"True! true, my good Hals! But our best men are all at the war fighting for our religious and political liberties, while we--the older citizens of our beloved country with our wives and our daughters--are left a prey to the tyranny of malefactors and of pirates. The burgomaster hopes to raise an efficient corps of volunteers by to-morrow ... but I doubt me if he will succeed.... I have sent for help, I have spared no money to obtain assistance ... but I am an old man myself, and my son alas! has been rendered helpless at the outset, through no fault of his own...." "But surely there are young men left in Haarlem whom wanton mischief such as this would cause to boil with indignation." "There are few young men left in Haarlem, my friend," rejoined Beresteyn sadly, "the Stadtholder hath claimed the best of them. Those who are left behind are too much engrossed in their own affairs to care greatly about the grief of an old man, or a wrong done to an innocent girl." "I'll not believe it," said Hals hotly. "Alas, 'tis only too true! Men nowadays--those at any rate who are left in our cities--no longer possess that spirit of chivalry or of adventure which caused our forebears to give their life's blood for justice and for liberty." "You wrong them, mynheer," protested the artist. "I think not. Think on it, Hals. You know Haarlem well; you know most people who live in the city. Can you name me one man who would stand up before me to-day and say boldly: 'Mynheer, you have lost your daughter: evil-doers have taken her from her home. Here am I ready to do you service, and by God do I swear that I will bring your daughter back to you!' So would our fathers have spoken, my good Hals, before commerce and prosperity had dulled the edge of reckless gallantry. By God! they were fine men in those days--we are mere pompous, obese, self-satisfied shopkeepers now." There was a great deal of bitter truth in what Cornelius Beresteyn had said: Hals--the artist--who had listened to the complacent talk that had filled this room awhile ago--who knew of the commercial transactions that nowadays went by the name of art-patronage--he knew that the old man was not far wrong in his estimate of his fellow-countrymen in these recent prosperous times. It was the impulsive, artistic nature in him which caused him to see what he merely imagined--chivalry, romance, primeval notions of bravery and of honour. He looked round the room--now almost deserted--somewhat at a loss for words that would soothe Beresteyn's bitter spirit of resentment, and casually his glance fell on the broad figure of his friend Diogenes, who, leaning back in his chair, his plumed hat tilted rakishly across his brow, had listened to the conversation between the two men with an expression of infinite amusement literally dancing in his eyes. And it was that same artistic, impulsive nature which caused Frans Hals then to exclaim suddenly: