thou hast everything, Smetse, thou art free.”
“Give me back the parchment,” said Smetse.
“Open the sack,” answered the voice.