indignation. "Paris! Paris! Saint Bartholomew! Saint Bartholomew!
Are we to have Paris weddings in Brussels also?" howled the mob, as is
often the case, extracting but a single idea, and that a wrong one; from
the public lecture which had just been made. "Are we to have a Paris
massacre, a Paris blood-bath here in the Netherland capital? God forbid!
God forbid! Away with the conspirators! Down with the Papists!"

It was easily represented to the inflamed imaginations of the populace
that a Brussels Saint Bartholomew had been organized, and that Champagny,
who stood there before them, was its originator and manager. The
ungrateful Netherlanders forgot the heroism with which the old soldier
had arranged the defence of Antwerp against the "Spanish Fury" but two
years before. They heard only the instigations of his enemies; they
remembered only that he was the hated Granvelle's brother; they believed
only that there was a plot by which, in some utterly incomprehensible
manner, they were all to be immediately engaged in cutting each others
throats and throwing each other out of the windows, as had been done half
a dozen years before in Paris. Such was the mischievous intention
ascribed to a petition, which Champagny and his friends had as much
right to offer--however narrow and mistaken their, opinions might now
be considered--as had the, synod of Dort to present their remonstrances.
Never was a more malignant or more stupid perversion of a simple and not
very alarming phrase. No allusion had been made to Saint Bartholomew,
but all its horrors were supposed to be concealed in the sentence which
referred to Paris. The nobles were arrested on the spot and hurried to
prison, with the exception of Champagny, who made his escape at first,
and lay concealed for several days. He was, however, finally ferreted
out of his hiding-place and carried off to Ghent. There he was thrown
into strict confinement, being treated in all respects as the accomplice
of Aerschot and the other nobles who had been arrested in the time of