“Beggars.” No one knew what he meant, perhaps he did not himself know at the end of such an orgy, but the name caught on, and the sturdy “Beggars” arose thenceforward from their dykes and marshes to be quelled no more for good, but to hold for all time to come the country which they themselves had rescued from the sea. The new turn of affairs did not please the great nobles. They were Catholics, though patriots, and they saw that the championship of the national cause was about to fall into the hands of the Protestants; so Egmont, Horn, Montigny, Arschot, and the rest of them did their best to stem the tide. All but Orange. He knew Philip better than any of them, and he foresaw that there would be no surrender or conciliation from him. Why should there be? Could the lieutenant of the Most High stoop to palter with sottish Brederode and his crew? If Philip had spies in Flanders, so had Orange in Madrid, and nothing passed without his knowledge. He had learned of the king’s plans of vengeance, but he could not afford yet to cast himself into the scale alone with Brederode and the little gentry, leaving the great nobles on the side of the Spaniard; so for the moment he stood aloof saying no word either of praise or condemnation, but seeking to moderate the storm on both sides. But the spark had caught the tinder. Protestant fervour blazed up in every town in Flanders in open defiance of the edicts. The regent was powerless. She could not punish all Flanders, and violent councillors of the Alba school whispered distrust to Philip even of her, for she wrote ceaselessly to her brother urging him to gentler methods. His action was characteristic: at first he authorised his sister to pardon the confederates and suppress the Inquisition, and with reassuring words sought to gain Orange to his side. But only a week after (August 9, 1566) he signed a solemn document before a notary, setting forth that he was not bound by his promise, and would punish all those who had directly or indirectly aided the disturbances. He avowed to the pope that the Inquisition in Flanders should be upheld at all costs, and that his promise to suppress it was void. “Before allowing any backsliding in religion, or in the service of God, I will lose all my dominions and a hundred lives, if I had them, for I will never be a ruler of heretics.” Thus Philip threw down the gage. Then came the sacking of Catholic churches by the mob in Antwerp, St. Omer, Malines, and elsewhere, sacred images profaned, sacrilegious mockeries perpetrated, holy mysteries blasphemously parodied, and priceless treasures of art wantonly wrecked. The Protestant mob, in fact, was paramount, and the regent and her inquisition could only look on in dismay, until the former fell ill and lost all heart. Philip was very far from doing that. Away in distant Spain, trying to pull the wires that move humanity from his work-room, his only policy was extermination of heresy, utter and complete.