The Burgomasters Wife | Page 3

The scholars rose; Van Hout wiped the perspiration from his high
forehead, and while the boys were collecting books, pencils, and pens,
said slowly, as if apologizing to himself for the words already uttered:
"What I have told you perhaps does not belong to the school-room; but,
my lads, this battle is still far from being ended, and though you must
occupy the school-benches for a while, you are the future soldiers.

Lowing, remain behind, I have something to say to you."
He slowly turned his back to the boys, who rushed out of doors. In a
corner of the yard of St. Peter's church, which was behind the building
and entered by few of the passers-by, they stood still, and from amid
the wild confusion of exclamations arose a sort of consultation, to
which the organ-notes echoing from the church formed a strange
accompaniment.
They were trying to decide upon the game to be played in the
afternoon.
It was a matter of course, after what Van Hout had said, that there
should be a battle; it had not even been proposed by anybody, but the
discussion that now arose proceeded from the supposition.
It was soon decided that patriots and Spaniards, not Greeks and
Persians, were to appear in the lists against each other; but when the
burgomaster's son, Adrian Van der Werff, a lad of fourteen, proposed
to form the two parties, and in the imperious way peculiar to him
attempted to make Paul Van Swieten and Claus Dirkson Spaniards, he
encountered violent opposition, and the troublesome circumstance was
discovered that no one was willing to represent a foreign soldier.
Each boy wanted to make somebody else a Castilian, and fight himself
under the banner of the Netherlands. But friends and foes are necessary
for a war, and Holland's heroic courage required Spaniards to prove it.
The youngsters grew excited, the cheeks of the disputants began to
flush, here and there clenched fists were raised, and everything
indicated that a horrible civil war would precede the battle to be given
the foes of the country.
In truth, these lively boys were ill-suited to play the part of King
Philip's gloomy, stiff-necked soldiers. Amid the many fair heads, few
lads were seen with brown locks, and only one with black hair and dark
eyes. This was Adam Baersdorp, whose father, like Van der Werff's,
was one of the leaders of the citizens. When he too refused to act a
Spaniard, one of the boys exclaimed:

"You won't? Yet my father says your father is half a Glipper,--[The
name given in Holland to those who sympathized with Spain]--and a
whole Papist to boot."
At these words young Baersdorp threw his books on the ground, and
was rushing with upraised fist upon his enemy--but Adrian Van der
Werff hastily interposed, crying:
"For shame, Cornelius.--I'll stop the mouth of anybody who utters such
an insult again. Catholics are Christians, as well as we. You heard it
from Van Hout, and my father says so too. Will you be a Spaniard,
Adam, yes or no?"
"No!" cried the latter firmly. "And if anybody else--"
"You can quarrel afterward," said Adrian Van der Werff, interrupting
his excited companions, then good-naturedly picking up the books
Baersdorp had flung down, and handing them to him, continued
resolutely, "I'll be a Spaniard to-day. Who else?"
"I, I, I too, for aught I care," shouted several of the scholars, and the
forming of the two parties would have been carried on in the best order
to the end, if the boys' attention had not been diverted by a fresh
incident.
A young gentleman, followed by a black servant, came up the street
directly towards them. He too was a Netherlander, but had little in
common with the school-boys except his age, a red and white
complexion, fair hair, and clear blue eyes, eyes that looked arrogantly
out upon the world. Every step showed that he considered himself an
important personage, and the gaily-costumed negro, who carried a few
recently purchased articles behind him, imitated this bearing in a most
comical way. The negro's head was held still farther back than the
young noble's, whose stiff Spanish ruff prevented him from moving his
handsome head as freely as other mortals.
"That ape, Wibisma," said one of the school-boys, pointing to the
approaching nobleman.

All eyes turned towards him, scornfully scanning his little velvet hat
decked with a long plume, the quilted red satin garment padded in the
breast and sleeves, the huge puffs of his short brown breeches, and the
brilliant scarlet silk stockings that closely fitted his well-formed limbs.
"The ape," repeated Paul Van Swieten. "He wants to be a cardinal,
that's why he wears so much red."
"And looks as Spanish as if he came straight from Madrid," cried