“Ye lie, ye cur,” roared Hans, taking instantly the irascible turn, and not being clear enough to see that he, who now sat opposite him, was the same he had praised, and hit, when beside him. “If he is ten times your brother, he is in Italy. What call ye this? There, read me that superscription!” and he flung down a letter on the table.
Sybrandt took it up, and examined it gravely; but eventually laid it down, with the remark, that he could not read. However, one of the company, by some immense fortuity, could read; and proud of so rare an accomplishment, took it, and read it out:
“To Gerard Eliassoen, of Tergou. These by the hand of the trusty Hans Memling, with all speed.”
“'Tis excellently well writ,” said the reader, examining every letter.
“Ay!” said Hans bombastically, “and small wonder: 'tis writ by a famous hand; by Margaret, sister of Jan Van Eyck. Blessed and honoured be his memory! She is an old friend of mine, is Margaret Van Eyck.”
Miscellaneous Hans then diverged into forty topics.
Sybrandt stole out of the company, and went in search of Cornelis.
They put their heads together over the news: Italy was an immense distance off. If they could only keep him there?
“Keep him there? Nothing would keep him long from his Margaret.”
“Curse her!” said Sybrandt. “Why didn't she die when she was about it?”