usual in such cases--pausing to see whence this unexpected
diversion had come. But all that could be seen for the moment was a dark
compact mass of plumed hats and mantles standing against the wall, and a
triple glint as of steel peeping from out the shadows.

"By St. Bavon, the patron saint of this goodly city, but here's a feast
for philosophers," said that same laughter-loving voice, "four worthy
burghers grappling with a maid. Let go her arm I say or four pairs of
hands will presently litter the corner of this street, and forty fingers
be scattered amongst the refuse. Pythagoras, wilt take me at two
guilders to three that I can cut off two of these ugly, red hands with
one stroke of Bucephalus whilst Socrates and thou thyself wilt only
account for one apiece?"

Whilst the merry voice went rippling on in pleasant mocking tones, the
crowd had had ample time to recover itself and to shake off its
surprise. The four stalwarts on in front swore a very comprehensive if
heterogeneous oath. One of them did certainly let go the wench's arm
somewhat hastily, but seeing that his companions had recovered courage
and the use of their tongue, he swore once again and more loudly this
time.

"By that same St. Bavon," he shouted, "who is this smeerlap whose
interference I for one deeply resent. Come out, girl, and show thyself
at once, we'll deal with thy protector later."

After which there were some lusty shouts of applause at this determined
attitude, shouts that were interrupted by a dulcet high-pitched voice
saying quietly:

"I take thee, friend Diogenes. Two guilders to three: do thou strike at
the pair of hands nearest to thee and while I count three...."

From the torches up above there came a sharp glint of light as it struck
three steel blades, that swung out into the open.

"One--two----"

Four pairs of hands, which had been dragging on the woman's arm with
such determined force, disappeared precipitately into the darkness, and
thus suddenly released, the woman nearly fell backwards against the
gate.

"Pity!" said the dulcet voice gently, "that bet will never be decided
now."

An angry murmur of protest rose from the crowd. The four men who had
been the leaders of the gang were pushed forward from the rear amidst
shouts of derision and brandishing fists.

"Cowards! cowards! cowards! Jan Tiele, art not ashamed? Piet, go for
them! There are only three! Cowards to let yourselves be bullied!"

The crowd pushe