“'as I hanged the burgomaster of Thingembob.' The duke could not mind which of you he had hung, or in what part; such trifles stick not in a soldier's memory; but he was sure he had hanged one of you for grinding poor folk, 'and I'm the man to hang another,' quoth the good duke.” These repeated insults from so mean a man, coupled with his invulnerability, shielded as he was by the duke, drove the choleric old man into a fit of impotent fury: he shook his fist at the soldier, and tried to threaten him, but could not speak for the rage and mortification that choked him: then he gave a sort of screech, and coiled himself up in eye and form like a rattlesnake about to strike; and spat furiously upon Martin's doublet. The thick-skinned soldier treated this ebullition with genuine contempt. “Here's a venomous old toad! he knows a kick from his foot would send him to his last home; and he wants me to cheat the gallows. But I have slain too many men in fair fight to lift limb against anything less than a man; and this I count no man. What is it, in Heaven's name? an old goat's-skin bag full o' rotten bones.” “My mule! my mule!” screamed Ghysbrecht. Jorian helped the old man up trembling in every joint. Once in the saddle, he seemed to gather in a moment unnatural vigour; and the figure that went flying to Tergou was truly weird-like and terrible: so old and wizened the face; so white and reverend the streaming hair; so baleful the eye; so fierce the fury which shook the bent frame that went spurring like mad; while the quavering voice yelled, “I'll make their hearts ache. I'll make their hearts ache. I'll make their hearts ache. I'll make their hearts ache. All of them. All!--all!--all!” The black sheep sat disconsolate amidst the convivial crew, and eyed Hans Memling's wallet. For more ease he had taken it off, and flung it on the table. How readily they could have slipped out that letter and put in another. For the first time in their lives they were sorry they had not learned to write, like their brother. And now Hans began to talk of going, and the brothers agreed in a whisper to abandon their project for the time. They had scarcely resolved this, when Dierich Brower stood suddenly in the doorway, and gave them a wink. They went out to him. “Come to the burgomaster with all speed,” said he, They found Ghysbrecht seated at a table, pale and agitated. Before him lay Margaret Van Eyck's handwriting. “I have written what you desired,” said he. “Now for the superscription. What were the words? did ye see?” “We cannot read,” said Cornelis. “Then is all this labour lost,” cried Ghysbrecht angrily. “Dolts!” “Nay, but,” said Sybrandt, “I heard the words read, and I have not lost them. They were, 'To Gerard Eliassoen, these by the hand of the trusty Hans Memling, with all speed.'” “'Tis well. Now, how was the letter folded? how big was it?” “Longer than that one, and not so long as this.” “'Tis well. Where is he?” “At the hostelry.”