ut injure yourself and him.

Regent. I interpret nothing. I speak only of inevitable consequences,
and I know him. His patent of nobility and the Golden Fleece upon his
breast strengthen his confidence, his audacity. Both can protect him
against any sudden outbreak of royal displeasure. Consider the matter
closely, and he is alone responsible for the whole mischief that has
broken out in Flanders. From the first, he connived at the proceedings
of the foreign teachers, avoided stringent measures, and perhaps
rejoiced in secret that they gave us so much to do. Let me alone; on
this occasion, I will give utterance to that which weighs upon my heart;
I will not shoot my arrow in vain. I know where he is vulnerable. For he
is vulnerable.

Machiavel. Have you summoned the council? Will Orange attend?

Regent. I have sent for him to Antwerp. I will lay upon their shoulders
the burden of responsibility; they shall either strenuously co-operate
with me in quelling the evil, or at once declare themselves rebels. Let
the letters be completed without delay, and bring them for my signature.
Then hasten to despatch the trusty Vasca to Madrid, he is faithful and
indefatigable; let him use all diligence, that he may not be anticipated
by common report, that my brother, may receive the intelligence first
through him. I will myself speak with him ere he departs.

Machiavel. Your orders shall be promptly and punctually obeyed.

SCENE III.--Citizen's House

Clara, her Mother, Brackenburg

Clara. Will you not hold the yarn for me, Brackenburg?

Brackenburg. I entreat you, excuse me, Clara.

Clara. What ails you? Why refuse me this trifling service?

Brackenburg. When I hold the yarn, I stand as it were spell-bound before
you, and cannot escape your eyes.

Clara. Nonsense! Come and hold!

Mother (knitting in her arm-chair). Give us a song! Brackenburg sings so
good a second. You used to be merry once, and I had always something to
laugh at.

Brackenburg. Once!

Clara. Well, let us sing.

Brackenburg. As you please.

Clara. Merrily, then, and sing away! 'Tis a soldier's song, my
favourite.

(She winds yarn, and sings with Brackenburg.)

The drum is resounding,
And shrill the fife plays;
My love, for the battle,
His brave troop arrays;
He lifts his lance high,
And the people he sways.
My blood it is boiling!
My heart throbs pit-pat!
Oh, had I a jacket,
With hose