“For killing of the bloodhounds.”
The duke's countenance fell.
“'Twas their life or mine,” said Martin eagerly.
“Ay! but I can't have, my bloodhounds, my beautiful bloodhounds, sacrificed to—
“No, no, no! They were not your dogs.”
“Whose dogs, then?”
“The ranger's.”
“Oh. Well, I am very sorry for him, but as I was saying I can't have my old soldiers sacrificed to his bloodhounds. Thou shalt have thy free pardon.”
“And poor Gerard.”
“And poor Gerard too, for thy sake. And more, tell thou this burgomaster his doings mislike me: this is to set up for a king, not a burgomaster. I'll have no kings in Holland but one. Bid him be more humble; or by St. Jude I'll hang him before his own door, as I hanged the burgomaster of what's the name, some town or other in Flanders it was; no, 'twas' somewhere in Brabant—no matter—I hanged him, I remember that much—for oppressing poor folk.”