University of Virginia Library

Scene III.

—The Stadt-House.
Enter Myk Steensel, followed by several Burghers.
Myk.
And who is Van den Bosch, resolve me that:
I say, Sirs, who is he, to lay on taxes?

1st Burgher.
Or Ackerman, or Launoy, who are they?

Myk.
I say, Sirs, if our goods be not our own,
Better our natural liege Lord should have them
Than thus to render them to John or Peter.

2nd Burgher.
Why, look you, Sirs, our case stands simply here:
The Earl of Flanders is a valiant Lord,
And was a gracious master, till the Devil,
Who never sleeps, awaken'd them of Bruges
To dig about the Lis to turn the water.
But what, Sirs,—we have fought enough for that.

Myk.
Why still the more we fight the more we lose;
For every battle that our White-Hoods win
But gives a warrant to this Van den Bosch
To spoil us of our substance.—Welcome, Sirs.

Enter two Deans of the Crafts.
1st Dean.
Friends, have ye heard the news?

Myk.
I know not, Sir;
If the news be, we owe the White-Hoods pay
For giving us a hosier for our liege,
'Tis old, Sir, old.

2nd Dean.
No, this is what you'll owe them;
A ready market for your rats and mice.
Corn is already risen cent. per cent.,
Though many question if the news be true.
Our John of Launoy's slain with all his men,
The Quatre-Metiers lost and much beside.

Myk.
No more supplies from Brabant then. But say,
How came it all about?

2nd Dean.
'Twas briefly thus:
Beside Nivelle the Earl and Launoy met;
Six thousand voices volley'd to the skies
“Ghent the good Town! Ghent and the White-Hoods! Ghent!”
But from that force thrice-told there came the cry
Of “Flanders with the Lion of the Bastard!”
So then the battle join'd, and they of Ghent
Gave back and open'd after three hours' fight,
And hardly flying had they gain'd Nivelle
When the Earl's vanguard came upon their rear
Ere the gate closed, and enter'd with them; then
They all were slain save Launoy and his guard,
Who, barricaded in the Minster tower,
Made desperate resistance, whereupon
The Earl wax'd wrothful and bade fire the church.

1st Burgher.
Say'st thou? O sacrilege accursed! Was't done?

2nd Dean.
'Twas done,—and presently was heard a yell,
And after that the rushing of the flames!
Then Launoy from the steeple cried aloud
“A ransom!” and held up his coat to sight
With florins fill'd; but they without but laugh'd
And mock'd him, saying, “Come amongst us, John,
And we will give thee welcome; make a leap;
Come out at window, John.”—With that the flames
Rose up and reach'd him, and he drew his sword,
Cast his rich coat behind him in the fire,
And shouting “Ghent, ye slaves!” leapt freely forth,
When they below received him on their spears.
And so died John of Launoy.

1st Burgher.
A brave end.
'Tis certain we must now make peace betimes;
The city will be starved else—Will be? nay!
Starvation is upon us; want and woe
Stand round about and stare us in the face.
And what will be the end?

Myk.
Believe me, Sirs,
So long as Van den Bosch bears rule in Ghent
You'll not have peace; for well wots he no terms
That spare his life will pacify the Earl.
Sirs, if we make no peace but with the will
Of them whose heads must answer it, woe to us!
For we must fight for ever; Sirs, I say,
We must put down this Van den Bosch, and up
The men that with the Earl stand fair and free,
Who shall take counsel for the city's weal.

Burghers.
Truly we must,

Myk.
Then, friends, stand fast by me,
And as we're all agreed to give no doit
Of this five hundred marks, a tongue have I
Will tell him so in words more just than nice.

Enter Van den Bosch, Frans Ackerman, and the Lord of Occo, with a retinue of White-Hoods.
Van Den Bosch.
Good morrow, worthy friends; good morrow, all!
'Tis a sweet sight to look on, in these times,
A score of true and trusty friends to Ghent
So fresh and hearty and so well provided.
Ah, Sirs, you know not, you, who lies afield
When nights are cold, with frogs for bed-fellows;
You know not, you, who fights and sheds his blood
And fasts and fills his belly with the east wind!
Poor souls and virtuous citizens they are!
'Tis they that keep the franchises of Ghent.
But, what! they must be fed; they must have meat!
Sirs, have ye brought me these five hundred marks
That they demanded?

