too
excited to sleep. Something is in the air, some fighting to be done, and
yet there are only thirty or forty of us at most: but swords and
cullivers have been given out, and half the night through my lord and
his friends, served only by Jan, have been carrying heavy loads from
the molens out toward the Schie and the wooden bridge that spans it.

Silently, always coming away with those heavy loads from the molens, and
walking with them away into the gloom, always returning empty-handed,
and served only by Jan. Bah, we are no cullions! 'tis not mighty
difficult to guess. And by the saints! why all this mystery? Some of us
are paid to fight, what care we how we do it? in the open with muskets
or crossbows, or in the dark, with a sudden blow which no man knows from
whence it comes.

All night we sit and wait, and all night we are under the eye of Jan. He
serves his lord and helps him to carry those heavy boxes from the molens

to some unknown place by the Schie, but he is always there when you
least expect him, watching to see that all is well, that there is not
too much noise, that no one has been tempted to light a fire, that we do
not quarrel too hotly among ourselves.

He keeps a watchful eye too, upon the prisoner: poor beggar! with a
broken shoulder and a torn hip, and some other wounds too, about his
body. A good fighter no doubt! but there were seven against him, and
that was a good idea to swing heavy skates by their straps and to bring
him down with them. His head was too high, else a blow from those sharp
blades might have ended his life more kindly than the Lord of
Stoutenburg hath planned to do.

A merry devil too! full of quaint jokes and tales of gay adventure! By
Gad! a real soldier of fortune! devil-may-care! eat and drink and make
merry for to-morrow we may die. Jan has ordered him to be kept tied to a
beam! God-verdomme! but 'tis hard on a wounded man, but he seems tougher
than the beams, and laughter in his throat quickly smothers groans.

Tied to a beam, he is excellent company! Ye gods, how his hands itch to
grip his sword. Piet the Red over there! let him feel the metal against
his palms, 'twill ease his temper for sure! Jan is too severe: but 'tis
my lord's rage that was unbridled. Ugh! to strike a prisoner in the
face. 'Twas a dirty trick and many saw it.

Heigh-ho, but what matter! To-morrow we fight, to-morrow he hangs! What
of that? To-morrow most of us mayhap will be lying stark and