“It will be for his good in the end,” replied the young one.
“What avails Famine wedding Thirst?” said Cornelis.
“And the grief you are preparing for him so coolly?” Ghysbrecht spoke sarcastically, but tasted his own vengeance all the time.
“Oh, a lie is not like a blow with a curtal axe. It hacks no flesh, and breaks no bones.”
“A curtal axe?” said Sybrandt; “no, nor even like a stroke with a cudgel.” And he shot a sly envenomed glance at the burgomaster's broken nose.
Ghysbrecht's face darkened with ire when this adder's tongue struck his wound. But it told, as intended: the old man bristled with hate.
“Well,” said he, “tell me what to write for you, and I must write it; but take notice, you bear the blame if aught turns amiss. Not the hand which writes, but the tongue which dictates, doth the deed.”
The brothers assented warmly, sneering within. Ghysbrecht then drew his inkhorn towards him, and laid the specimen of Margaret Van Eyck's writing before him, and made some inquiries as to the size and shape of the letter, when an unlooked-for interruption occurred; Jorian Ketel burst hastily into the room, and looked vexed at not finding him alone.
“Thou seest I have matter on hand, good fellow.”
“Ay; but this is grave. I bring good news; but 'tis not for every ear.”