an execution had just taken place, for tears, groans and execrations rose from the mass of human beings who crowded about the scaffold. Two heads were placed on pikes and exposed to the public gaze,
“Who are these unfortunate victims?” asked the young officer to a man standing by his side.
“You must be a stranger in Brussels to ask such a question!” was the reply.
“I am.”
“Then I will tell you. Yonder is the foulest act which tyranny has dared to inflict on this suffering people. Counts Egmont and Horn, both devoted Catholics and loyal soldiers, have been beheaded by the order of the Duke of Alva.”
“What crime had they committed?” asked Reynold, in dismay.
“None. Alva has always been jealous of Egmont since his brilliant military victories at St. Quentin and Gravelines. These victories were gained contrary to Alva’s advice. He has hated Egmont ever since. Count Horn was Egmont’s most intimate friend, so he had to die. The Prince of Orange would share the same fate, if Alva could only induce him to return to the Netherlands.”
“Accursed be the day when the Spaniards set foot upon this soil!” said another bystander.
From the outskirts of the throng came the sound of a woman’s voice, low and sweet, singing a hymn:
