Lysbeth, a Tale of the Dutch

by H. Rider Haggard

“Be more careful and wipe that up,” said Adrian.

“Wipe it yourself,” answered the man, rudely turning upon his heel.

Now Adrian was minded to be gone, but he was hungry and thirsty, so first, thought he, he would satisfy himself. Accordingly he lifted the tankard and took a long pull at it, when suddenly something struck the bottom of the vessel, jerking liquor over his face and doublet. He set it down with an oath, and laying his hand upon his sword hilt asked who had done this. But the mob, which by now numbered fifty or sixty, and was gathered about him in a triple circle, made no answer. They stood there staring sullenly, and in the fading light their faces seemed dangerous and hostile.

He was frightened. What could they mean? Yes, he was frightened, but he determined to brave it out, and lifted the cover from his meat, when something passed over his shoulder and fell into the dish, something stinking and abominable—to be particular, a dead cat. This was too much. Adrian sprang to his feet, and asked who dared thus to foul his food. The crowd did not jeer, did not even mock; it seemed too much in earnest for gibes, but a voice at the back called out:

“Take it to Dirk van Goorl. He’ll be glad of it soon.”

Now Adrian understood. All these people knew of his infamy; the whole of Leyden knew that tale. His lips turned dry, and the sweat broke out upon his body. What should he do? Brave it out? He sat down, and the fierce ring of silent faces drew a pace or two nearer. He tried to bid the man to bring more meat, but the words stuck in his throat. Now the mob saw his fear, and of a sudden seemed to augur his guilt from it, and to pass sentence on him in their hearts. At least, they who had been so dumb broke out into yells and hoots.

“Traitor!” “Spanish spy!” “Murderer!” they screamed. “Who gave evidence against our Dirk? Who sold his brother to the rack?”

Then came another shriller note. “Kill him.” “Hang him up by the heels and stone him.” “Twist off his tongue,” and so forth. Out shot a hand, a long, skinny, female hand, and a harsh voice cried, “Give us a keepsake, my pretty boy!” Then there was a sharp wrench at his head, and he knew that from it a lock of hair was missing. This was too much. He ought to have stopped there and let them kill him if they would, but a terror of these human wolves entered his soul and mastered him. To be trodden beneath those mire-stained feet, to be rent by those filthy hands, to be swung up living by the ankles to some pole and then carved piecemeal—he could not bear it. He drew his sword and turned to fly.

“Stop him,” yelled the mob, whereon he lunged at them wildly, running a small boy through the arm.

The sight of blood and the screech of the wounded lad settled the question, and those who were foremost came at him with a spring. But Adrian was swifter than they, and before a hand could be laid upon him, amidst a shower of stones and filth, he was speeding down the street. After him came the mob, and then began one of the finest man-hunts ever known in Leyden.