On the north-east side of the Kasteel lies the open way to Dendermonde--where Captain Gonzalo de Bracamonte is quartered with a garrison of five thousand men, and between that open way of salvation, and those who hold the Kasteel, there lies a league of spongy morass. The way through it is free from the Orangist musketry. Nature alone bars it, and does so effectually. Three times to-day has Alva tried to send runners through that way. Stripped to the skin they are lowered by ropes from the parapet, and at first find firm foothold at the base of the walls. From up above Alva and his captains watch the naked men who walk on boldly, proud of their achievement; their skins shine like metal beneath the grey, autumnal sky on which the smouldering ruins of a devastated city have painted a crimson tint. Alva watches them until they appear as mere black dots upon the low horizon--tiny black specks that move for a while, slowly along, with arms swinging as the mud gets deeper and walking heavier. Then suddenly the speck ceases to move ... the arms are thrown up with frantic wheelings and beatings of the air ... sometimes the speck will turn and move back slowly toward the castle, but more often than not it grows shorter and shorter still, till even the tall arms disappear--engulfed in the morass. Three times have men been sent out on this errand of death ... three or four at a time ... twice has one man come back from those hideous, yawning jaws of a loathsome death--livid, covered with green slime, trembling in every limb as if stricken with ague. After that, men refuse to go ... Alva commands and threatens ... another batch go off ... another spectre returns from the shores of another world.... Then the men are obstinate ... to insist, to command, to threaten further would provoke mutiny, and the stronghold once more lapses into utter isolation. The din of musketry from end to end of the city drowns every other sound, smoke from smouldering ruins obscures the view beyond the Schelde. What has happened in the centre of the city during all these hours, whilst the high and mighty Lieutenant-Governor and Captain-General of the Force of Occupation is a virtual prisoner in the hands of the rebels, he himself cannot possibly tell. "The rebels have lost more heavily than we have," says de Avila, whilst he snatches a brief rest during the afternoon, "and they must be getting short of powder." "So are we," says Alva grimly. "Surely Captain Lodrono has come in touch with Captain Serbelloni by now. It is inconceivable that the garrisons at the gate-houses can do nothing." "Those Netherlanders are fighting like devils," says de Vargas with his evil sneer, "they have nothing to lose ... they know that they are doomed, every man, woman and child of them ... aye! if I had my way, every man who speaks the Flemish tongue."