A moment after the Italian is dragged to the Raadhuis where Van Tresslong, who commands, is in consultation with the Burgomaster, “Schout” and other officials of the town; most of his captains being with him. “By our martyrs,” cries the Dutch vice-admiral, “this day is fortunate. Here is one of Alva’s very pets right in our hands—a court-martial for the Italian gentleman!” “I beg for law of war, William de Blois, Lord of Tresslong,” says Paciotto, quite haughtily, though hope has left his face. “The same law of war that Alva gave to my murdered brother, when he executed him with seventeen other nobles in the Brussels horse market,” answers the Fleming. “Yes, justice and mercy,” jeers one of his captains. “The same justice that Alva gave to my father when he cried for quarter at Jemmingen. The same mercy that De Bossu, but two days since, gave at Rotterdam.” “With such judges I am condemned beforehand,” sighs the Italian, as Van Tresslong and his officers take seats about a drum head. Then as the court is being sworn the Dutch Vice-Admiral, who has a long head, remarks: “We must make the Burgomaster one of our court. That will nail him to our cause. He will hold Flushing, as he values his own head, against Alva.” So the Burgomaster, nolens volens, is made a member of the court, and Paciotto is put upon trial for his life. “Of what do you accuse me?” asks the unfortunate officer. “Of being a loyal subject of your king, Philip of Spain? Of that I plead guilty.” “Bah!” replies Van Tresslong, “you’re the pet and confidant of Alva, who butchers us. That’s why we’ll have your life. Also, with your Italian engineering art you built for him his stronghold, the citadel of Antwerp.” “If that deserves death, then execute me,” murmurs the Italian, “but I pray you with the sword.” “Hold!” cries Guy, who has English sympathy with the under animal in the fight, “As your military counsel I will defend you in this court.” “Do not waste your words for me, señor,” says the Italian sadly. “These Flemish dogs are licking their chops already for my blood.” But Guy, unheeding this, goes to pleading for this unfortunate officer of Spain, using at times, in his impulsive way, a vehement eloquence that is so uncomplimentary to Paciotto’s accusers that did the Englishman not wear the Gueux medal himself, and, above all, were he not the man who had given to their hands the four ships loaded with powder and ammunition, Sir Guy Chester himself might not have come scathless from out this council of the Beggars of the Sea. In spite of Chester’s imprecations and implorings the Gueux officers make very short work of the affair, and in less than five minutes by the ticking Dutch clock that stands facing them in the hall, they condemn the Italian engineer not to death with the sword, but to the dog’s death—by the noose. And sentence being given, the Italian cries suddenly: “How long is it since Flushing has been in danger of falling into your hands?”