Lysbeth, a Tale of the Dutch eBook (2024)

Lysbeth, a Tale of the Dutch by H. Rider Haggard

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Table of Contents
Section	Page
Start of eBook	1
A Tale Of The Dutch	1
DEDICATION	1
AUTHOR’S NOTE	1
LYSBETH	1
BOOK THE FIRST	1
CHAPTER I	2
CHAPTER II	13
CHAPTER III	21
CHAPTER IV	28
CHAPTER V	39
CHAPTER VI	50
CHAPTER VII	60
CHAPTER VIII	67
BOOK THE SECOND	74
CHAPTER IX	74
CHAPTER X	86
CHAPTER XI	95
CHAPTER XII	107
CHAPTER XIII	116
CHAPTER XIV	126
CHAPTER XV	137
CHAPTER XVI	148
CHAPTER XVII	158
CHAPTER XVIII	167
CHAPTER XIX	176
CHAPTER XX	186
CHAPTER XXI	195
CHAPTER XXII	203
BOOK THE THIRD	212
CHAPTER XXIII	212
CHAPTER XXIV	223
CHAPTER XXV	232
CHAPTER XXVI	241
CHAPTER XXVII	252
CHAPTER XXVIII	261
CHAPTER XXIX	271
CHAPTER XXX	283
FINIS	290

A Tale Of The Dutch

By H. Rider Haggard

First Published 1901.

DEDICATION

In token of the earnest reverence of a man of a latergeneration for his character, and for that life workwhereof we inherit the fruits to-day, this tale ofthe times he shaped is dedicated to the memory of oneof the greatest and most noble-hearted beings thatthe world has known; the immortal William, calledthe Silent, of Nassau.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

There are, roughly, two ways of writing an historicalromance—­the first to choose some notableand leading characters of the time to be treated,and by the help of history attempt to picture themas they were; the other, to make a study of that timeand history with the country in which it was enacted,and from it to deduce the necessary characters.

In the case of “Lysbeth” the author hasattempted this second method. By an example ofthe trials, adventures, and victories of a burgherfamily of the generation of Philip II. and Williamthe Silent, he strives to set before readers of to-daysomething of the life of those who lived through perhapsthe most fearful tyranny that the western world hasknown. How did they live, one wonders; how isit that they did not die of very terror, those ofthem who escaped the scaffold, the famine and thepestilence?

This and another—­Why were such things sufferedto be?—­seem problems worth consideration,especially by the young, who are so apt to take everythingfor granted, including their own religious freedomand personal security. How often, indeed, doany living folk give a grateful thought to the forefatherswho won for us these advantages, and many others withthem?

The writer has sometimes heard travellers in the Netherlandsexpress surprise that even in an age of almost universaldecoration its noble churches are suffered to remainsmeared with melancholy whitewash. Could theylook backward through the centuries and behold withthe mind’s eye certain scenes that have takenplace within these very temples and about their walls,they would marvel no longer. Here we are beginningto forget the smart at the price of which we boughtdeliverance from the bitter yoke of priest and king,but yonder the sword bit deeper and smote more often.Perhaps that is why in Holland they still love whitewash,which to them may be a symbol, a perpetual protest;and remembering stories that have been handed downas heirlooms to this day, frown at the sight of eventhe most modest sacerdotal vestment. Those whoare acquainted with the facts of their history anddeliverance will scarcely wonder at the prejudice.

LYSBETH

A TALE OF THE DUTCH

BOOK THE FIRST

THE SOWING

CHAPTER I

THE WOLF AND THE BADGER

The time was in or about the year 1544, when the EmperorCharles V. ruled the Netherlands, and our scene thecity of Leyden.

Any one who has visited this pleasant town knows thatit lies in the midst of wide, flat meadows, and isintersected by many canals filled with Rhine water.But now, as it was winter, near to Christmas indeed,the meadows and the quaint gabled roofs of the citylay buried beneath a dazzling sheet of snow, while,instead of boats and barges, skaters glided up anddown the frozen surface of the canals, which were sweptfor their convenience. Outside the walls of thetown, not far from the Morsch poort, or gate, thesurface of the broad moat which surrounded them presenteda sight as gay as it was charming. Just here oneof the branches of the Rhine ran into this moat, anddown it came the pleasure-seekers in sledges, on skates,or afoot. They were dressed, most of them, intheir best attire, for the day was a holiday set apartfor a kind of skating carnival, with sleighing matches,such games as curling, and other amusements.

Among these merry folk might have been seen a younglady of two or three and twenty years of age, dressedin a coat of dark green cloth trimmed with fur, andclose-fitting at the waist. This coat opened infront, showing a broidered woollen skirt, but overthe bust it was tightly buttoned and surmounted bya stiff ruff of Brussels lace. Upon her headshe wore a high-crowned beaver hat, to which the noddingostrich feather was fastened by a jewelled ornamentof sufficient value to show that she was a personof some means. In fact, this lady was the onlychild of a sea captain and shipowner named Carolusvan Hout, who, whilst still a middle-aged man, haddied about a year before, leaving her heiress to avery considerable fortune. This circumstance,with the added advantages of a very pretty face, inwhich were set two deep and thoughtful grey eyes,and a figure more graceful than was common among theNetherlander women, caused Lysbeth van Hout to bemuch sought after and admired, especially by the marriageablebachelors of Leyden.

On this occasion, however, she was unescorted exceptby a serving woman somewhat older than herself, anative of Brussels, Greta by name, who in appearancewas as attractive as in manner she was suspiciouslydiscreet.

As Lysbeth skated down the canal towards the moatmany of the good burghers of Leyden took off theircaps to her, especially the young burghers, one ortwo of whom had hopes that she would choose them tobe her cavalier for this day’s fete. Someof the elders, also, asked her if she would care tojoin their parties, thinking that, as she was an orphanwithout near male relations, she might be glad of theirprotection in times when it was wise for beautifulyoung women to be protected. With this excuseand that, however, she escaped from them all, forLysbeth had already made her own arrangements.

At that date there was living in Leyden a young manof four or five and twenty, named Dirk van Goorl,a distant cousin of her own. Dirk was a nativeof the little town of Alkmaar, and the second son ofone of its leading citizens, a brass founder by trade.As in the natural course of events the Alkmaar businesswould descend to his elder brother, their father appointedhim to a Leyden firm, in which, after eight or nineyears of hard work, he had become a junior partner.While he was still living, Lysbeth’s fatherhad taken a liking to the lad, with the result thathe grew intimate at the house which, from the first,was open to him as a kinsman. After the deathof Carolus van Hout, Dirk had continued to visit there,especially on Sundays, when he was duly and ceremoniouslyreceived by Lysbeth’s aunt, a childless widownamed Clara van Ziel, who acted as her guardian.Thus, by degrees, favoured with such ample opportunity,a strong affection had sprung up between these twoyoung people, although as yet they were not affianced,nor indeed had either of them said a word of openlove to the other.

This abstinence may seem strange, but some explanationof their self-restraint was to be found in Dirk’scharacter. In mind he was patient, very deliberatein forming his purposes, and very sure in carryingthem out. He felt impulses like other men, buthe did not give way to them. For two years ormore he had loved Lysbeth, but being somewhat slowat reading the ways of women he was not quite certainthat she loved him, and above everything on earth hedreaded a rebuff. Moreover he knew her to bean heiress, and as his own means were still humble,and his expectations from his father small, he didnot feel justified in asking her in marriage untilhis position was more assured. Had the CaptainCarolus still been living the case would have beendifferent, for then he could have gone to him.But he was dead, and Dirk’s fine and sensitivenature recoiled from the thought that it might besaid of him that he had taken advantage of the inexperienceof a kinswoman in order to win her fortune. Alsodeep down in his mind he had a sincerer and quitesecret reason for reticence, whereof more in its properplace.

Thus matters stood between these two. To-day,however, though only with diffidence and after someencouragement from the lady, he had asked leave tobe his cousin’s cavalier at the ice fete, andwhen she consented, readily enough, appointed themoat as their place of meeting. This was somewhatless than Lysbeth expected, for she wished his escortthrough the town. But, when she hinted as much,Dirk explained that he would not be able to leavethe works before three o’clock, as the metalfor a large bell had been run into the casting, andhe must watch it while it cooled.

So, followed only by her maid, Greta, Lysbeth glidedlightly as a bird down the ice path on to the moat,and across it, through the narrow cut, to the frozenmere beyond, where the sports were to be held and theraces run. There the scene was very beautiful.

Behind her lay the roofs of Leyden, pointed, picturesque,and covered with sheets of snow, while above themtowered the bulk of the two great churches of St.Peter and St. Pancras, and standing on a mound knownas the Burg, the round tower which is supposed tohave been built by the Romans. In front stretchedthe flat expanse of white meadows, broken here andthere by windmills with narrow waists and thin tallsails, and in the distance, by the church towers ofother towns and villages.

Immediately before her, in strange contrast to thislifeless landscape, lay the peopled mere, fringedaround with dead reeds standing so still in the frostyair that they might have been painted things.On this mere half the population of Leyden seemedto be gathered; at least there were thousands of them,shouting, laughing, and skimming to and fro in theirbright garments like flocks of gay-plumaged birds.Among them, drawn by horses with bells tied to theirharness, glided many sledges of wickerwork and woodmounted upon iron runners, their fore-ends fashionedto quaint shapes, such as the heads of dogs or bulls,or Tritons. Then there were vendors of cakesand sweetmeats, vendors of spirits also, who did agood trade on this cold day. Beggars too werenumerous, and among them deformities, who, nowadays,would be hidden in charitable homes, slid about inwooden boxes, which they pushed along with crutches.Lastly many loafers had gathered there with stoolsfor fine ladies to sit on while the skates were boundto their pretty feet, and chapmen with these articlesfor sale and straps wherewith to fasten them.To complete the picture the huge red ball of the sunwas sinking to the west, and opposite to it the palefull moon began already to gather light and life.

The scene seemed so charming and so happy that Lysbeth,who was young, and now that she had recovered fromthe shock of her beloved father’s death, light-hearted,ceased her forward movement and poised herself uponher skates to watch it for a space. While shestood thus a little apart, a woman came towards herfrom the throng, not as though she were seeking her,but aimlessly, much as a child’s toy-boat isdriven by light, contrary winds upon the summer surfaceof a pond.

