"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."
"Come, then, take you this groat, and treat him.Then ask to see the letter, and put this in place of it.Come to me with the other letter."The brothers assented, took the letter, and went to the hostelry.
They had not been gone a minute, when Dierich Brower issued from the Stadthouse, and followed them.He had his orders not to let them out of his sight till the true letter was in his master's hands.He watched outside the hostelry.
He had not long to wait.They came out almost immediately, with downcast looks.Dierich made up to them.
"Too late!" they cried; "too late! He is gone.""Gone? How long?"
"Scarce five minutes.Cursed chance!"
"You must go back to the burgomaster at once," said Dierich Brower.
"To what end?"
"No matter; come!" and he hurried them to the Stadthouse.
Ghysbrecht Van Swieten was not the man to accept a defeat.
"Well," said he, on hearing the ill news, "suppose he is gone.Is he mounted?""No."
"Then what hinders you to come up with him?""But what avails coming up with him! There are no hostelries on the road he is gone.""Fools!" said Ghysbrecht, "is there no way of emptying a man's pockets but liquor and sleight of hand?
A meaning look, that passed between Ghysbrecht and Dierich, aided the brothers' comprehension.They changed colour, and lost all zeal for the business.
"No! no! we don't hate our brother.We won't get ourselves hanged to spite him," said Sybrandt; "that would be a fool's trick.""Hanged!" cried Ghysbrecht."Am I not the burgomaster? How can ye be hanged? I see how 'tis ye fear to tackle one man, being two:
hearts of hare, that ye are! Oh! why cannot I be young again? I'd do it single-handed."The old man now threw off all disguise, and showed them his heart was in this deed.He then flattered and besought, and jeered them alternately, but he found no eloquence could move them to an action, however dishonourable, which was attended with danger.At last he opened a drawer, and showed them a pile of silver coins.
"Change but those letters for me," he said, "and each of you shall thrust one hand into this drawer, and take away as many of them as you can hold."The effect was magical.Their eyes glittered with desire.Their whole bodies seemed to swell, and rise into male energy.
"Swear it, then," said Sybrandt.
"I swear it."
"No; on the crucifix."
Ghysbrecht swore upon the crucifix.
The next minute the brothers were on the road, in pursuit of Hans Memling.They came in sight of him about two leagues from Tergou, but though they knew he had no weapon but his staff, they were too prudent to venture on him in daylight; so they fell back.
But being now three leagues and more from the town, and on a grassy road - sun down, moon not yet up - honest Hans suddenly found himself attacked before and behind at once by men with uplifted knives, who cried in loud though somewhat shaky voices, "Stand and deliver!"The attack was so sudden, and so well planned, that Hans was dismayed."Slay me not, good fellows," he cried; "I am but a poor man, and ye shall have my all.""So be it then.Live! but empty thy wallet.""There is nought in my wallet, good friend, but one letter.""That we shall see," said Sybrandt, who was the one in front.
"Well, it is a letter."
"Take it not from me, I pray you.'Tis worth nought, and the good dame would fret that writ it.""There," said Sybrandt, "take back thy letter; and now empty thy pouch.Come I tarry not I"But by this time Hans had recovered his confusion; and from a certain flutter in Sybrandt, and hard breathing of Cornelis, aided by an indescribable consciousness, felt sure the pair he had to deal with were no heroes.He pretended to fumble for his money:
then suddenly thrust his staff fiercely into Sybrandt's face, and drove him staggering, and lent Cornelis a back-handed slash on the ear that sent him twirling like a weathercock in March; then whirled his weapon over his head and danced about the road like a figure on springs, shouting"Come on, ye thieving loons! Come on!"It was a plain invitation; yet they misunderstood it so utterly as to take to their heels, with Hans after them, he shouting "Stop thieves!" and they howling with fear and pain as they ran.