guts, unless ye disperse and go
peaceably back to church and pray God to forgive ye this act of
cowardice on New Year's eve!"

The answer was another volley of stones, one of which hit Socrates on
the side of the head:

"With the next stone that is hurled," continued Diogenes calmly, "I will
smash Jan Tiele's nose: and if more than one come within reach of my
hand, then Willem's nose shall go as well."

The warning was disregarded: a shower of stones came crashing against
the wall just above the postern gate.

"How badly these Dutchmen throw," growled Socrates in his gruff voice.

"This present from thy friends in the rear, Jan Tiele," rejoined
Diogenes, as he seized that worthy by the collar and brandished a stone
which he had caught in its flight. "'Tis they obviously who do not like
the shape of thy nose, else they had not sent me the wherewithal to
flatten it for thee."

"I'll do that, good Diogenes," said Pythagoras gently, as he took both
the stone and the struggling Jan Tiele from his friend's grasp, "and
Socrates will see to Willem at the same time. No trouble, I give thee my
word--I like to do these kind of jobs for my friends."

An awful and prolonged howl from Jan Tiele and from Willem testified
that the jobs had been well done.

"Papists! Spaniards! Spies!" roared the crowd, now goaded to fury.

"Bucephalus, I do humbly beg thy pardon," said Diogenes as he rested the
point of his sword for one moment on the frozen ground, then raised it
and touched it with his forehead and with his lips, "I apologize to thee
for using thee against such rabble."

"More stones please," came in a shrill falsetto from Pythagoras, "here's
Piet whose nose is itching fit to make him swear."

He was a great adept at catching missiles in mid-air. These now flew
thick and fast, stones, short staves, heavy leather pouches as well as
hard missiles made of frozen snow. But the throwers were hampered by one
another: they had no elbow-room in this narrow street.

The missiles for the most part fell wide of the mark. Still! the numbers
might tell in the end. Socrates' face was streaming with blood: a clump
of mud and snow had extinguished one of the torches, and a moment ago a
stone had caught Diogenes on the left shoulder.

The three men stood close together, sword in hand. To the excited gaze
of the crowd they scarcely seemed to be using their swords or to heed
those of their aggressors who came threateningly nigh. They