She was a remarkable-looking woman of about thirty-fiveyears of age, tall and bony in make, with deep-seteyes, light grey of colour, that seemed now to flashfiercely and now to waver, as though in memory ofsome great dread. From beneath a coarse woollencap a wisp of grizzled hair fell across the forehead,where it lay like the forelock of a horse. Indeed,the high cheekbones, scarred as though by burns, wide-spreadnostrils and prominent white teeth, whence the lipshad strangely sunk away, gave the whole countenancea more or less equine look which this falling lockseemed to heighten. For the rest the woman waspoorly and not too plentifully clad in a gown of blackwoollen, torn and stained as though with long useand journeys, while on her feet she wore wooden clogs,to which were strapped skates that were not fellows,one being much longer than the other.

Opposite to Lysbeth this strange, gaunt person stopped,contemplating her with a dreamy eye. Presentlyshe seemed to recognise her, for she said in a quick,low voice, the voice of one who lives in terror ofbeing overheard:—­

“That’s a pretty dress of yours, Van Hout’sdaughter. Oh, yes, I know you; your father usedto play with me when I was a child, and once he kissedme on the ice at just such a fete as this. Thinkof it! Kissed me, Martha the Mare,” andshe laughed hoarsely, and went on: “Yes,well-warmed and well-fed, and, without doubt, waitingfor a gallant to kiss you”; here she turnedand waved her hand towards the people—­“allwell-warmed and well-fed, and all with lovers and husbandsand children to kiss. But I tell you, Van Hout’sdaughter, as I have dared to creep from my hidinghole in the great lake to tell all of them who willlisten, that unless they cast out the cursed Spaniard,a day shall come when the folk of Leyden must perishby thousands of hunger behind those walls. Yes,yes, unless they cast out the cursed Spaniard and hisInquisition. Oh, I know him, I know him, for didthey not make me carry my own husband to the stakeupon my back? And have you heard why, Van Hout’sdaughter? Because what I had suffered in theirtorture-dens had made my face—­yes, minethat once was so beautiful—­like the faceof a horse, and they said that ‘a horse oughtto be ridden.’”

Now, while this poor excited creature, one of a wholeclass of such people who in those sad days might befound wandering about the Netherlands crazy with theirgriefs and sufferings, and living only for revenge,poured out these broken sentences, Lysbeth, terrified,shrank back before her. As she shrank the otherfollowed, till presently Lysbeth saw her expressionof rage and hate change to one of terror. Inanother instant, muttering something about a requestfor alms which she did not wait to receive, the womanhad wheeled round and fled away as fast as her skateswould carry her—­which was very fast indeed.

Turning about to find what had frightened her, Lysbethsaw standing on the bank of the mere, so close thatshe must have overheard every word, but behind thescreen of a leafless bush, a tall, forbidding-lookingwoman, who held in her hand some broidered caps whichapparently she was offering for sale. These capsshe began to slowly fold up and place one by one ina hide satchel that was hung about her shoulders.All this while she was watching Lysbeth with her keenblack eyes, except when from time to time she tookthem off her to follow the flight of that person whohad called herself the Mare.

“You keep ill company, lady,” said thecap-seller in a harsh voice.

“It was none of my seeking,” answeredLysbeth, astonished into making a reply.

“So much the better for you, lady, althoughshe seemed to know you and to know also that you wouldlisten to her song. Unless my eyes deceived me,which is not often, that woman is an evil-doer anda worker of magic like her dead husband Van Muyden;a heretic, a blasphemer of the Holy Church, a traitorto our Lord the Emperor, and one,” she addedwith a snarl, “with a price upon her head thatbefore night will, I hope, be in Black Meg’spocket.” Then, walking with long firm stepstowards a fat man who seemed to be waiting for her,the tall, black-eyed pedlar passed with him into thethrong, where Lysbeth lost sight of them.

Lysbeth watched them go, and shivered. To herknowledge she had never seen this woman before, butshe knew enough of the times they lived in to be surethat she was a spy of the priests. Already therewere such creatures moving about in every gathering,yes, and in many a private place, who were paid toobtain evidence against suspected heretics. Whetherthey won it by fair means or by foul mattered not,provided they could find something, and it need belittle indeed, to justify the Inquisition in gettingto its work.

As for the other woman, the Mare, doubtless she wasone of those wicked outcasts, accursed by God andman, who were called heretics; people who said dreadfulthings about the Pope and the Church and God’spriests, having been misled and stirred up theretoby a certain fiend in human form named Luther.Lysbeth shuddered at the thought and crossed herself,for in those days she was an excellent Catholic.Yet the wanderer said that she had known her father,so that she must be as well born as herself—­andthen that dreadful story—­no, she could notbear to think of it. But of course heretics deservedall these things; of that there could be no doubtwhatever, for had not her father confessor told herthat thus alone might their souls be saved from thegrasp of the Evil One?

The thought was comforting, still Lysbeth felt upset,and not a little rejoiced when she saw Dirk van Goorlskating towards her accompanied by another young man,also a cousin of her own on her mother’s sidewho was destined in days to come to earn himself animmortal renown—­young Pieter van de Werff.The two took off their bonnets to her, Dirk van Goorlrevealing in the act a head of fair hair beneath whichhis steady blue eyes shone in a rather thick-set,self-contained face. Lysbeth’s temper,always somewhat quick, was ruffled, and she showedit in her manner.

“I thought, cousins, that we were to meet atthree, and the kirk clock yonder has just chimed half-past,”she said, addressing them both, but looking—­nottoo sweetly—­at Dirk van Goorl.

“That’s right, cousin,” answeredPieter, a pleasant-faced and alert young man, “lookat him, scold him, for he is to blame.Ever since a quarter past two have I—­Iwho must drive a sledge in the great race and am backedto win—­been waiting outside that factoryin the snow, but, upon my honour, he did not appearuntil seven minutes since. Yes, we have donethe whole distance in seven minutes, and I call thatvery good skating.”

“I thought as much,” said Lysbeth.“Dirk can only keep an appointment with a churchbell or a stadhuis chandelier.”

“It was not my fault,” broke in Dirk inhis slow voice; “I have my business to attend.I promised to wait until the metal had cooled sufficiently,and hot bronze takes no account of ice-parties andsledge races.”

“So I suppose that you stopped to blow on it,cousin. Well, the result is that, being quiteunescorted, I have been obliged to listen to thingswhich I did not wish to hear.”

“What do you mean?” asked Dirk, takingfire at once.

Then she told them something of what the woman whocalled herself the Mare had said to her, adding, “Doubtlessthe poor creature is a heretic and deserves all thathas happened to her. But it is dreadfully sad,and I came here to enjoy myself, not to be sad.”

Between the two young men there passed a glance whichwas full of meaning. But it was Dirk who spoke.The other, more cautious, remained silent.

“Why do you say that, Cousin Lysbeth?”he asked in a new voice, a voice thick and eager.“Why do you say that she deserves all that canhappen to her? I have heard of this poor creaturewho is called Mother Martha, or the Mare, althoughI have never seen her myself. She was noble-born,much better born than any of us three, and very fair—­oncethey called her the Lily of Brussels—­whenshe was the Vrouw van Muyden, and she has suffereddreadfully, for one reason only, because she and hersdid not worship God as you worship Him.”

“As we worship Him,” broke in Van de Werffwith a cough.

“No,” answered Dirk sullenly, “asour Cousin Lysbeth van Hout worships Him. Forthat reason only they killed her husband and her littleson, and drove her mad, so that she lives among thereeds of the Haarlemer Meer like a beast in its den;yes, they, the Spaniards and their Spanish priests,as I daresay that they will kill us also.”

“Don’t you think that it is getting rathercold standing here?” interrupted Pieter vande Werff before she could answer. “Look,the sledge races are just beginning. Come, cousin,give me your hand,” and, taking Lysbeth by thearm, he skated off into the throng, followed at adistance by Dirk and the serving-maid, Greta.

“Cousin,” he whispered as he went, “thisis not my place, it is Dirk’s place, but I prayyou as you love him—­I beg your pardon—­asyou esteem a worthy relative—­do not enterinto a religious argument with him here in public,where even the ice and sky are two great ears.It is not safe, little cousin, I swear to you thatit is not safe.”

In the centre of the mere the great event of the day,the sledge races, were now in progress. As thecompetitors were many these must be run in heats,the winners of each heat standing on one side to competein the final contest. Now these victors had apretty prerogative not unlike that accorded to certaindancers in the cotillion of modern days. Eachdriver of a sledge was bound to carry a passenger inthe little car in front of him, his own place beingon the seat behind, whence he directed the horse bymeans of reins supported upon a guide-rod so fashionedthat it lifted them above the head of the travellerin the car. This passenger he could select fromamong the number of ladies who were present at thegames; unless, indeed, the gentleman in charge of herchose to deny him in set form; namely, by steppingforward and saying in the appointed phrase, “No,for this happy hour she is mine.”

Among the winners of these heats was a certain Spanishofficer, the Count Don Juan de Montalvo, who, as itchanced, in the absence on leave of his captain, wasat that date the commander of the garrison at Leyden.He was a man still young, only about thirty indeed,reported to be of noble birth, and handsome in theusual Castilian fashion. That is to say, he wastall, of a graceful figure, dark-eyed, strong-featured,with a somewhat humorous expression, and of very goodif exaggerated address. As he had but recentlycome to Leyden, very little was known about this attractivecavalier beyond that he was well spoken of by thepriests and, according to report, a favourite withthe Emperor. Also the ladies admired him much.

For the rest everything about him was handsome likehis person, as might be expected in the case of aman reputed to be as rich as he was noble. Thushis sledge was shaped and coloured to resemble a greatblack wolf rearing itself up to charge. The woodenhead was covered in wolf skin and adorned by eyesof yellow glass and great fangs of ivory. Roundthe neck also ran a gilded collar hung with a silvershield, whereon were painted the arms of its owner,a knight striking the chains from off a captive Christiansaint, and the motto of the Montalvos, “Trustto God and me.” His black horse, too, ofthe best breed, imported from Spain, glittered inharness decorated with gilding, and bore a splendidplume of dyed feathers rising from the head-band.

Lysbeth happened to be standing near to the spot wherethis gallant had halted after his first victory.She was in the company of Dirk van Goorl alone—­foras he was the driver of one of the competing sledges,her other cousin, Pieter van de Werff, had now beensummoned away. Having nothing else to do at themoment, she approached and not unnaturally admiredthis brilliant equipage, although in truth it was thesledge and the horse rather than their driver whichattracted her attention. As for the Count himselfshe knew him slightly, having been introduced to anddanced a measure with him at a festival given by agrandee of the town. On that occasion he wascourteous to her in the Spanish fashion, rather toocourteous, she thought, but as this was the mannerof Castilian dons when dealing with burgher maidensshe paid no more attention to the matter.