Myk.
Master Van den Bosch,
Look round about; as many as stand here
Are of one mind, and this is what they think:
The company of White-Hoods, some time past,
Were, as thou say'st, brave citizens and true,
And they fought stoutly for our franchises;
But they were afterward as beasts of prey,
That, tasting blood, grow greedy and break loose
And turn upon their keepers: so at length
The city, like a camp in mutiny,
Saw nothing else to walk her streets unharm'd
But these your free companions. They at will
Enter'd our houses, lived upon our means
In riotry, made plunder of our goods,
Debauched our wives and daughters; and if once
Some hardy fool made bold to lift his hand
For safeguard of his own, he met his death.
Now this no longer will we suffer; no,
Nor will we give our substance so to feed
The lewd excesses of your crew.

Van den Bosch.
How now,
Myk Steensel! Truly thou art bold of tongue;
I marvel thou shouldst speak so traitor-like
In presence of such honest, virtuous men
As these thou seest about me. How can I,
Think you, give warranty that some good soul,
Inflamed with anger at thy foolish speech,
May not cut out thy tongue and slit thy nose
For uttering of such treasons?

Myk.
Van den Bosch,
Thou thinkst by this to hound thy pack upon me;
But dog and huntsman I alike defy.
Thy brother Launoy with his men-at-arms
Will never answer to thy bidding more:
And if thou dare do violence to me
Thou shalt be fain to take as long a leap
As his was at Nivelle.

Van den Bosch.
Oh, ho! good Sirs!
'Tis this then that emboldens you, this tale
Brought by Van Borselen, who ran away
Before the fight began, and calls it lost
That so his cowardice should stand excused;
For which his foul betrayal and false report
I have already had him gibbeted.
Bring not yourselves, I pray you, gentle Sirs,
With the like nimbleness to a grave i' the air.
I say, Sirs, bring me these five hundred marks,
And that or e'er to morrow's sun go down—
Five hundred marks—I'll bate you not a scute.
Ye slothful, hide-blown, gormandizing niggards!
What, all must starve but you, that lie a-bed
Paunch uppermost, and lack a day of fast
To purge your grossness. Know ye who I am?
Or are ye sleeping off the last night's wine,
And deeming this some tustle with your wives
For pulling of a blanket here or there?
Five hundred marks—begone and bring it!

Myk.
So;
Begone we will. Let's to our homes, my friends;
And what we'll bring thee thou shalt know betimes,
Nor wait the setting of to-morrow's sun.
Not gold, Sir, no, nor silver, be thou sure,
But what shall best befit a brave man's hand.

[Exeunt Myk and the Burghers; the retinue of White-Hoods follow. Manent Van den Bosch, Occo, and Frans Ackerman.
Van den Bosch.
You see, Sirs, how the rogues take heart and rail
On this mishap.

Occo.
I saw both that and more;
Our White-Hoods looked like recreants faint with fright,
As though they knew not which to fear the most,
Thy rod and gallows-tree, or the Earl's block.
Peter, we're crumbling.

Van den Bosch.
You have judged aright.
But what can I? Our chiefs drop one by one;
Launoy, too truly, perish'd at Nivelle;
Le Clerc lies leaning up against a hedge
(Till some one dare go bury him) at Chem;
Your cousin fell with Launoy. Now, Van Ranst
And Lichtenvelde are good for men-at-arms,
But want the wit to govern a great town.
And I am good at arms, and want not wit;
But then I'm sore suspected of the rich,
By reason of my rudeness, and the fruit
Which that same gallows-tree of mine has borne:
And to say truth, although my wit be good,
It has a fitter range without the gates,
In ordering of an enterprise, than here.
The city leans to peace for lack of brains,
And on its shoulders we must stick a head.

Occo.
Hast thou bethought thee of a man that's wise
And fit to bear this rule?

Van den Bosch.
Why such there be;
Though one that's wise would scarce be wise to take it.
What think'st thou, Frans? Canst pick me out a man
That, being wise, were willing?

Ackerman.
There's no game
So desperate that the wisest of the wise
Will not take freely up for love of power,
Or love of fame, or merely love of play.
These men are wise, and then reputed wise,
And so their great repute of wisdom grows,
Till for great wisdom a great price is bid,
And then their wisdom do they part withal:
Such men must still be tempted with high stakes.

Occo.
Tempt them and take them; true, there be such men;
Philip Van Artevelde is such a man.

Van den Bosch.
That is well thought of. Philip is the man.