r of it presently," said De la Marck, "for here, with
one stroke of a cleaver, will I consecrate myself Bishop of Liege, and I
trust one living bishop is worth three dead kings."

There was a shuddering and murmur among the guests, for the community
of Liege, and even some of the rude soldiers, reverenced the Kings of
Cologne, as they were commonly called, though they respected nothing
else.

"Nay, I mean no treason against their defunct majesties," said De la
Marck, "only Bishop I am determined to be. A prince both secular and
ecclesiastical, having power to bind and loose, will best suit a band of
reprobates such as you, to whom no one else would give absolution.--But
come hither, noble Burgomaster--sit beside me, when you shall see me
make a vacancy for my own preferment.--Bring in our predecessor in the
holy seat."

A bustle took place in the hall, while Pavillon, excusing himself from
the proffered seat of honour, placed himself near the bottom of the
table, his followers keeping close behind him, not unlike a flock of
sheep which, when a stranger dog is in presence, may be sometimes seen
to assemble in the rear of an old bell wether, who is, from office and
authority, judged by them to have rather more courage than themselves.
Near the spot sat a very handsome lad, a natural son, as was said,
of the ferocious De la Marck, and towards whom he sometimes showed
affection, and even tenderness. The mother of the boy, a beautiful
concubine, had perished by a blow dealt her by the ferocious leader in
a fit of drunkenness or jealousy, and her fate had caused her tyrant
as much remorse as he was capable of feeling. His attachment to the
surviving orphan might be partly owing to these circumstances. Quentin,
who had learned this point of the leader's character from the old
priest, planted himself as close as he could to the youth in question,
determined to make him, in some way or other, either a hostage or a
protector, should other means of safety fail them.

While all stood in a kind of suspense, waiting the event of the orders
which the tyrant had issued, one of Pavillon's followers whispered
Peter, "Did not our master call that wench his daughter?--Why, it cannot
be our Trudchen. This strapping lass is taller by two inches, and there
is a black lock of hair peeps forth yonder from under her veil. By Saint
Michael of the Marketplace, you might as well call a black bullock's
hide a white heifer's!

"Hush! hush!" sai