The Captain Montalvo saw Lysbeth among the throngand recognised her, for he lifted his plumed hat andbowed to her with just that touch of condescensionwhich in those days a Spaniard showed when greetingone whom he considered his inferior. In the sixteenthcentury it was understood that all the world werethe inferiors to those whom God had granted to beborn in Spain, the English who rated themselves ata valuation of their own—­and were carefulto announce the fact—­alone excepted.

An hour or so later, after the last heat had beenrun, a steward of the ceremonies called aloud to theremaining competitors to select their passengers andprepare for the final contest. Accordingly eachJehu, leaving his horse in charge of an attendant,stepped up to some young lady who evidently was waitingfor him, and led her by the hand to his sledge.While Lysbeth was watching this ceremony with amusement—­forthese selections were always understood to show a strongpreference on behalf of the chooser for the chosen—­shewas astonished to hear a well-trained voice addressingher, and on looking up to see Don Juan de Montalvobowing almost to the ice.

“Senora,” he said in Castilian, a tonguewhich Lysbeth understood well enough, although sheonly spoke it when obliged, “unless my earsdeceived me, I heard you admiring my horse and sledge.Now, with the permission of your cavalier,”and he bowed courteously to Dirk, “I name youas my passenger for the great race, knowing that youwill bring me fortune. Have I your leave, Senor?”

Now if there was a people on earth whom Dirk van Goorlhated, the Spaniards were that people, and if therelived a cavalier who he would prefer should not takehis cousin Lysbeth for a lonely drive, that cavalierwas the Count Juan de Montalvo. But as a youngman, Dirk was singularly diffident and so easily confusedthat on the spur of the moment it was quite possiblefor a person of address to make him say what he didnot mean. Thus, on the present occasion, whenhe saw this courtly Spaniard bowing low to him, ahumble Dutch tradesman, he was overwhelmed, and mumbledin reply, “Certainly, certainly.”

If a glance could have withered him, without doubtDirk would immediately have been shrivelled to nothing.To say that Lysbeth was angry is too little, for intruth she was absolutely furious. She did notlike this Spaniard, and hated the idea of a long interviewwith him alone. Moreover, she knew that amongher fellow townspeople there was a great desire thatthe Count should not win this race, which in its ownfashion was the event of the year, whereas, if sheappeared as his companion it would be supposed thatshe was anxious for his success. Lastly—­andthis was the chiefest sore—­although in theorythe competitors had a right to ask any one to whomthey took a fancy to travel in their sledges, in practisethey only sought the company of young women with whomthey were on the best of terms, and who were alreadywarned of their intention.

In an instant these thoughts flashed through her mind,but all she did was to murmur something about theHeer van Goorl——­

“Has already given his consent, like an unselfishgentleman,” broke in Captain Juan tenderingher his hand.

Now, without absolutely making a scene, which then,as to-day, ladies considered an ill-bred thing todo, there was no escape, since half Leyden gatheredat these “sledge choosings,” and many eyeswere on her and the Count. Therefore, becauseshe must, Lysbeth took the proferred hand, and wasled to the sledge, catching, as she passed to it throughthe throng, more than one sour look from the men andmore than one exclamation of surprise, real or affected,on the lips of the ladies of her acquaintance.These manifestations, however, put her upon her mettle.So determining that at least she would not look sullenor ridiculous, she began to enter into the spiritof the adventure, and smiled graciously while theCaptain Montalvo wrapped a magnificent apron of wolfskins about her knees.

When all was ready her charioteer took the reins andsettled himself upon the little seat behind the sleigh,which was then led into line by a soldier servant.

“Where is the course, Senor?” Lysbethasked, hoping that it would be a short one.

But in this she was to be disappointed, for he answered:

“Up to the little Quarkel Mere, round the islandin the middle of it, and back to this spot, somethingover a league in all. Now, Senora, speak to meno more at present, but hold fast and have no fear,for at least I drive well, and my horse is sure-footedand roughed for ice. This is a race that I wouldgive a hundred gold pieces to win, since your countrymen,who contend against me, have sworn that I shall loseit, and I tell you at once, Senora, that grey horsewill press me hard.”

Following the direction of his glance, Lysbeth’seye lit upon the next sledge. It was small, fashionedand painted to resemble a grey badger, that silent,stubborn, and, if molested, savage brute, which willnot loose its grip until the head is hacked from offits body. The horse, which matched it well incolour, was of Flemish breed; rather a raw-boned animal,with strong quarters and an ugly head, but renownedin Leyden for its courage and staying power.What interested Lysbeth most, however, was to discoverthat the charioteer was none other than Pieter vande Werff, though now when she thought of it, she rememberedhe had told her that his sledge was named the Badger.In his choice of passenger she noted, too, not withouta smile, that he showed his cautious character, disdainfulof any immediate glory, so long as the end in viewcould be attained. For there in the sleigh satno fine young lady, decked out in brave attire, whomight be supposed to look at him with tender eyes,but a little fair-haired mate aged nine, who was infact his sister. As he explained afterwards, therules provided that a lady passenger must be carried,but said nothing of her age and weight.

Now the competitors, eight of them, were in a line,and coming forward, the master of the course, in avoice that every one might hear, called out the conditionsof the race and the prize for which it was to be run,a splendid glass goblet engraved with the cross-keys,the Arms of Leyden. This done, after asking ifall were ready, he dropped a little flag, whereonthe horses were loosed and away they went.

Before a minute had passed, forgetting all her doubtsand annoyances, Lysbeth was lost in the glorious excitementof the moment. Like birds in the heavens, cleavingthe keen, crisp air, they sped forward over the smoothice. The gay throng vanished, the dead reeds andstark bushes seemed to fly away from them. Theonly sounds in their ears were the rushing of thewind, the swish of the iron runners, and the hollowtapping of the hooves of their galloping horses.Certain sledges drew ahead in the first burst, butthe Wolf and the Badger were not among these.The Count de Montalvo was holding in his black stallion,and as yet the grey Flemish gelding looped along witha constrained and awkward stride. When, passingfrom the little mere, they entered the straight ofthe canal, these two were respectively fourth and fifth.Up the course they sped, through a deserted snow-cladcountry, past the church of the village of Alkemaade.Now, half a mile or more away appeared the QuarkelMere, and in the centre of it the island which theymust turn. They reached it, they were round it,and when their faces were once more set homewards,Lysbeth noted that the Wolf and the Badger were thirdand fourth in the race, some one having dropped behind.Half a mile more and they were second and third; anotherhalf mile and they were first and second with perhapsa mile to go. Then the fight began.

Yard by yard the speed increased, and yard by yardthe black stallion drew ahead. Now in front ofthem lay a furlong or more of bad ice encumbered withlumps of frozen snow that had not been cleared away,which caused the sleigh to shake and jump as it struck.Lysbeth looked round.

“The Badger is coming up,” she said.

Montalvo heard, and for the first time laid his whipupon the haunches of his horse, which answered gallantly.But still the Badger came up. The grey was thestronger beast, and had begun to put out his strength.Presently his ugly head was behind them, for Lysbethfelt the breath from his nostrils blowing on her,and saw their steam. Then it was past, for thesteam blew back into her face; yes, and she could seethe eager eyes of the child in the grey sledge.Now they were neck and neck, and the rough ice wasdone with. Six hundred yards away, not more, laythe goal, and all about them, outside the line ofthe course, were swift skaters travelling so fastthat their heads were bent forward and down to withinthree feet of the ice.

Van de Werff called to his horse, and the grey beganto gain. Montalvo lashed the stallion, and oncemore they passed him. But the black was failing,and he saw it, for Lysbeth heard him curse in Spanish.Then of a sudden, after a cunning glance at his adversary,the Count pulled upon the right rein, and a shrillvoice rose upon the air, the voice of the little girlin the other sledge.

“Take care, brother,” it cried, “hewill overthrow us.”

True enough, in another moment the black would havestruck the grey sideways. Lysbeth saw Van deWerff rise from his seat and throw his weight backward,dragging the grey on to his haunches. By an inch—­notmore—­the Wolf sleigh missed the gelding.Indeed, one runner of it struck his hoof, and thehigh wood work of the side brushed and cut his nostril.

“A foul, a foul!” yelled the skaters,and it was over. Once more they were speedingforward, but now the black had a lead of at least tenyards, for the grey must find his stride again.They were in the straight; the course was lined withhundreds of witnesses, and from the throats of everyone of them arose a great cry, or rather two cries.

“The Spaniard, the Spaniard wins!” saidthe first cry that was answered by another and a deeperroar.

“No, Hollander, the Hollander! The Hollandercomes up!”

Then in the midst of the fierce excitement—­bredof the excitement perhaps—­some curiousspell fell upon the mind of Lysbeth. The race,its details, its objects, its surroundings faded away;these physical things were gone, and in place of themwas present a dream, a spiritual interpretation suchas the omens and influences of the times she livedin might well inspire. What did she seem to see?

She saw the Spaniard and the Hollander striving forvictory, but not a victory of horses. She sawthe black Spanish Wolf, at first triumphant, outmatchthe Netherland Badger. Still, the Badger, thedogged Dutch badger, held on.

Who would win? The fierce beast or the patientbeast? Who would be the master in this fight?There was death in it. Look, the whole snow wasred, the roofs of Leyden were red, and red the heavens;in the deep hues of the sunset they seemed bathedin blood, while about her the shouts of the backersand factions transformed themselves into a fierce cryas of battling peoples. All voices mingled inthat cry—­voices of hope, of agony, andof despair; but she could not interpret them.Something told her that the interpretation and theissue were in the mind of God alone.

Perhaps she swooned, perhaps she slept and dreamedthis dream; perhaps the sharp rushing air overcameher. At the least Lysbeth’s eyes closedand her mind gave way. When they opened and itreturned again their sledge was rushing past the winningpost. But in front of it travelled another sledge,drawn by a gaunt grey horse, which galloped so hardthat its belly seemed to lie upon the ice, a horsedriven by a young man whose face was set like steeland whose lips were as the lips of a trap.

Could that be the face of her cousin Pieter van deWerff, and, if so, what passion had stamped that strangeseal thereon? She turned herself in her seatand looked at him who drove her.

Was this a man, or was it a spirit escaped from doom?Blessed Mother of Christ! what a countenance!The eyeballs starting and upturned, nothing but thewhite of them to be seen; the lips curled, and, between,two lines of shining fangs; the lifted points of themustachios touching the high cheekbones. No—­no,it was neither a spirit nor a man, she knew now whatit was; it was the very type and incarnation of theSpanish Wolf.

Once more she seemed to faint, while in her ears thererang the cry—­“The Hollander!Outstayed! Outstayed! Conquered is the accursedSpaniard!”

Then Lysbeth knew that it was over, and again thefaintness overpowered her.

CHAPTER II

SHE WHO BUYS—­PAYS

When Lysbeth’s mind recovered from its confusionshe found herself still in the sledge and beyond theborders of the crowd that was engaged in rapturouslycongratulating the winner. Drawn up alongsideof the Wolf was another sleigh of plain make, andharnessed to it a heavy Flemish horse. This vehiclewas driven by a Spanish soldier, with whom sat a secondsoldier apparently of the rank of sergeant. Therewas no one else near; already people in the Netherlandshad learnt to keep their distance from Spanish soldiers.

“If your Excellency would come now,” thesergeant was saying, “this little matter canbe settled without any further trouble.”

“Where is she?” asked Montalvo.

“Not more than a mile or so away, near the placecalled Steene Veld.”

“Tie her up in the snow to wait till to-morrowmorning. My horse is tired and it may save ustrouble,” he began, then added, after glancingback at the crowd behind him and next at Lysbeth, “no,I will come.”

Perhaps the Count did not wish to listen to condolenceson his defeat, or perhaps he desired to prolong thetete-a-tete with his fair passenger. Atany rate, without further hesitation, he struck hisweary horse with the whip, causing it to amble forwardsomewhat stiffly but at a good pace.

“Where are we going, Senor?” asked Lysbethanxiously. “The race is over and I mustseek my friends.”

“Your friends are engaged in congratulatingthe victor, lady,” he answered in his suaveand courteous voice, “and I cannot leave youalone upon the ice. Do not trouble; this is onlya little matter of business which will scarcely takea quarter of an hour,” and once more he struckthe horse urging it to a better speed.

Lysbeth thought of remonstrating, she thought evenof springing from the sledge, but in the end she didneither. To seem to continue the drive with hercavalier would, she determined, look more natural andless absurd than to attempt a violent escape fromhim. She was certain that he would not put herdown merely at her request; something in his mannertold her so, and though she had no longing for hiscompany it was better than being made ridiculous beforehalf the inhabitants of Leyden. Moreover, theposition was no fault of hers; it was the fault ofDirk van Goorl, who should have been present to takeher from the sledge.

As they drove along the frozen moat Montalvo leantforward and began to chat about the race, expressingregret at having lost it, but using no angry or bitterwords. Could this be the man, wondered Lysbethas she listened, whom she had seen deliberately attemptto overthrow his adversary in a foul heedless of dishonouror of who might be killed by the shock? Couldthis be the man whose face just now had looked likethe face of a devil? Had these things happened,indeed, or was it not possible that her fancy, confusedwith the excitement and the speed at which they weretravelling, had deceived her? Certainly it seemedto have been overcome at last, for she could not rememberthe actual finish of the race, or how they got clearof the shouting crowd.

While she was still wondering thus, replying fromtime to time to Montalvo in monosyllables, the sledgein front of them turned the corner of one of the easternbastions and came to a halt. The place where itstopped was desolate and lonely, for the town beingin a state of peace no guard was mounted on the wall,nor could any living soul be found upon the snowywaste that lay beyond the moat. At first, indeed,Lysbeth was able to see nobody at all, for by nowthe sun had gone down and her eyes were not accustomedto the increasing light of the moon. Presently,however, she caught sight of a knot of people standingon the ice in a recess or little bay of the moat,and half hidden by a fringe of dead reeds.

Montalvo saw also, and halted his horse within threepaces of them. The people were five in number,three Spanish soldiers and two women. Lysbethlooked, and with difficulty stifled a cry of surpriseand fear, for she knew the women. The tall, darkperson, with lowering eyes, was none other than thecap-seller and Spanish spy, Black Meg. And shewho crouched there upon the ice, her arms bound behindher, her grizzled locks, torn loose by some roughhand, trailing on the snow—­surely it wasthe woman who called herself the Mare, and who thatvery afternoon spoke to her, saying that she had knownher father, and cursing the Spaniards and their Inquisition.What were they doing here? Instantly an answerleapt into her mind, for she remembered Black Meg’swords—­that there was a price upon thisheretic’s head which before nightfall wouldbe in her pocket. And why was there a square holecut in the ice immediately in front of the captive?Could it be—­no, that was too horrible.

“Well, officer,” broke in Montalvo, addressingthe sergeant in a quiet, wearied voice, “whatis all this about? Set out your case.”

“Excellency,” replied the man, “itis a very simple matter. This creature here,so that woman is ready to take oath,” and hepointed to Black Meg, “is a notorious hereticwho has already been condemned to death by the HolyOffice, and whose husband, a learned man who paintedpictures and studied the stars, was burnt on a chargeof witchcraft and heresy, two years ago at Brussels.

But she managed to escape the stake, and since thenhas lived as a vagrant, hiding in the islands of theHaarlemer Meer, and, it is suspected, working murderand robbery on any of Spanish blood whom she can catch.Now she has been caught herself and identified, and,of course, the sentence being in full force againsther, can be dealt with at once on your Excellency’scommand. Indeed, it would not have been necessarythat you should be troubled about the thing at allhad it not been that this worthy woman,” andagain he pointed to Black Meg, “who was theone who waylaid her, pulled her down and held hertill we came, requires your certificate in order thatshe may claim the reward from the Treasurer of theHoly Inquisition. Therefore, you will be askedto certify that this is, indeed, the notorious hereticcommonly known as Martha the Mare, but whose othername I forget, after which, if you will please to withdraw,we will see to the rest.”

“You mean that she will be taken to the prisonto be dealt with by the Holy Office?” queriedMontalvo.

“Not exactly, Excellency,” answered thesergeant with a discreet smile and a cough. “Theprison, I am told, is quite full, but she may startfor the prison and—­there seems to be a holein the ice into which, since Satan leads the footstepsof such people astray, this heretic might chance tofall—­or throw herself.”

“What is the evidence?” asked Montalvo.

Then Black Meg stood forward, and, with the rapidityand unction of a spy, poured out her tale. Sheidentified the woman with one whom she had known whowas sentenced to death by the Inquisition and escaped,and, after giving other evidence, ended by repeatingthe conversation which she had overheard between theaccused and Lysbeth that afternoon.

“You accompanied me in a fortunate hour, Senoravan Hout,” said the captain gaily, “fornow, to satisfy myself, as I wish to be just, and donot trust these paid hags,” and he nodded towardsBlack Meg, “I must ask you upon your oath beforeGod whether or no you confirm that woman’s tale,and whether or no this very ugly person named the Marecalled down curses upon my people and the Holy Office?Answer, and quickly, if you please, Senora, for itgrows cold here and my horse is beginning to shiver.”

Then, for the first time, the Mare raised her head,dragging at her hair, which had become frozen to theice, until she tore it free.

“Lysbeth van Hout,” she cried in shrill,piercing tones, “would you, to please your Spanishlover, bring your father’s playmate to her death?The Spanish horse is cold and cannot stay, but thepoor Netherland Mare—­ah! she may be thrustbeneath the blue ice and bide there till her bonesrot at the bottom of the moat. You have soughtthe Spaniards, you, whose blood should have warnedyou against them, and I tell you that it shall costyou dear; but if you say this word they seek, thenit shall cost you everything, not only the body, butthe spirit also. Woe to you, Lysbeth van Hout,if you cut me off before my work is done. I fearnot death, nay I welcome it, but I tell you I havework to do before I die.”

Now, in an agony of mind, Lysbeth turned and lookedat Montalvo.

The Count was a man of keen perceptions, and understoodit all. Leaning forward, his arm resting on theback of the sledge, as though to contemplate the prisoner,he whispered into Lysbeth’s ear, so low thatno one else could hear his words.

“Senora,” he said, “I have no wishesin this matter. I do not desire to drown thatpoor mad woman, but if you confirm the spy’sstory, drown she must. At present I am not satisfied,so everything turns upon your evidence. I donot know what passed between you this afternoon, andpersonally I do not care, only, if you should chanceto have no clear recollection of the matter alleged,I must make one or two little stipulations—­verylittle ones. Let me see, they are—­thatyou will spend the rest of this evening’s fetein my company. Further, that whenever I chooseto call upon you, your door will be open to me, thoughI must remind you that, on three occasions already,when I have wished to pay my respects, it has beenshut.”

Lysbeth heard and understood. If she would savethis woman’s life she must expose herself tothe attentions of the Spaniard, which she desiredleast of anything in the world. More, speakingupon her oath in the presence of God, she must uttera dreadful lie, she who as yet had never lied.For thirty seconds or more she thought, staring roundher with anguished eyes, while the scene they fellon sank into her soul in such fashion that never tillher death’s day did she forget its aspect.

The Mare spoke no more, she only knelt searching herface with a stern and wondering glance. A littleto the right stood Black Meg, glaring at her sullenly,for the blood-money was in danger. Behind theprisoner were two of the soldiers, one patting hishand to his face to hide a yawn, while the other beathis breast to warm himself. The third soldier,who was placed somewhat in front, stirred the surfaceof the hole with the shaft of his halbert to breakup the thin film of ice which was forming over it,while Montalvo himself, still leaning sideways andforwards, watched her eyes with an amused and cynicalexpression. And over all, over the desolate snowsand gabled roofs of the town behind; over the smoothblue ice, the martyr and the murderers; over the gaysledge and the fur-wrapped girl who sat within it,fell the calm light of the moon through a silencebroken only by the beating of her heart, and now andagain by the sigh of a frost-wind breathing amongthe rushes.

“Well, Senora,” asked Montalvo, “ifyou have sufficiently reflected shall I administerthe oath in the form provided?”

“Administer it,” she said hoarsely.

So, descending from the sledge, he stood in frontof Lysbeth, and, lifting his cap, repeated the oathto her, an oath strong enough to blast her soul ifshe swore to it with false intent.

“In the name of God the Son and of His BlessedMother, you swear?” he asked.

