The Laughing Cavalier | Page 8

interest were gradually becoming more defined. Now the figure of a
woman showed clearly under the flickering light of the resin torches, a
woman with rough, dark hair that hung loosely round her face, and bare
arms and legs, of which the flesh, blue with cold, gleamed weirdly
against the dark oak paneling of the gate.
She was stooping forward, with arms outstretched and feet that vainly

tried to keep a foothold of the ground which snow and frost had
rendered slippery. The hands themselves were not visible, for one of
them was lost in the shadows behind her and the other disappeared in
the grip of six or eight rough hands.
Through the mist and in the darkness it was impossible to see whether
the woman was young or old, handsome or ill-favored, but her attitude
was unmistakable. The men in the forefront of the crowd were trying to
drag her away from the shelter of the gate to which she clung with
desperate obstinacy.
Her repeated cries of "For the love of Christ!" only provoked loud and
bibulous laughter. Obviously she was losing her hold on the ground,
and was gradually being dragged out into the open.
"For the love of Christ, let me go, kind sirs!"
"Come out quietly then," retorted one of the men in front, "let's have a
look at you."
"We only want to see to color of your eyes," said another with mock
gallantry.
"Are you Spanish spies or are you not? that's all that we want to know,"
added a third. "How many black-eyed wenches are there among ye?
Papists we know you are."
"Papists! Spanish spies!" roared the crowd in unison.
"Shall we bait the Papists too, O Diogenes?" came in dulcet tones from
out the shadow of the stuccoed wall.
"Bah! women and old men, and only twenty of these," said his
companion with a laugh and a shrug of his broad shoulders, "whilst
there are at least an hundred of the others."
"More amusing certainly," growled Socrates under the brim of his hat.
"For the love of Christ," wailed the woman piteously, as her bare feet

buried in the snow finally slid away from the protecting threshold, and
she appeared in the full light of the resin torches, with black unkempt
hair, ragged shift and kirtle and a wild terror-stricken look in her black
eyes.
"Black eyes! I guessed as much!" shouted one of the men excitedly.
"Spaniards I tell you, friends! Spanish spies all of them! Out you come,
wench! out you come!"
"Out you come!" yelled the crowd. "Papists! Spanish spies!"
The woman gave a scream of wild terror as half a dozen stones hurled
from the rear of the crowd over the heads of the ringleaders came
crashing against the wall and the gate all around her.
One of these stones was caught in mid air.
"I thank thee, friend," cried a loud, mocking voice that rang clearly
above the din, "my nose was itching and thou didst strive to tickle it
most effectually. Tell me does thine itch too? Here's a good cloth
wherewith to wipe it."
And the stone was hurled back into the thick of the crowd by a sure and
vigorous hand even whilst a prolonged and merry laugh echoed above
the groans and curses of the throng.
For an instant after that the shouts and curses were still, the crowd -- as
is usual in such cases -- pausing to see whence this unexpected
diversion had come. But all that could be seen for the moment was a
dark compact mass of plumed hats and mantles standing against the
wall, and a triple glint as of steel peeping from out the shadows.
"By St. Bavon, the patron saint of this goodly city, but here's a feast for
philosophers," said that same laughter-loving voice, "four worthy
burghers grappling with a maid. Let go her arm I say, or four pairs of
hands will presently litter the corner of this street, and forty fingers be
scattered amongst the refuse. Pythagoras, wilt take me at two guilders
to three that I can cut off two of these ugly, red hands with one stroke

of Bucephalus whilst Socrates and thou thyself wilt only account for
one apiece?"
Whilst the merry voice went rippling on in pleasant mocking tones, the
crowd had ample time to recover itself and to shake off its surprise. The
four stalwarts on in front swore a very comprehensive if heterogeneous
oath. One of them did certainly let go the wench's arm somewhat
hastily, but seeing that his companions had recovered courage and the
use of their tongue, he swore once again and more loudly this time.
"By that same St. Bavon," he shouted, "who is this smeerlap whose
interference I for one deeply resent?