“I’m afraid you’re catching cold. For you know, the night air after a hot day—well, put on your cap, dearest. I wouldn’t have this night air to give you a cold for everything in the world. Look, there goes another one.” It was a Roman candle.
“Amour à la plus belle.
Honneur au plus vaillant——”
“Why don’t they sing Dutch? Do you understand any of it?”
Walter knew something of the handsome Dunois, who slew so many Turks and received as his reward the daughter of the duke, his master. How would a knight be rewarded after he had already received one reward? Or how would it have been if the master had had no daughter?
While Walter was asking his lady friend such difficult questions as these, they heard an outburst of cries and abuse and oaths below. A reaction had set in. It was a perfect riot. The crowd swayed first one way then the other, according as one party or the other was in the ascendency.
Non-combatants were pushing their way out; combatants, themselves crowded, were crowding others. Cries of “help” were heard. Mothers, with babies in their arms, attested their fear; women in delicate health made their condition known.
The press was worst on the corner, whither the revelers were streaming from three directions. Here was located a popular restaurant and drinking-place, which was probably the destination of the stream coming from Amstel Street. The second stream, coming from Utrecht Street, evidently had the same objective in view. The strongest current was flowing from the belligerent group, which was now squeezed into close quarters.
From his recent experience Walter knew what it meant to be in such a mob. Whoever fell was walked over. But it really wasn’t so bad as that: to fall was impossible. The danger was in being crowded off the street into basements, where limbs and necks might be easily broken. In this respect there was more danger than there had been the evening before in Kalver Street.
“Christian souls!” cried Juffrouw Laps. “I’m getting right sick at the stomach.”