“I swear,” she answered.

“Good, Senora. Now listen to me. Didyou meet that woman this afternoon?”

“Yes, I met her on the ice.”

“And did she in your hearing utter curses uponthe Government and the Holy Church, and call uponyou to assist in driving the Spaniards from the land,as this spy, whom I believe is called Black Meg, hasborne witness?”

“No,” said Lysbeth.

“I am afraid that is not quite enough, Senora;I may have misquoted the exact words. Did thewoman say anything of the sort?”

For one second Lysbeth hesitated. Then she caughtsight of the victim’s watching, speculativeeyes, and remembered that this crazed and broken creatureonce had been a child whom her father had kissed andplayed with, and that the crime of which she was accusedwas that she had escaped from death at the stake.

“The water is cold to die in!” the Maresaid, in a meditative voice, as though she were thinkingaloud.

“Then why did you run away from the warm fire,heretic witch?” jeered Black Meg.

Now Lysbeth hesitated no longer, but again answeredin a monosyllable, “No.”

“Then what did she do or say, Senora?”

“She said she had known my father who used toplay with her when she was a child, and begged foralms, that is all. Then that woman came up, andshe ran away, whereon the woman said there was a priceupon her head, and that she meant to have the money.”

“It is a lie,” screamed Black Meg in fierce,strident tones.

“If that person will not be silent, silenceher,” said Montalvo, addressing the sergeant.“I am satisfied,” he went on, “thatthere is no evidence at all against the prisoner exceptthe story of a spy, who says she believes her to bea vagrant heretic of bad character who escaped fromthe stake several years ago in the neighbourhood ofBrussels, whither it is scarcely worth while to sendto inquire about the matter. So that charge maydrop. There remains the question as to whetheror no the prisoner uttered certain words this afternoon,which, if she did utter them, are undoubtedly worthyof the death that, under my authority as acting commandantof this town, I have power to inflict. This questionI foresaw, and that is why I asked the Senora, to whomthe woman is alleged to have spoken the words, toaccompany me here to give evidence. She has doneso, and her evidence on oath as against the statementof a spy woman not on oath, is that no such words werespoken. This being so, as the Senora is a goodCatholic whom I have no reason to disbelieve, I orderthe release of the prisoner, whom for my part I takefor nothing more than a crazy and harmless wanderer.”

“At least you will detain her till I can provethat she is the heretic who escaped from the stakenear Brussels,” shouted Black Meg.

“I will do nothing of the sort; the prison hereis over-full already. Untie her arms and lether go.”

The soldiers obeyed, wondering somewhat, and the Marescrambled to her feet. For a moment she stoodlooking at her deliverer. Then crying, “Weshall met again, Lysbeth van Hout!” suddenlyshe turned and sped up a dyke at extraordinary speed.In a few seconds there was nothing to be seen of herbut a black spot upon the white landscape, and presentlyshe had vanished altogether.

“Gallop as you will, Mare, I shall catch youyet,” screamed Black Meg after her. “Andyou too, my pretty little liar, who have cheated meout of a dozen florins. Wait till you are upbefore the Inquisition as a heretic—­forthat’s where you’ll end. No fine Spanishlover will save you then. So you have gone tothe Spanish, have you, and thrown over your fat-facedburgher; well, you will have enough of Spaniards beforeyou have done with them, I can tell you.”

Twice had Montalvo tried to stop this flood of furiouseloquence, which had become personal and might proveprejudicial to his interests, but without avail.Now he adopted other measures.

“Seize her,” he shouted to two of thesoldiers; “that’s it; now hold her underwater in that hole till I tell you to let her up again.”

They obeyed, but it took all three of them to carryout the order, for Black Meg fought and bit like awild cat, until at last she was thrust into the icymoat head downwards. When at length she was released,soaked and shivering, she crept off silently enough,but the look of fury which she cast at Montalvo andLysbeth drew from the captain a remark that perhapsit would have been as well to have kept her underwater two minutes longer.

“Now, sergeant,” he added, in a genialvoice, “it is a cold night, and this has beena troublesome business for a feast-day, so here’ssomething for you and your watch to warm yourselveswith when you go off duty,” and he handed himwhat in those days was a very handsome present.“By the way,” he said, as the men salutedhim gratefully, “perhaps you will do me a favour.It is only to take this black horse of mine to hisstable and harness that grey trooper nag to the sledgeinstead, as I wish to go the round of the moat, andmy beast is tired.”

Again the men saluted and set to work to change thehorses, whereon Lysbeth, guessing her cavalier’spurpose, turned as though to fly away, for her skateswere still upon her feet. But he was watching.

“Senora,” he said in a quiet voice, “Ithink that you gave me the promise of your companyfor the rest of this evening, and I am certain,”he added with a slight bow, “that you are a ladywhom nothing would induce to tell an untruth.Had I not been sure of that I should scarcely haveaccepted your evidence so readily just now.”

Lysbeth winced visibly. “I thought, Senor,that you were going to return to the fete.”

“I do not remember saying so, Senora, and asa matter of fact I have pickets to visit. Donot be afraid, the drive is charming in this moonlight,and afterwards perhaps you will extend your hospitalityso far as to ask me to supper at your house.”

Still she hesitated, dismay written on her face.

“Jufvrouw Lysbeth,” he said in an alteredvoice, “in my country we have a homely proverbwhich says, ‘she who buys, pays.’You have bought and—­the goods have beendelivered. Do you understand? Ah! allow meto have the pleasure of arranging those furs.I knew that you were the soul of honour, and werebut—­shall we say teasing me? Otherwise,had you really wished to go, of course you would haveskated away just now while you had the opportunity.That is why I gave it you, as naturally I should notdesire to detain you against your will.”

Lysbeth heard and was aghast, for this man’scleverness overwhelmed her. At every step hecontrived to put her in the wrong; moreover she wascrushed by the sense that he had justice on his side.She had bought and she must pay.Why had she bought? Not for any advantage of herown, but from an impulse of human pity—­tosave a fellow creature’s life. And whyshould she have perjured herself so deeply in orderto save that life? She was a Catholic and hadno sympathy with such people. Probably this personwas an Anabaptist, one of that dreadful sect whichpractised nameless immoralities, and ran stripped throughthe streets crying that they were “the nakedTruth.” Was it then because the creaturehad declared that she had known her father in her childhood?To some extent yes, but was not there more behind?Had she not been influenced by the woman’s invocationabout the Spaniards, of which the true meaning camehome to her during that dreadful sledge race; at themoment, indeed, when she saw the Satanic look uponthe face of Montalvo? It seemed to her that thiswas so, though at the time she had not understoodit; it seemed to her that she was not a free agent;that some force pushed her forward which she couldneither control nor understand.

Moreover—­and this was the worst of it—­shefelt that little good could come of her sacrifice,or that if good came, at least it would not be toher or hers. Now she was as a fish in a net, thoughwhy it was worth this brilliant Spaniard’s whileto snare her she could not understand, for she forgotthat she was beautiful and a woman of property.Well, to save the blood of another she had bought,and in her own blood and happiness, or in that ofthose dear to her, assuredly she must pay, howevercruel and unjust might be the price.

Such were the thoughts that passed through Lysbeth’smind as the strong Flemish gelding lumbered forward,dragging the sledge at the same steady pace over roughice and smooth. And all the while Montalvo behindher was chatting pleasantly about this matter andthat; telling her of the orange groves in Spain, ofthe Court of the Emperor Charles, of adventures inthe French wars, and many other things, to which conversationshe made such answer as courtesy demanded and no more.What would Dirk think, she was wondering, and her cousin,Pieter van de Werff, whose good opinion she valued,and all the gossips of Leyden? She only prayedthat they might not have missed her, or at least thatthey took it for granted that she had gone home.

On this point, however, she was soon destined to beundeceived, for presently, trudging over the snow-coveredice and carrying his useless skates in his hand, theymet a young man whom she knew as Dirk’s fellowapprentice. On seeing them he stopped in frontof the sledge in such a position that the horse, asteady and a patient animal, pulled up of its ownaccord.

“Is the Jufvrouw Lysbeth van Hout there?”he asked anxiously.

“Yes,” she replied, but before she couldsay more Montalvo broke in, inquiring what might bethe matter.

“Nothing,” he answered, “exceptthat she was lost and Dirk van Goorl, my friend, sendme to look for her this way while he took the other.”

“Indeed. Then, noble sir, perhaps you willfind the Heer Dirk van Goorl and tell him that theSenora, his cousin, is merely enjoying an eveningdrive, and that if he comes to her house in an hour’stime he will find her safe and sound, and with hermyself, the Count Juan de Montalvo, whom she has honouredwith an invitation to supper.”

Then, before the astonished messenger could answer;before, indeed, Lysbeth could offer any explanationof his words, Montalvo lashed up the horse and lefthim standing on the moat bewildered, his cap off andscratching his head.

After this they proceeded on a journey which seemedto Lysbeth almost interminable. When the circuitof the walls was finished, Montalvo halted at oneof the shut gates, and, calling to the guard within,summoned them to open. This caused delay and investigation,for at first the sergeant of the guard would not believethat it was his acting commandant who spoke without.

“Pardon, Excellency,” he said when hehad inspected him with a lantern, “but I didnot think that you would be going the rounds with alady in your sledge,” and holding up the lightthe man took a long look at Lysbeth, grinning visiblyas he recognised her.

“Ah, he is a gay bird, the captain, a very gaybird, and it’s a pretty Dutch dickey he is teachingto pipe now,” she heard him call to a comradeas he closed the heavy gates behind their sleigh.

Then followed more visits to other military postsin the town, and with each visit a further explanation.All this while the Count Montalvo uttered no wordbeyond those of ordinary compliment, and ventured onno act of familiarity; his conversation and demeanourindeed remaining perfectly courteous and respectful.So far as it went this was satisfactory, but at lengththere came a moment when Lysbeth felt that she couldbear the position no longer.

“Senor,” she said briefly, “takeme home; I grow faint.”

“With hunger doubtless,” he interrupted;“well, by heaven! so do I. But, my dear lady,as you are aware, duty must be attended to, and, afterall, you may have found some interest in accompanyingme on a tour of the pickets at night. I knowyour people speak roughly of us Spanish soldiers,but I hope that after this you will be able to beartestimony to their discipline. Although it isa fete day you will be my witness that we have notfound a man off duty or the worse for drink. Here,you,” he called to a soldier who stood up tosalute him, “follow me to the house of the JufvrouwLysbeth van Hout, where I sup, and lead this sledgeback to my quarters.”

