Part 67 (1/2)
The black sheep sat disconsolate amidst the convivial crew, and eyed Hans Memling's wallet. For more ease he had taken it off, and flung it on the table. How readily they could have slipped out that letter and put in another. For the first time in their lives they were sorry they had not learned to write, like their brother.
And now Hans began to talk of going, and the brothers agreed in a whisper to abandon their project for the time. They had scarcely resolved this, when Dierich Brower stood suddenly in the doorway, and gave them a wink.
They went out to him. ”Come to the burgomaster with all speed,” said he.
They found Ghysbrecht seated at a table, pale and agitated. Before him lay Margaret Van Eyck's handwriting. ”I have written what you desired,”
said he. ”Now for the superscription. What were the words? did ye see?”
”We cannot read,” said Cornelis.
”Then is all this labour lost,” cried Ghysbrecht angrily. ”Dolts!”
”Nay, but,” said Sybrandt, ”I heard the words read, and I have not lost them. They were, 'To Gerard Elia.s.soen, these by the hand of the trusty Hans Memling with all speed.'”
”'Tis well. Now, how was the letter folded? how big was it?”
”Longer than that one, and not so long as this.”
”'Tis well. Where is he?”
”At the hostelry.”
”Come, then, take you this groat, and treat him. Then ask to see the letter, and put this in place of it. Come to me with the other letter.”
The brothers a.s.sented, took the letter, and went to the hostelry.
They had not been gone a minute, when Dierich Brower issued from the Stadthouse, and followed them. He had his orders not to let them out of his sight till the true letter was in his master's hands. He watched outside the hostelry.
He had not long to wait. They came out almost immediately, with downcast looks. Dierich made up to them.
”Too late!” they cried; ”too late! He is gone.”
”Gone? How long?”
”Scarce five minutes. Cursed chance!”
”You must go back to the burgomaster at once,” said Dierich Brower.
”To what end?”
”No matter; come:” and he hurried them to the Stadthouse.
Ghysbrecht Van Swieten was not the man to accept a defeat. ”Well,” said he, on hearing the ill news, ”suppose he is gone. Is he mounted?”
”No.”
”Then what hinders you to come up with him?”
”But what avails coming up with him? there are no hostelries on the road he is gone.”