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Swedes!” The call came in the piercing voices of boys
running through the streets. People rushed to the doors, booths
were closed, and the iron-mongers hastily gathered in their
wares. The good folk seemed to expect a huge army of the
enemy to pour in upon them that very moment.
The slopes of the ramparts and the adjoining streets
were black with people looking at the fire. Other crowds
gathered farther away from the centre of interest, at the
Secret Passage and the Fountain. Many matters were
discussed, the burning question being: Would the Swedes
attack that night or wait till morning?
Gert Pyper, the dyer from the Fountain, thought the
Swedes would be upon them as soon as they had rallied
after the march. Why should they wait?
The Icelandic trader, Erik Lauritzen of Dyers’ Row,
thought it might be a risky matter to enter a strange city
in the dead of night, when you couldn’t know what was
land and what was water.
“Water!” said Gert Dyer. “Would to God we knew
as much about our own affairs as the Swede knows! Don’t
trust to that! His spies are where you’d least think. ’T is
well enough known to Burgomaster and Council, for the
aldermen have been round since early morning hunting
spies in every nook and corner. Fool him who can! No,
the Swede’s cunning—especially in such business. ’T is
a natural gift. I found that out myself—’t is some
half-score years since, but I’ve never forgotten that
mummery. You see, indigo she makes black, and she makes light
blue, and she makes medium blue, all according to the
mordant. Scalding and making the dye-vats ready—any
’prentice can do that, if he’s handy, but the mordant—there’s
the rub! That’s an art! Use too much, and you
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