CHAPTER III

MONTALVO WINS A TRICK

Turning up the Bree Straat, then as now perhaps thefinest in the town of Leyden, Montalvo halted hishorse before a substantial house fronted with threeround-headed gables, of which the largest—­thatover the entrance in the middle—­was shapedinto two windows with balconies. This was Lysbeth’shouse which had been left to her by her father, where,until such time as she should please to marry, shedwelt with her aunt, Clara van Ziel. The soldierwhom he had summoned having run to the horse’shead, Montalvo leapt from his driver’s seat toassist the lady to alight. At the moment Lysbethwas occupied with wild ideas of swift escape, buteven if she could make up her mind to try it therewas an obstacle which her thoughtful cavalier hadforeseen.

“Jufvrouw van Hout,” he said as he pulledup, “do you remember that you are still wearingskates?”

It was true, though in her agitation she had forgottenall about them, and the fact put sudden flight outof the question. She could not struggle intoher own house walking on the sides of her feet likethe tame seal which old fisherman Hans had broughtfrom northern seas. It would be too ridiculous,and the servants would certainly tell the story allabout the town. Better for a while longer to putup with the company of this odious Spaniard than tobecome a laughing stock in an attempt to fly.Besides, even if she found herself on the other sideof it, could she shut the door in his face? Wouldher promise let her, and would he consent?

“Yes,” she answered briefly, “Iwill call my servant.”

Then for the first time the Count became complimentaryin a dignified Spanish manner.

“Let no base-born menial hold the foot whichit is an honour for an hidalgo of Spain to touch.I am your servant,” he said, and resting oneknee on the snow-covered step he waited.

Again there was nothing to be done, so Lysbeth mustneeds thrust out her foot from which very delicatelyand carefully he unstrapped the skate.

“What Jack can bear Jill must put up with,”muttered Lysbeth to herself as she advanced the otherfoot. Just at that moment, however, the doorbehind them began to open.

“She who buys,” murmured Montalvo as hecommenced on the second set of straps. Then thedoor swung wide, and the voice of Dirk van Goorl washeard saying in a tone of relief:

“Yes, sure enough it is she, Tante Clara, andsome one is taking off her boots.”

“Skates, Senor, skates,” interrupted Montalvo,glancing backward over his shoulder, then added ina whisper as he bent once more to his task, “ahem—­pays.You will introduce me, is it not so? I think itwill be less awkward for you.”

So, as flight was impossible, for he held her by thefoot, and an instinct told her that, especially tothe man she loved, the only thing to do was to makelight of the affair, Lysbeth said—­

“Dirk, Cousin Dirk, I think you know—­thisis—­the Honourable Captain the Count Juande Montalvo.”

“Ah! it is the Senor van Goorl,” saidMontalvo, pulling off the skate and rising from hisknee, which, from his excess of courtesy, was nowwet through. “Senor, allow me to returnto you, safe and sound, the fair lady of whom I haverobbed you for a while.”

“For a while, captain,” blurted Dirk;“why, from first to last, she has been gonenearly four hours, and a fine state we have been inabout her.”

“That will all be explained presently, Senor—­atsupper, to which the Jufvrouw has been so courteousas to ask me,” then, aside and below his breath,again the ominous word of reminder—­“pays.”“Most happily, your cousin’s presencewas the means of saving a fellow-creature’s life.But, as I have said, the tale is long. Senor—­permit,”and in another second Lysbeth found herself walkingdown her own hall upon the arm of the Spaniard, whileDirk, her aunt, and some guests followed obedientlybehind.

Now Montalvo knew that his difficulties were overfor that evening at any rate, since he had crossedthe threshold and was a guest.

Half unconsciously Lysbeth guided him to the balconiedsit-kamer on the first floor, which in ourday would answer to the drawing-room. Here severalother of her friends were gathered, for it had beenarranged that the ice-festival should end with a supperas rich as the house could give. To these, too,she must introduce her cavalier, who bowed courteouslyto each in turn. Then she escaped, but, as shepassed him, distinctly, she could swear, did she seehis lips shape themselves to the hateful word—­“pays.”

When she reached her chamber, so great was Lysbeth’swrath and indignation that almost she choked withit, till again reason came to her aid, and with reasona desire to carry the thing off as well as might be.So she told her maid Greta to robe her in her bestgarment, and to hang about her neck the famous collarof pearls which her father had brought from the East,that was the talk and envy of half the women in Leyden.On her head, too, she placed the cap of lovely lacewhich had been a wedding gift to her mother by hergrandmother, the old dame who wove it. Then sheadded such golden ornaments as it was customary forwomen of her class of wear, and descended to the gatheringroom.

Meanwhile Montalvo had not been idle. TakingDirk aside, and pleading his travel-worn condition,he had prayed him to lead him to some room where hemight order his dress and person. Dirk complied,though with an ill grace, but so pleasant did Montalvomake himself during those few minutes, that beforehe ushered him back to the company in some way Dirkfound himself convinced that this particular Spaniardwas not, as the saying went, “as black as hismustachios.” He felt almost sure too, althoughhe had not yet found time to tell him the details ofit, that there was some excellent reason to accountfor his having carried off the adorable Lysbeth duringan entire afternoon and evening.

It is true that there still remained the strange circumstanceof the attempted foul of his cousin Van de Werff’ssledge in the great race, but, after all, why shouldthere not be some explanation of this also? Ithad happened, if it did happen, at quite a distancefrom the winning post, when there were few peopleto see what passed. Indeed, now that he cameto think of it, the only real evidence on the matterwas that of his cousin, the little girl passenger,since Van de Werff himself had brought no actual accusationagainst his opponent.

Shortly after they returned to the company it wasannounced that supper had been served, whereon ensueda pause. It was broken by Montalvo, who, steppingforward, offered his hand to Lysbeth, saying in a voicethat all could hear:

“Lady, my companion of the race, permit thehumblest representative of the greatest monarch inthe world to have an honour which doubtless that monarchwould be glad to claim.”

That settled the matter, for as the acting commandantof the Spanish garrison of Leyden had chosen to referto his official position, it was impossible to questionhis right of precedence over a number of folk, who,although prominent in their way, were but unennobledNetherlander burghers.

Lysbeth, indeed, did find courage to point to a ratherflurried and spasmodic lady with grey hair who wasfanning herself as though the season were July, andwondering whether the cook would come up to the grandSpaniard’s expectations, and to murmur “Myaunt.” But she got no further, for theCount instantly added in a low voice—­

“Doubtless comes next in the direct line, butunless my education has been neglected, the heiressof the house who is of age goes before the collateral—­howeveraged.”

By this time they were through the door, so it wasuseless to argue the point further, and again Lysbethfelt herself overmatched and submitted. In anotherminute they had passed down the stairs, entered thedining hall, and were seated side by side at the headof the long table, of which the foot was occupiedpresently by Dirk van Goorl and her aunt, who wasalso his cousin, the widow Clara van Ziel.

There was a silence while the domestics began theirservice, of which Montalvo took opportunity to studythe room, the table and the guests. It was afine room panelled with German oak, and lighted sufficiently,if not brilliantly, by two hanging brass chandeliersof the famous Flemish workmanship, in each of whichwere fixed eighteen of the best candles, while onthe sideboards were branch candlesticks, also of workedbrass. The light thus provided was supplementedby that from the great fire of peat and old ships’timber which burned in a wide blue-tiled fire-place,half way down the chamber, throwing its reflectionsupon many a flagon and bowl of cunningly hammered silverthat adorned the table and the sideboards.

The company was of the same character as the furniture,handsome and solid; people of means, every man andwoman of them, accumulated by themselves or theirfathers, in the exercise of the honest and profitabletrade whereof at this time the Netherlands had a practicalmonopoly.

“I have made no mistake,” thought Montalvoto himself, as he surveyed the room and its occupants.“My little neighbour’s necklace alone isworth more cash than ever I had the handling of, andthe plate would add up handsomely. Well, beforevery long I hope to be in a position to make its inventory.”Then, having first crossed himself devoutly, he fellto upon a supper that was well worth his attention,even in a land noted for the luxury of its food andwines and the superb appetites of those who consumedthem.

It must not be supposed, however, that the gallantcaptain allowed eating to strangle conversation.On the contrary, finding that his hostess was in notalkative mood, he addressed himself to his fellowguests, chatting with them pleasantly upon every convenientsubject. Among these guests was none other thanPieter van de Werff, his conqueror in that afternoon’sconquest, upon whose watchful and suspicious reservehe brought all his batteries to bear.

First he congratulated Pieter and lamented his ownill-luck, and this with great earnestness, for asa matter of fact he had lost much more money on theevent than he could afford to pay. Then he praisedthe grey horse and asked if he was for sale, offeringhis own black in part exchange.

“A good nag,” he said, “but onethat I do not wish to conceal has his faults, whichmust be taken into consideration if it comes to thepoint of putting a price upon him. For instance,Mynheer van de Werff, you may have noticed the dreadfulposition in which the brute put me towards the endof the race. There are certain things that thishorse always shies at, and one of them is a red cloak.Now I don’t know if you saw that a girl in ared cloak suddenly appeared on the bank. In aninstant the beast was round and you may imagine whatmy feelings were, being in charge of your fair kinswoman,for I thought to a certainty that we should be over.What is more, it quite spoilt my chance of the race,for after he has shied like that, the black turns sulky,and won’t let himself go.”

When Lysbeth heard this amazing explanation, rememberingthe facts, she gasped. And yet now that she cameto think of it, a girl in a red cloak did appear nearthem at the moment, and the horse did whip roundas though it had shied violently. Was it possible,she wondered, that the captain had not really intendedto foul the Badger sledge?

Meanwhile Van de Werff was answering in his slow voice.Apparently he accepted Montalvo’s explanation;at least he said that he, too, saw the red-cloakedgirl, and was glad that nothing serious had come ofthe mischance. As regarded the proposed deal,he should be most happy to go into it upon the linesmentioned, as the grey, although a very good horse,was aged, and he thought the barb one of the most beautifulanimals that he had ever seen. At this point,as he had not the slightest intention of parting withhis valuable charger, at any rate on such terms, Montalvochanged the subject.

