nd the water she gave him after his
work. She heard the house shake under the mighty blows of his hammer, and
in imagination beheld him lay his curly head in her lap, and say he had
found love and peace with her.

The cannonade from the citadel stopped the citizens' work. Open
hostilities had begun.

On the morning of November 4th, under the cover of a thick fog, the
treacherous Spaniards, commanded by Romero, Vargas and Valdez entered the
fortress. The citizens, among them Adam, learned this fact with rage and
terror, but the mutineers of Aalst had not yet collie.

"He is keeping them back," Ruth had said the day before. "Antwerp, our
home, is sacred to him!"

The cannon roared, culverins crashed, muskets and arquebuses rattled; the
boding notes of the alarm-bells and the fierce shouts of soldiers and
citizens hurrying to battle mingled with the deafening thunder of the
artillery.

Every hand seized a weapon, every shop was closed; hearts stood still
with fear, or throbbed wildly with rage and emotion. Ruth remained calm.
She detained the smith in the house, repeating her former words: "The men
from Aalst are not coming; he is keeping diem back." Just at that moment
the young apprentice, whose parents lived on the Scheldt, rushed with
dishevelled hair into the workshop, gasping:

"The men from Aalst are here. They crossed in peatboats and a galley.
They wear green twigs in their helmets, and the Eletto is marching in the
van, bearing the standard. I saw them; terrible--horrible--sheathed in
iron from top to toe."

He said no more, for Adam, with a savage imprecation, interrupted him,
seized his huge hammer, and rushed out of the house.

Ruth staggered back into the workshop.

Adam hurried straight to the rampart. Here stood six thousand Walloons,
to defend the half-finished wall, and behind them large bodies of armed
citizens.

"The men from Aalst have come!" echoed from lip to lip.

Curses, wails of grief, yells of savage fury, blended with the thunder of
the artillery and the ringing of the alarm bells.

A fugitive now dashed from the counterscarp towards the Walloons,
shouting:

"They are here, they are here! The blood-hound, Navarrete, is leading
them. They will neither eat nor drink, they say, till they dine in
Paradise or Antwerp. Hark, hark! there they are!"

And they were there, coming nearer and nearer; foremost of all marched
the Eletto, holding the standard in his upraised hand.

Behind h