“Judge for yourself. You know this tax is crushing everybody. The bakers will not bake, the butchers will not slaughter, the people will not trade. Now this did not please His Highness of Alva, so he sent for the hangman and told him to make eighteen nooses and some twelve foot ladders and take his orders from Don Frederico to hang in front of his own door each of the eighteen principal bakers of Brussels, as a warning to their fellows to go to baking at once. That very night the news of the taking of Briel came and saved them, for the capital got excited over it and Alva having other matters to attend to forgot the bakers. In the morning I was sent for suddenly. ‘Oliver,’ says His Highness, ‘Find me the fellow who manufactured that.’ And he poked under my nose a caricature of himself looking eagerly about for his spectacles, and written underneath: “‘On April Fools’ Day, Duke Alva’s Briel was stolen away.’ “Briel you know is the Flemish for spectacles. ‘This horrible and audacious caricature’ went on His Highness ‘was found placarded near my palace. Find me the villain painter of it.’ ‘How can I, your Highness?’ I gasped. ‘You can better than any man. You’re an artist’ snarled the Duke. ‘Hang me if the fellow’s style of drawing isn’t something like yours. He must have studied under the same master. Find me the seditious dauber!’ So I went away, but my knees shook—for I was the painter! But I can’t stand this dangling over boiling oil any longer, and I’m going to fight—and die perchance; but like a man with a sword in my hand, not like a criminal on the rack.” “And Doña Hermoine,” interjects Guy, “how did it affect her?” “What affect her?” “The news of the taking of Briel.” “I don’t believe she thought of it at all. Routs and fêtes occupy that young lady’s time,” replies the artist “not politics. Besides, she has an ardent admirer in General Noircarmes—” “’S’death!—has she forgotten me?” mutters the Englishman. “No I think it is because she remembers you.” “How?” “Well, for the first two weeks after you went away she was joy itself; no face so radiant, no eyes as brilliant, no wit as flashing, in the whole of Alva’s court, and there are many beautiful women in Brussels. And then—” “Well, what then?” “Then she grew sad, and for a month or so had a very hard time of it.” “What caused her grief? Do you know?” “Yes, I can guess.” “What?” “You!” “I!” “Yes. Word came from Middelburg that you had been behaving very badly, my boy,” says Oliver, with a little chuckle. “I—badly?” “Very badly!” guffaws Oliver. “The report was that on receipt of his commission Major Guido Amati went on a most prolonged and excessively hilarious debauch of joy.” “Good heavens! The infernal villain!” “He is,” assents Oliver. “It is said Major Guido Amati has the very handsomest mistress in Middelburg.” “Oh, God of heaven—a mistress!” shudders Guy. “Parbleu! How moral you seem to have got,” jeers Antony.