At length, when men, and, for the matter of that,women, too, had well eaten, and the beautiful tallFlemish glasses not for the first time were replenishedwith the best Rhenish or Spanish wines, Montalvo,taking advantage of a pause in the conversation, roseand said that he wished to claim the privilege ofa stranger among them and propose a toast, namely,the health of his late adversary, Pieter van de Werff.

At this the audience applauded, for they were allvery proud of the young man’s success, and someof them had won money over him. Still more didthey applaud, being great judges of culinary matters,when the Spaniard began his speech by an elegant tributeto the surpassing excellence of the supper. Rarely,he assured them, and especially did he assure thehonourable widow Van Ziel (who blushed all over withpleasure at his compliments, and fanned herself withsuch vigour that she upset Dirk’s wine overhis new tunic, cut in the Brussels style), the fameof whose skill in such matters had travelled so faras The Hague, for he had heard of it there himself—­rarelyeven in the Courts of Kings and Emperors, or at thetables of Popes and Archbishops, had he eaten foodso exquisitely cooked, or drunk wines of a better vintage.

Then, passing on to the subject of his speech, Vande Werff, he toasted him and his horse and his littlesister and his sledge, in really well-chosen and appropriateterms, not by any means overdoing it, for he confessedfrankly that his defeat was a bitter disappointmentto him, especially as every solder in the camp hadexpected him to win and—­he was afraid—­backedhim for more than they could afford. Also, incidentally,so that every one might be well acquainted with it,he retold the story of the girl with the red cloak.Next, suddenly dropping his voice and adopting a quietermanner, he addressed himself to the Aunt Clara andthe “well-beloved Heer Dirk,” saying thathe owed them both an apology, which he must take thisopportunity to make, for having detained the ladyat his right during so unreasonable a time that afternoon.When, however, they had heard the facts they would,he was sure, blame him no longer, especially if hetold them that this breach of good manners had beenthe means of saving a human life.

Immediately after the race, he explained, one of hissergeants had found him out to tell him that a woman,suspected of certain crimes against life and propertyand believed to be a notorious escaped witch or heretic,had been captured, asking for reasons which he neednot trouble them with, that he would deal with thecase at once. This woman also, so said the man,had been heard that every afternoon to make use ofthe most horrible, the most traitorous and blaspheminglanguage to a lady of Leyden, the Jufvrouw Lysbethvan Hout, indeed; as was deposed by a certain spynamed Black Meg, who had overheard the conversation.

Now, went on Montalvo, as he knew well, every manand woman in that room would share his horror of traitorousand blasphemous heretics—­here most of thecompany crossed themselves, especially those who werealready secret adherents of the New Religion.Still, even heretics had a right to a fair trial;at least he, who although a soldier by profession,was a man who honestly detested unnecessary bloodshed,held that opinion. Also long experience taughthim great mistrust of the evidence of informers, whohad a money interest in the conviction of the accused.Lastly, it did not seem well to him that the name ofa young and noble lady should be mixed up in sucha business. As they knew under the recent edicts,his powers in these cases were absolute; indeed, inhis official capacity he was ordered at once to consignany suspected of Anabaptism or other forms of heresyto be dealt with by the appointed courts, and in thecase of people who had escaped, to cause them, onsatisfactory proof of their identity, to be executedinstantly without further trial. Under thesecircumstances, fearing that did the lady knew hispurpose she might take fright, he had, he confessed,resorted to artifice, as he was very anxious bothfor her sake and in the interest of justice that sheshould bear testimony in the matter. So he askedher to accompany him on a short drive while he attendedto a business affair; a request to which she had graciouslyassented.

“Friends,” he went on in a still moresolemn voice, “the rest of my story is short.Indeed I do congratulate myself on the decision thatI took, for when confronted with the prisoner our youngand honourable hostess was able upon oath to refutethe story of the spy with the result that I in myturn was to save an unfortunate, and, as I believe,a half-crazed creature from an immediate and a crueldeath. Is it not so, lady?” and helplessin the net of circumstance, not knowing indeed whatelse to do, Lysbeth bowed her head in assent.

“I think,” concluded Montalvo, “thatafter this explanation, what may have appeared tobe a breach of manners will be forgiven. I haveonly one other word to add. My position is peculiar;I am an official here, and I speak boldly among friendstaking the risk that any of you present will use whatI say against me, which for my part I do not believe.Although there is no better Catholic and no truer Spaniardin the Netherlands, I have been accused of showingtoo great a sympathy with your people, and of dealingtoo leniently with those who have incurred the displeasureof our Holy Church. In the cause of right andjustice I am willing to bear such aspersions; stillthis is a slanderous world, a world in which truthdoes not always prevail. Therefore, although Ihave told you nothing but the bare facts, I do suggestin the interests of your hostess—­in myown humble interest who might be misrepresented, andI may add in the interest of every one present at thisboard—­that it will perhaps be well thatthe details of the story which I have had the honourof telling you should not be spread about—­thatthey should in fact find a grave within these walls?Friends, do you agree?”

Then moved by a common impulse, and by a common ifa secret fear, with the single exception of Lysbeth,every person present, yes, even the cautious and far-seeingyoung Van de Werff, echoed “We agree.”

“Friends,” said Montalvo, “thosesimple words carry to my mind conviction deep as anyvow however solemn; deep, if that were possible, asdid the oath of your hostess, upon the faith of whichI felt myself justified in acquitting the poor creaturewho was alleged to be an escaped heretic.”Then with a courteous and all-embracing bow Montalvosat down.

“What a good man! What a delightful man!”murmured Aunt Clara to Dirk in the buzz of conversationwhich ensued.

“Yes, yes, cousin, but——­”

“And what discrimination he has, what taste!Did you notice what he said about the cooking?”

“I heard something, but——­”

“It is true that folk have told me that my caponstewed in milk, such as we had to-night—­Why,lad, what is the matter with your doublet? Youfidget me by continually rubbing at it.”

“You have upset the red wine over it, that isall,” answered Dirk, sulkily. “Itis spoiled.”

“And little loss either; to tell you the truth,Dirk, I never saw a coat worse cut. You youngmen should learn in the matter of clothes from theSpanish gentlemen. Look at his Excellency, theCount Montalvo, for instance——­”

“See here, aunt,” broke in Dirk with suppressedfury, “I think I have heard enough about Spaniardsand the Captain Montalvo for one night. Firstof all he spirits off Lysbeth and is absent with herfor four hours; then he invites himself to supperand places himself at the head of the table with her,setting me down to the dullest meal I ever ate atthe other end——­”

“Cousin Dirk,” said Aunt Clara with dignity,“your temper has got the better of your manners.Certainly you might learn courtesy as well as dress,even from so humble a person as a Spanish hidalgo andcommander.” Then she rose from the table,adding—­“Come, Lysbeth, if you areready, let us leave these gentlemen to their wine.”

After the ladies had gone the supper went on merrily.In those days, nearly everybody drank too much liquor,at any rate at feasts, and this company was no exception.Even Montalvo, his game being won and the strain onhis nerves relaxed, partook pretty freely, and beganto talk in proportion to his potations. Still,so clever was the man that in his cups he yet showeda method, for his conversation revealed a sympathywith Netherlander grievances and a tolerance of viewin religious matters rarely displayed by a Spaniard.

From such questions they drifted into a military discussion,and Montalvo, challenged by Van de Werff, who, asit happened, had not drunk too much wine, explainedhow, were he officer in command, he would defend Leydenfrom attack by an overwhelming force. Very soonVan de Werff saw that he was a capable soldier whohad studied his profession, and being himself a capablecivilian with a thirst for knowledge pressed the argumentfrom point to point.

“And suppose,” he asked at length, “thatthe city were starving and still untaken, so thatits inhabitants must either fall into the hands ofthe enemy or burn the place over their heads, whatwould you do then?”

“Then, Mynheer, if I were a small man I shouldyield to the clamour of the starving folk and surrender——­”

“And if you were a big man, captain?”

“If I were a big man—­ah! if I werea big man, why then—­I should cut the dykesand let the sea beat once more against the walls ofLeyden. An army cannot live in salt water, Mynheer.”

“That would drown out the farmers and ruin theland for twenty years.”

“Quite so, Mynheer, but when the corn has tobe saved, who thinks of spoiling the straw?”

“I follow you, Senor, your proverb is good,although I have never heard it.”

“Many good things come from Spain, Mynheer,including this red wine. One more glass withyou, for, if you will allow me to say it, you are aman worth meeting over a beaker—­or a blade.”

“I hope that you will always retain the sameopinion of me,” answered Van de Werff as hedrank, “at the trencher or in the trenches.”

Then Pieter went home, and before he slept that nightmade careful notes of all the Spaniard’s suggestedmilitary dispositions, both of attackers and attacked,writing underneath them the proverb about the cornand the straw. There existed no real reason whyhe should have done so, as he was only a civilianengaged in business, but Pieter van de Werff chancedto be a provident young man who knew many things mighthappen which could not precisely be foreseen.As it fell out in after years, a time came when hewas able to put Montalvo’s advice to good use.All readers of the history of the Netherlands knowhow the Burgomaster Pieter van de Werff saved Leydenfrom the Spanish.

As for Dirk van Goorl, he sought his lodging rathertipsy, and arm-in-arm with none other than Captainthe Count Don Juan de Montalvo.

CHAPTER IV

THREE WAKINGS

There were three persons in Leyden whose reflectionswhen they awoke on the morning after the sledge raceare not without interest, at any rate to the studentof their history. First there was Dirk van Goorl,whose work made an early riser of him—­tosay nothing of a splitting headache which on thismorning called him into consciousness just as the clockin the bell tower was chiming half-past four.Now there are few things more depressing than to beawakened by a bad headache at half-past four in theblack frost of a winter dawn. Yet as Dirk layand thought a conviction took hold of him that hisdepression was not due entirely to the headache orto the cold.

One by one he recalled the events of yesterday.First he had been late for this appointment with Lysbeth,which evidently vexed her. Then the Captain Montalvohad swooped down and carried her away, as a hawk bearsoff a chicken under the very eyes of the hen-wife,while he—­donkey that he was—­couldfind no words in which to protest. Next, thinkingit his duty to back the sledge wherein Lysbeth rode,although it was driven by a Spaniard, he had lostten florins on that event, which, being a thriftyyoung man, did not at all please him. The restof the fete he had spent hunting for Lysbeth, whomysteriously vanished with the Spaniard, an unentertainingand even an anxious pastime. Then came the supper,when once more the Count swooped down on Lysbeth, leavinghim to escort his Cousin Clara, whom he consideredan old fool and disliked, and who, having spoilt hisnew jacket by spilling wine over it, ended by abusinghis taste in dress. Nor was that all—­hehad drunk a great deal more strong wine than was wise,for to this his head certified. Lastly he hadwalked home arm in arm with his lady-snatching Spaniard,and by Heaven! yes, he had sworn eternal friendshipwith him on the doorstep.

