The table itself was lit by a huge lamp of rock crystal supported by four flying harpies, half gold, and half silver, with wings and tails shining in red enamel. This magnificent light illuminated the whole table and left in shadow only the extreme centre, where stood a gorgeous piece of confectionery, the master-effort of Count Culemburg's cook, representing the confederacy entering the gates of the Brabant palace, the little figures—each of which was a portrait—being moulded out of sugar, cunningly coloured and adorned with cuttings of candied fruits.
This, on the huge raised comport of embossed gold, was untouched, but for the rest the table was in the wildest disorder.
Almost every thread of the cloth of Brussel's lace was stained with wine; gold goblets, crystal beakers, dishes of fruit, of cakes, of sweetmeats were scattered right and left; at one end two young men were dancing on the table, clinging to each other, while their unsteady feet knocked over glasses and plates; several had mounted on the backs of their chairs, and sat with their feet on the table edge, while they shouted at the top of their voices; others, their caps turned inside out and their doublets torn open, danced about the room vowing eternal friendship to each other and eternal fidelity to the party; a few retained their places at the table and, with beakers at their lips, pledged again and again the party of "the beggars"; most of them had baptized a neighbour into the confederacy by pouring wine over his shoulders and head, so that flushed faces, rich clothes, and tumbled locks alike dripped red.
The whole scene seemed coloured red—the bright red of wine sparkling over gold.
At the head of the table sat Count Brederode; his doublet of scarlet velvet was covered with a network of fine gold strung with pearls; every thread of his ruff was gold, it came up to his ears and was scattered with brilliants; from his shoulders hung a short mantle of silver cloth lined with white fur; he leant his elbows on the table and clasped between his jewelled hands a gold goblet carved with grapes and vine leaves. As he emptied it, the page at his elbow refilled it; the wine splashed down his ruff, his doublet, and his sleeves; he laughed long and merrily, and now and then shouted at the top of his powerful voice—
"Par le sel, par le pain, par le besache,
Les gueulx ne changeront, quoy qu'on se fache!
Vivent le roi et les gueulx! vivent les gueulx!"
Such was the scene that met the eyes of William and his companions as they entered the Culemburg banqueting hall.
The Prince said nothing, but glanced to where Hoogstraaten sat, half-vexed, half-amused, near his host, whom he was endeavouring to restrain; Egmont uttered an exclamation of annoyance and dismay; Hoorne frowned bitterly, and darted a look of contempt from under his heavy brows at the laughing Count Brederode.