“What is your name?” and the man eyed him suspiciously.     

       “Gerard, the son of Elias.”      

       The janitor inspected a slip of parchment he held in his hand:     

       “Gerard Eliassoen can enter.”      

       “With my company, these two?”      

       “Nay; those are not your company they came before you.”      

       “What matter? They are my friends, and without them I go not in.”      

       “Stay without, then.”      

       “That will I not.”      

       “That we shall see.”      

       “We will, and speedily.” And with this, Gerard raised a voice of astounding volume and power, and routed so that the whole street rang:     

       “Ho! PHILIP, EARL OF HOLLAND!”      

       “Are you mad?” cried the porter.     

       “HERE IS ONE OF YOUR VARLETS DEFIES YOU.”      

       “Hush, hush!”      

       “AND WILL NOT LET YOUR GUESTS PASS IN.”      

       “Hush! murder! The Dukes there. I'm dead,” cried the janitor, quaking.     

       Then suddenly trying to overpower Gerard's thunder, he shouted, with all his lungs:     

       “OPEN THE GATE, YE KNAVES! WAY THERE FOR GERARD ELIASSOEN AND HIS COMPANY!       (The fiends go with him!)”      

       The gate swung open as by magic. Eight soldiers lowered their pikes halfway, and made an arch, under which the victorious three marched 

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