udence said
keep him a thousand miles off. But then Prudence said also, why do dirty
work on a doubtful chance? Why put it in the power of these two rogues
to tarnish your name? Finally, his strong persuasion that Gerard was
in possession of a secret by means of which he could wound him to the
quick, coupled with his caution, found words thus: "It is my duty to
aid the citizens that cannot write. But for their matter I will not be
responsible. Tell me, then, what I shall write."

"Something about this Margaret."

"Ay, ay! that she is false, that she is married to another, I'll go
bail."

"Nay, burgomaster, nay! not for all the world!" cried Sybrandt; "Gerard
would not believe it, or but half, and then he would come back to see.
No; say that she is dead."

"Dead! what, at her age, will he credit that?"

"Sooner than the other. Why she was nearly dead: so it is not to say a
downright lie, after all."

"Humph! And you think that will keep him in Italy?"

"We are sure of it, are we not, Cornelis?"

"Ay," said Cornelis, "our Gerard will never leave Italy now he is
there. It was always his dream to get there. He would come back for
his Margaret, but not for us. What cares he for us? He despises his own
family; always did."

"This would be a bitter pill to him," said the old hypocrite.

"It will be for his good in the end," replied the young one.

"What avails Famine wedding Thirst?" said Cornelis.

"And the grief you are preparing for him so coolly?" Ghysbrecht spoke
sarcastically, but tasted his own vengeance all the time.

"Oh, a lie is not like a blow with a curtal axe. It hacks no flesh, and
breaks no bones."

"A curtal axe?" said Sybrandt; "no, nor even like a stroke with a
cudgel." And he shot a sly envenomed glance at the burgomaster's broken
nose.

Ghysbrecht's face darkened with ire when this adder's tongue struck his
wound. But it told, as intended: the old man bristled with hate.

"Well," said he, "tell me what to write for you, and I must write it;
but take notice, you bear the blame if aught turns amiss. Not the hand
which writes, but the tongue which dictates, doth the deed."

The brothers assented warmly, sneering within. Ghysbrecht then drew
his inkhorn towards him, and laid the specimen of Margaret Van Eyck's
writing before him, and made some inquiries as to the size and shape
of the letter, when an unlooked-for interruption occurred; Jorian Ketel
burst hastily into the room, and looked