Part 65 (2/2)
”Ay, ay! that she is false, that she is married to another, I'll go bail.”
”Nay, burgomaster, nay! not for all the world!” cried Sybrandt; ”Gerard would not believe it, or but half, and then he would come back to see.
No; say that she is dead.”
”Dead! what at her age? will he credit that?”
”Sooner than the other. Why she _was nearly_ dead; so it is not to say a downright lie, after all.”
”Humph? And you think that will keep him in Italy?”
”We are sure of it, are we not, Cornelis?”
”Ay,” said Cornelis, ”our Gerard will never leave Italy now he is there.
It was always his dream to get there. He would come back for his Margaret, but not for us. What cares he for us? He despises his own family; always did.”
”This would be a bitter pill to him,” said the old hypocrite. ”It will be for his good in the end,” replied the young one.
”What avails Famine wedding Thirst?” said Cornelis.
”And the grief you are preparing for him so coolly?” Ghysbrecht spoke sarcastically, but tasted his own vengeance all the time.
”Oh, a lie is not like a blow with a curtal axe. It hacks no flesh, and breaks no bones.”
”A curtal axe?” said Sybrandt; ”no, nor even like a stroke with a cudgel.” And he shot a sly envenomed glance at the burgomaster's broken nose.
Ghysbrecht's face darkened with ire when this adder's tongue struck his wound. But it told, as intended: the old man bristled with hate.
”Well,” said he, ”tell me what to write for you, and I must write it: but, take notice, you bear the blame if aught turns amiss. Not the hand which writes, but the tongue which dictates, doth the deed.”
The brothers a.s.sented warmly, sneering within. Ghysbrecht then drew his inkhorn towards him, and laid the specimen of Margaret Van Eyck's writing before him, and made some inquiries as to the size and shape of the letter; when an unlooked-for interruption occurred; Jorian Ketel burst hastily into the room, and looked vexed at not finding him alone.
”Thou seest I have matter on hand, good fellow.”
”Ay; but this is grave. I bring good news; but 'tis not for every ear.”
The burgomaster rose, and drew Jorian aside into the embrasure of his deep window, and then the brothers heard them converse in low but eager tones. It ended by Ghysbrecht sending Jorian out to saddle his mule. He then addressed the black sheep with a sudden coldness that amazed them:
”I prize the peace of households; but this is not a thing to be done in a hurry: we will see about, we will see.”
”But, burgomaster, the man will be gone. It will be too late.”
”Where is he?”
”At the hostelry, drinking.”
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