When the Syndic Pavillon was announced from mouth to mouth in this tumultuous meeting, he endeavoured to assume, in right of his authority and influence, an air of importance and equality, which a glance at the fearful object at the window, and at the wild scene around him, rendered it very difficult for him to sustain, notwithstanding the exhortations of Peter, who whispered in his ear with some perturbation, “Up heart, master, or we are but gone men!”
The Syndic maintained his dignity, however, as well as he could, in a short address, in which he complimented the company upon the great victory gained by the soldiers of De la Marck and the good citizens of Liege.
“Ay,” answered De la Marck, sarcastically, “we have brought down the game at last, quoth my lady's brach to the wolf hound. But ho! Sir Burgomaster, you come like Mars, with Beauty by your side. Who is this fair one?—Unveil, unveil—no woman calls her beauty her own tonight.”
“It is my daughter, noble leader,” answered Pavillon, “and I am to pray your forgiveness for her wearing a veil. She has a vow for that effect to the Three Blessed Kings.”
“I will absolve her of it presently,” said De la Marck, “for here, with one stroke of a cleaver, will I consecrate myself Bishop of Liege, and I trust one living bishop is worth three dead kings.”
There was a shuddering and murmur among the guests, for the community of Liege, and even some of the rude soldiers, reverenced the Kings of Cologne, as they were commonly called, though they respected nothing else.
“Nay, I mean no treason against their defunct majesties,” said De la Marck, “only Bishop I am determined to be. A prince both secular and ecclesiastical, having power to bind and loose, will best suit a band of reprobates such as you, to whom no one else would give absolution.—But come hither, noble Burgomaster—sit beside me, when you shall see me make a vacancy for my own preferment.—Bring in our predecessor in the holy seat.”
A bustle took place in the hall, while Pavillon, excusing himself from the proffered seat of honour, placed himself near the bottom of the table, his followers keeping close behind him, not unlike a flock of sheep which, when a stranger dog is in presence, may be sometimes seen to assemble in the rear of an old bell wether, who is, from office and authority, judged by them to have rather more courage than themselves. Near the spot sat a very handsome lad, a natural son, as was said, of the ferocious De la Marck, and towards whom he sometimes showed affection, and even tenderness. The mother of the boy, a beautiful concubine, had perished by a blow dealt her by the ferocious leader in a fit of drunkenness or jealousy, and her fate had caused her tyrant as much remorse as he was capable of feeling. His attachment to the surviving orphan might be partly owing to these circumstances. Quentin, who had learned this point of the leader's character from the old priest, planted himself as close as he could to the youth in question, determined to make him, in some way or other, either a hostage or a protector, should other means of safety fail them.
While all stood in a kind of suspense, waiting the event of the orders which the tyrant had issued, one of Pavillon's followers whispered Peter, “Did not our master call that wench his daughter?—Why, it cannot be our Trudchen. This strapping lass is taller by two inches, and there is a black lock of hair peeps forth yonder from under her veil. By Saint Michael of the Marketplace, you might as well call a black bullock's hide a white heifer's!
“Hush! hush!” said Peter, with some presence of mind. “What if our 'master hath a mind to steal a piece of doe venison out of the Bishop's parks here, without our good dame's knowledge? And is it for thee or me to be a spy on him?”