The Cloister and the Hearth by Charles Reade (most interesting books to read .TXT) 📕

such trifles stick not in a soldier's memory; but he was sure he had hanged one of you for grinding poor folk, 'and I'm the man to hang another,' quoth the good duke.”

These repeated insults from so mean a man, coupled with his invulnerability, shielded as he was by the duke, drove the choleric old man into a fit of impotent fury: he shook his fist at the soldier, and tried to threaten him, but could not speak for the rage and mortification that choked him: then he gave a sort of screech, and coiled himself up in eye and form like a rattlesnake about to strike; and spat furiously upon Martin's doublet.

The thick-skinned soldier treated this ebullition with genuine contempt. “Here's a venomous old toad! he knows a kick from his foot would send him to his last home; and he wants me to cheat the gallows. But I have slain too many men in fair fight to lift limb against anything less than a man; and this I count no man. What is it, in Heaven's name? an old goat's-skin bag full o' rotten bones.”

“My mule! my mule!” screamed Ghysbrecht.

Jorian helped the old man up trembling in every joint. Once in the saddle, he seemed to gather in a moment unnatural vigour; and the figure that went flying to Tergou was truly weird-like and terrible: so old and wizened the face; so white and reverend the streaming hair; so baleful the eye; so fierce the fury which shook the bent frame that went spurring like mad; while the quavering voice yelled, “I'll make their hearts ache. I'll make their hearts ache. I'll make their hearts ache. I'll make their hearts ache. All of them. All!—all!—all!”

The black sheep sat disconsolate amidst the convivial crew, and eyed Hans Memling's wallet. For more ease he had taken it off, and flung it on the table. How readily they could have slipped out that letter and put in another. For the first time in their lives they were sorry they had not learned to write, like their brother.

And now Hans began to talk of going, and the brothers agreed in a whisper to abandon their project for the time. They had scarcely resolved this, when Dierich Brower stood suddenly in the doorway, and gave them a wink.

They went out to him. “Come to the burgomaster with all speed,” said he,

They found Ghysbrecht seated at a table, pale and agitated. Before him lay Margaret Van Eyck's handwriting. “I have written what you desired,” said he. “Now for the superscription. What were the words? did ye see?”

“We cannot read,” said Cornelis.

“Then is all this labour lost,” cried Ghysbrecht angrily. “Dolts!”

“Nay, but,” said Sybrandt, “I heard the words read, and I have not lost them. They were, 'To Gerard Eliassoen, these by the hand of the trusty Hans Memling, with all speed.'”

“'Tis well. Now, how was the letter folded? how big was it?”

“Longer than that one, and not so long as this.”

“'Tis well. Where is he?”

“At the hostelry.”

“Come, then, take you this groat, and treat him. Then ask to see the letter, and put this in place of it. Come to me with the other letter.”

The brothers assented, took the letter, and went to the hostelry.

They had not been gone a minute, when Dierich Brower issued from the Stadthouse, and followed them. He had his orders not to let them out of his sight till the true letter was in his master's hands. He watched outside the hostelry.

He had not long to wait. They came out almost immediately, with downcast looks. Dierich made up to them.

“Too late!” they cried; “too late! He is gone.”

“Gone? How long?”

“Scarce five minutes. Cursed chance!”

“You must go back to the burgomaster at once,” said Dierich Brower.

“To what end?”

“No matter; come!” and he hurried them to the Stadthouse.

Ghysbrecht Van Swieten was not the man to accept a defeat.

“Well,” said he, on hearing the ill news, “suppose he is gone. Is he mounted?”

“No.”

“Then what hinders you to come up with him?”

“But what avails coming up with him! There are no hostelries on the road he is gone.”

“Fools!” said Ghysbrecht, “is there no way of emptying a man's pockets but liquor and sleight of hand?”

A meaning look, that passed between Ghysbrecht and Dierich, aided the brothers' comprehension. They changed colour, and lost all zeal for the business.

“No! no! we don't hate our brother. We won't get ourselves hanged to spite him,” said Sybrandt; “that would be a fool's trick.”

“Hanged!” cried Ghysbrecht. “Am I not the burgomaster? How can ye be hanged? I see how 'tis ye fear to tackle one man, being two: hearts of hare, that ye are! Oh! why cannot I be young again? I'd do it single-handed.”

The old man now threw off all disguise, and showed them his heart was in this deed. He then flattered and besought, and jeered them alternately, but he found no eloquence could move them to an action, however dishonourable, which was attended with danger. At last he opened a drawer, and showed them a pile of silver coins.

“Change but those letters for me,” he said, “and each of you shall thrust one hand into this drawer, and take away as many of them as you can hold.”

The effect was magical. Their eyes glittered with desire. Their whole bodies seemed to swell, and rise into male energy.

“Swear it, then,” said Sybrandt.

“I swear it.”

“No; on the crucifix.”

Ghysbrecht swore upon the crucifix.

The next minute the brothers were on the road, in pursuit of Hans Memling. They came in sight of him about two leagues from Tergou, but though they knew he had no weapon but his staff, they were too prudent to venture on him in daylight; so they fell back.

But being now three leagues and more from the town, and on a grassy road—sun down, moon not yet up—honest Hans suddenly found himself attacked before and behind at once by men with uplifted knives, who cried in loud though somewhat shaky voices, “Stand and deliver!”

The attack was so sudden, and so well planned, that Hans was dismayed. “Slay me not, good fellows,” he cried; “I am but a poor man, and ye shall have my all.”

“So be it then. Live! but empty thy wallet.”

“There