re staring sullenly, and in the fading light their faces seemed
dangerous and hostile.

He was frightened. What could they mean? Yes, he was frightened, but
he determined to brave it out, and lifted the cover from his meat, when
something passed over his shoulder and fell into the dish, something
stinking and abominable--to be particular, a dead cat. This was too
much. Adrian sprang to his feet, and asked who dared thus to foul his
food. The crowd did not jeer, did not even mock; it seemed too much in
earnest for gibes, but a voice at the back called out:

"Take it to Dirk van Goorl. He'll be glad of it soon."

Now Adrian understood. All these people knew of his infamy; the whole of
Leyden knew that tale. His lips turned dry, and the sweat broke out upon
his body. What should he do? Brave it out? He sat down, and the fierce
ring of silent faces drew a pace or two nearer. He tried to bid the man
to bring more meat, but the words stuck in his throat. Now the mob saw
his fear, and of a sudden seemed to augur his guilt from it, and to pass
sentence on him in their hearts. At least, they who had been so dumb
broke out into yells and hoots.

"Traitor!" "Spanish spy!" "Murderer!" they screamed. "Who gave evidence
against our Dirk? Who sold his brother to the rack?"

Then came another shriller note. "Kill him." "Hang him up by the heels
and stone him." "Twist off his tongue," and so forth. Out shot a hand, a
long, skinny, female hand, and a harsh voice cried, "Give us a keepsake,
my pretty boy!" Then there was a sharp wrench at his head, and he knew
that from it a lock of hair was missing. This was too much. He ought to
have stopped there and let them kill him if they would, but a terror
of these human wolves entered his soul and mastered him. To be trodden
beneath those mire-stained feet, to be rent by those filthy hands, to be
swung up living by the ankles to some pole and then carved piecemeal--he
could not bear it. He drew his sword and turned to fly.

"Stop him," yelled the mob, whereon he lunged at them wildly, running a
small boy through the arm.

The sight of blood and the screech of the wounded lad settled the
question, and those who were foremost came at him with a spring. But
Adrian was swifter than they, and before a hand could be laid upon him,
amidst a shower of stones and filth, he was speeding down the street.
After him came the mob, and then began one of the finest man-hunts ever
known in Leyden.

From