And memory conjures up the vision of the tyrant, the author of all this desolation, riding slowly through the portal of the gate-house into the yard of Het Spanjaard’s Kasteel a quarter of an hour or so ere the darkness of the night will finally cover all the abomination and the crimes, the murder, the misery and the bloodshed which the insatiable tyranny of this one man has called down upon a peaceable and liberty-loving people. He rides with head erect, although fatigue and care are writ plainly on his ashen cheeks and the wearied stoop of his shoulders. His horse has received a wound in the flank from which the blood oozes and stains its rider’s boots. Here in the castle-yard, some semblance of order has been brought about through the activity of the captains. The horses have been stabled in the vaulted cellars, the men have found quarters in different parts of the Kasteel; the musketeers and arquebusiers are up on the walls, the artillery well-screened behind the parapets. The night has called a halt to men, even in the midst of barren victories and of unlooked-for defeat, and their sorrow and their hurts, their last sigh of agony or cry of triumph have all been equally silenced in her embrace; but over the city the sky is lurid and glowing crimson through a veil of smoke; the artillery and musketry have ceased their thundering; but still from out the gloom there come weird and hideous noises of hoarse shouts and cries of "Mercy" and of "Help," and from time to time the sudden crash of crumbling masonry or of charred beams falling in. But Alva pays no heed to what goes on around him. He swings himself wearily out of the saddle and gives a few brief orders to the captains who press close beside his stirrup, anxious for a word or a look of encouragement or of praise. Then he curtly asks for water. Don Sancho de Avila, captain of the castle guard, hands him the leather bottle and he drinks greedily. "We are in a tight corner, Monseigneur," whispers de Avila under his breath. "Hold thy tongue, fool!" is Alva’s rough retort. Whereupon the captain stands aside more convinced than before that disaster is in the air. The Duke had been the last to turn his back on the Ketel Brüghe and to retire into the stronghold of the Kasteel. The banks of the Schelde by now are lined with the ranks of the insurgents, and it was a musket shot fired from the Vleeshhuis that wounded his horse--close to the saddle-bow. His quivering lips, and the ashen hue of his face testify to his consciousness of danger. But his brow clears perceptibly when he sees Juan de Vargas coming out to meet him. "Where is thy daughter?" he asks as soon as the other is within earshot. "In chapel, I imagine," replies de Vargas. "No woman should be abroad this night," says Alva dryly. "Send for her and order her to remain within her apartments." "She has been tending the wounded, and will wish to do so again." "Well! let her keep to the castle-yard then."