, being two: hearts
of hare, that ye are! Oh! why cannot I be young again? I'd do it
single-handed."

The old man now threw off all disguise, and showed them his heart was in
this deed. He then flattered and besought, and jeered them alternately,
but he found no eloquence could move them to an action, however
dishonourable, which was attended with danger. At last he opened a
drawer, and showed them a pile of silver coins.

"Change but those letters for me," he said, "and each of you shall
thrust one hand into this drawer, and take away as many of them as you
can hold."

The effect was magical. Their eyes glittered with desire. Their whole
bodies seemed to swell, and rise into male energy.

"Swear it, then," said Sybrandt.

"I swear it."

"No; on the crucifix."

Ghysbrecht swore upon the crucifix.

The next minute the brothers were on the road, in pursuit of Hans
Memling. They came in sight of him about two leagues from Tergou, but
though they knew he had no weapon but his staff, they were too prudent
to venture on him in daylight; so they fell back.

But being now three leagues and more from the town, and on a grassy
road--sun down, moon not yet up--honest Hans suddenly found himself
attacked before and behind at once by men with uplifted knives, who
cried in loud though somewhat shaky voices, "Stand and deliver!"

The attack was so sudden, and so well planned, that Hans was dismayed.
"Slay me not, good fellows," he cried; "I am but a poor man, and ye
shall have my all."

"So be it then. Live! but empty thy wallet."

"There is nought in my wallet, good friend, but one letter."

"That we shall see," said Sybrandt, who was the one in front.

"Well, it is a letter."

"Take it not from me, I pray you. 'Tis worth nought, and the good dame
would fret that writ it."

"There," said Sybrandt, "take back thy letter; and now empty thy pouch.
Come I tarry not!"

But by this time Hans had recovered his confusion; and from a certain
flutter in Sybrandt, and hard breathing of Cornelis, aided by an
indescribable consciousness, felt sure the pair he had to deal with were
no heroes. He pretended to fumble for his money: then suddenly thrust
his staff fiercely into Sybrandt's face, and drove him staggering, and
lent Cornelis a back-handed slash on the ear that sent him twirling like
a weathercock in March; then whirled his weapon over his head and danced
about the road like a figure on springs, shouting:

"Come on