are all betrayed and the Stadtholder's soldiers will be
on us in a trice."

Hardly are the words out of Lucas Sparendam's mouth than the commotion
begins, the disbanding; there is a roar and a bustle and a buzz: metal
clashing, men rushing, cries of "we are betrayed! _sauve qui peut!_"

At first there is a general stampede for the places where the arms are
kept--the muskets, the swords and cullivers--but these are thrown down
almost as soon as they are picked up. They are no use now and worse than
useless in a flight. But pistols are useful, in case of pursuit. "Quick,
turn, fire!... so where are the pistols?... Jan, where are those
pistols?"

There are not enough to go round: about a dozen were served out last
night, and there are forty pairs of hands determined to possess one at
least. So they begin to fight for them, tearing one another to pieces,
shouting execrations, beating round with bare fists, since the other
arms have already been laid down.

Now the confusion becomes worse than any that might reign among a herd
of animals who are ready to rend one another: they tear the clothes off
one another's back, the skin off one another's face: fear--hideous,
overwhelming, abject fear, has made wild beasts of these men. The mist
envelops them, it is barely light in this basement beneath the molens:
lanthorns have long ago been kicked into extinction. The hot breath of
forty panting throats mingles with the mist, and the heat of human
bodies fever-heated with passion, fights against the strength of the
frost. The frozen ground yields under the feet, clots of mud are thrown
up by the stampede, from the beams up aloft the heavy icicles melt and
drip monotonously, incessantly down upon those faces, red and perspiring
in an agony of demented fear.

Jan and Piet the Red stand alone beside the prisoner: a sense of duty,
of decency hath kept their blood cool. Until they are relieved from
their post of guarding this man by orders from their lord, they will not
move. Let the others rage and scream and tumble over one another, there
must be at least a few soldiers among this rabble.

And the prisoner looks on all this confusion with eyes that dance and
sparkle with the excitement of what is yet to come. Torn rags and broken
accoutrements soon lie in a litter in the mud, trampled in by forty
pairs of feet. There is not one face now that is not streaked with
blood, not one throat that is not hoarse with terror--the terror of