"They shall live!" shouted hundreds of powerful voices, five, ten,
twenty times. The gunner discharged the cannon planted near the target,
drums beat, one flourish of trumpets after another filled the air, the
ringing of bells from all the towers of the city echoed over the heads of
the enthusiastic crowd, and the cheering continued until the commissioner
waved his hand and the swearing fealty began.

The guilds and the armed defenders of the city pressed forward in bands
under the linden. Now impetuously, now with dignified calmness, now with
devout exaltation, hands were raised to take the oath, and whoever
clasped hands did so with fervent warmth. Two hours elapsed before all
had sworn loyalty, and many a group that had passed under the linden
together, warmly grasped each other's hands on the grounds in pledge of a
second silent vow.

Nicolas Van Wibisma sat silently, with his letter in his lap, beside a
target opposite the spot where the oath was taken, but sorrowful, bitter
emotions were seething in his breast. How gladly he would have wept
aloud and torn his father's letter! How gladly, when he saw the
venerable Herr Van Montfort come hand in hand with the grey-haired Van
der Does to be sworn, he would have rushed to their side to take the
oath, and call to the earnest man beneath the linden:

"I am no degenerate wretch, who betrays his parents' house; I desire to
be no slave, no Spaniard; I am a Netherlander, like yourself."

But he did not go, did not speak, he remained sitting motionless till the
ceremony was over and Junker von Warmond conducted him under the linden.
Van Hout and both the Van der Does had joined the magistrates who had
administered the oath. Bowing silently, Nicolas delivered his father's