idst of
that noble, that princely, that royal bed, which contained not only the
"Cornelius de Witt," but also the "Beauty of Brabant," milk-white,
edged with purple and pink, the "Marble of Rotterdam," colour of flax,
blossoms feathered red and flesh colour, the "Wonder of Haarlem," the
"Colombin obscur," and the "Columbin clair terni."

The frightened cats, having alighted on the ground, first tried to fly
each in a different direction, until the string by which they were tied
together was tightly stretched across the bed; then, however, feeling
that they were not able to get off, they began to pull to and fro, and
to wheel about with hideous caterwaulings, mowing down with their string
the flowers among which they were struggling, until, after a furious
strife of about a quarter of an hour, the string broke and the
combatants vanished.

Boxtel, hidden behind his sycamore, could not see anything, as it was
pitch-dark; but the piercing cries of the cats told the whole tale, and
his heart overflowing with gall now throbbed with triumphant joy.

Boxtel was so eager to ascertain the extent of the injury, that he
remained at his post until morning to feast his eyes on the sad state in
which the two cats had left the flower-beds of his neighbour. The mists
of the morning chilled his frame, but he did not feel the cold, the hope
of revenge keeping his blood at fever heat. The chagrin of his rival was
to pay for all the inconvenience which he incurred himself.

At the earliest dawn the door of the white house opened, and Van Baerle
made his appearance, approaching the flower-beds with the smile of a
man who has passed the night comfortably in his bed, and has had happy
dreams.

All at once he perceived furrows and little mounds of earth on the beds
which only the evening before had been as smooth as a mirror, all at
once he perceived the symmetrical rows of his tulips to be completely
disordered, like the pikes of a battalion in the midst of which a shell
has fallen.

He ran up to them with blanched cheek.

Boxtel trembled with joy. Fifteen or twenty tulips, torn and crushed,
were lying about, some of them bent, others completely broken and
already withering, the sap oozing from their bleeding bulbs: how gladly
would Van Baerle have redeemed that precious sap with his own blood!

But what were his surprise and his delight! what was the disappointment
of his rival! Not one of the four tulips which the latter had meant