Well, there was no doubt that the Count was an uncommonlygood fellow—­for a Spaniard. As forthat story of the foul he had explained it quite satisfactorily,and he had taken his beating like a gentleman.Could anything be nicer or in better feeling than hisallusions to Cousin Pieter in his after-supper speech?Also, and this was a graver matter, the man had shownthat he was tolerant and kindly by the way in whichhe dealt with the poor creature called the Mare, awoman whose history Dirk knew well; one whose sufferingshad made of her a crazy and rash-tongued wanderer,who, so it was rumoured, could use a knife.

In fact, for the truth may as well be told at once,Dirk was a Lutheran, having been admitted to thatcommunity two years before. To be a Lutheranin those days, that is in the Netherlands, meant, itneed scarcely be explained, that you walked the worldwith a halter round your neck and a vision of therack and the stake before your eyes; circumstancesunder which religion became a more earnest and seriousthing than most people find it in this century.Still even at that date the dreadful penalties attachingto the crime did not prevent many of the burgher andlower classes from worshipping God in their own fashion.Indeed, if the truth had been known, of those who werepresent at Lysbeth’s supper on the previousnight more than half, including Pieter van de Werff,were adherents of the New Faith.

To dismiss religious considerations, however, Dirkcould have wished that this kindly natured Spaniardwas not quite so good-looking or quite so appreciativeof the excellent points of the young Leyden ladies,and especially of Lysbeth’s, with whose sterlingcharacter, he now remembered, Montalvo had assuredhim he was much impressed. What he feared wasthat this regard might be reciprocal. After alla Spanish hidalgo in command of the garrison was adistinguished person, and, alas! Lysbeth alsowas a Catholic. Dirk loved Lysbeth; he loved herwith that patient sincerity which was characteristicof his race and his own temperament, but in additionto and above the reasons that have been given alreadyit was this fact of the difference of religion whichhitherto had built a wall between them. Of courseshe was unaware of anything of the sort. Shedid not know even that he belonged to the New Faith,and without the permission of the elders of his sect,he would not dare to tell her, for the lives of menand of their families could not be confided lightlyto the hazard of a girl’s discretion.

Herein lay the real reason why, although Dirk wasso devoted to Lysbeth, and although he imagined thatshe was not indifferent to him, as yet no word hadpassed between them of love or marriage. How couldhe who was a Lutheran ask a Catholic to become hiswife without telling her the truth? And if hetold her the truth, and she consented to take the risk,how could he drag her into that dreadful net?Supposing even that she kept to her own faith, whichof course she would be at liberty to do, althoughequally, of course, he was bound to try to converther, their children, if they had any, must be broughtup in his beliefs. Then, sooner or later, mightcome the informer, that dreadful informer whose shadowalready lay heavy upon thousands of homes in the Netherlands,and after the informer the officer, and after theofficer the priest, and after the priest the judge,and after the judge—­the executioner andthe stake.

In this case, what would happen to Lysbeth? Shemight prove herself innocent of the horrible crimeof heresy, if by that time she was innocent, but whatwould life become to the loving young woman whosehusband and children, perhaps, had been haled off tothe slaughter chambers of the Papal Inquisition?This was the true first cause why Dirk had remainedsilent, even when he was sorely tempted to speak; yes,although his instinct told him that his silence hadbeen misinterpreted and set down to over-caution,or indifference, or to unnecessary scruples.

The next to wake up that morning was Lysbeth, who,if she was not troubled with headache resulting fromindulgence—­and in that day women of herclass sometimes suffered from it—­had painsof her own to overcome. When sifted and classifiedthese pains resolved themselves into a sense of fieryindignation against Dirk van Goorl. Dirk had beenlate for his appointment, alleging some ridiculous

excuse about the cooling of a bell, as though shecared whether the bell were hot or cold, with theresult that she had been thrown into the company ofthat dreadful Martha the Mare. After the Mare—­aggravatedby Black Meg—­came the Spaniard. Hereagain Dirk had shown contemptible indifference andinsufficiency, for he allowed her to be forced intothe Wolf sledge against her will. Nay, he hadactually consented to the thing. Next, in a fatefulsequence followed all the other incidents of that hideouscarnival; the race, the foul, if it was a foul; thedreadful nightmare vision called into her mind bythe look upon Montalvo’s face; the trial ofthe Mare, her own unpremeditated but indelible perjury;the lonely drive with the man who compelled her toit; the exhibition of herself before all the worldas his willing companion; and the feast in which heappeared as her cavalier, and was accepted of the simplecompany almost as an angel entertained by chance.

What did he mean? Doubtless, for on that pointshe could scarcely be mistaken, he meant to make loveto her, for had he not in practice said as much?And now—­this was the terrible thing—­shewas in his power, since if he chose to do so, withoutdoubt he could prove that she had sworn a false oathfor her own purposes. Also that lie weighed uponher mind, although it had been spoken in a good cause;if it was good to save a wretched fanatic from thefate which, were the truth known, without doubt hercrime deserved.

Of course, the Spaniard was a bad man, if an attractiveone, and he had behaved wickedly, if with grace andbreeding; but who expected anything else from a Spaniard,who only acted after his kind and for his own ends?It was Dirk—­Dirk—­that was toblame, not so much—­and here again camethe rub—­for his awkwardness and mistakesof yesterday, as for his general conduct. Whyhad he not spoken to her before, and put her beyondthe reach of such accidents as these to which a womanof her position and substance must necessarily beexposed? The saints knew that she had given himopportunity enough. She had gone as far as a maidenmight, and not for all the Dirks on earth would shego one inch further. Why had she ever come tocare for his foolish face? Why had she refusedSo-and-so, and So-and-so and So-and-so—­allof them honourable men—­with the resultthat now no other bachelor ever came near her, comprehendingthat she was under bond to her cousin? In thepast she had persuaded herself that it was becauseof something she felt but could not see, of a hiddennobility of character which after all was not veryevident upon the surface, that she loved Dirk vanGoorl. But where was this something, this nobility?Surely a man who was a man ought to play his part,and not leave her in this false position, especiallyas there could be no question of means. She wouldnot have come to him empty-handed, very far from it,indeed. Oh! were it not for the unlucky factthat she still happened to care about him—­toher sorrow—­never, never would she speakto him again.

The last of our three friends to awake on this particularmorning, between nine and ten o’clock, indeed,when Dirk had been already two hours at his factoryand Lysbeth was buying provisions in the market place,was that accomplished and excellent officer, Captainthe Count Juan de Montalvo. For a few secondsafter his dark eyes opened he stared at the ceilingcollecting his thoughts. Then, sitting up in bed,he burst into a prolonged roar of laughter. Reallythe whole thing was too funny for any man of humourto contemplate without being moved to merriment.That gaby, Dirk van Goorl; the furiously indignantbut helpless Lysbeth; the solemn, fat-headed foolsof Netherlanders at the supper, and the fashion inwhich he had played his own tune on the whole packof them as though they were the strings of a fiddle—­oh!it was delicious.

As the reader by this time may have guessed, Montalvowas not the typical Spaniard of romance, and, indeed,of history. He was not gloomy and stern; he wasnot even particularly vengeful or bloodthirsty.On the contrary, he was a clever and utterly unprincipledman with a sense of humour and a gift of bonhomiewhich made him popular in all places. Moreover,he was brave, a good soldier; in a certain sense sympathetic,and, strange to say, no bigot. Indeed, which seemsto have been a rare thing in those days, his religiousviews were so enlarged that he had none at all.His conduct, therefore, if from time to time it wasaffected by passing spasms of acute superstition, wastotally uninfluenced by any settled spiritual hopesor fears, a condition which, he found, gave him greatadvantages in life. In fact, had it suited hispurpose, Montalvo was prepared, at a moment’snotice, to become Lutheran or Calvinist, or Mahomedan,or Mystic, or even Anabaptist; on the principle, hewould explain, that it is easy for the artist to paintany picture he likes upon a blank canvas.

And yet this curious pliancy of mind, this lack ofconviction, this absolute want of moral sense, whichought to have given the Count such great advantagesin his conflict with the world, were, in reality, themain source of his weakness. Fortune had madea soldier of the man, and he filled the part as hewould have filled any part. But nature intendedhim for a play-actor, and from day to day he posedand mimed and mouthed through life in this characteror in that, though never in his own character, principallybecause he had none. Still, far down in Montalvo’sbeing there was something solid and genuine, and thatsomething not good but bad. It was very rarelyon view; the hand of circumstance must plunge deepto find it, but it dwelt there; the strong, cruelSpanish spirit which would sacrifice anything to save,or even to advance, itself. It was this spiritthat Lysbeth had seen looking out of his eyes on theyesterday, which, when he knew that the race was lost,had prompted him to try to kill his adversary, althoughhe killed himself and her in the attempt. Nordid she see it then for the last time, for twice moreat least in her life she was destined to meet andtremble at its power.

In short, although Montalvo was a man who really dislikedcruelty, he could upon occasion be cruel to the lastdegree; although he appreciated friends, and desiredto have them, he could be the foulest of traitors.Although without a cause he would do no hurt to a livingthing, yet if that cause were sufficient he wouldcheerfully consign a whole cityful to death.No, not cheerfully, he would have regretted their endvery much, and often afterwards might have thoughtof it with sympathy and even sorrow. This waswhere he differed from the majority of his countrymenin that age, who would have done the same thing, andmore brutally, from honest principle, and for therest of their lives rejoiced at the memory of thedeed.

Montalvo had his ruling passion; it was not war, itwas not women; it was money. But here again hedid not care about the money for itself, since hewas no miser, and being the most inveterate of gamblersnever saved a single stiver. He wanted it tospend and to stake upon the dice. Thus again,in variance to the taste of most of his countrymen,he cared little for the other sex; he did not evenlike their society, and as for their passion and therest he thought it something of a bore. But hedid care intensely for their admiration, so much sothat if no better game were at hand, he would takeenormous trouble to fascinate even a serving maidor a fish girl. Wherever he went it was his ambitionto be reported the man the most admired of the fairin that city, and to attain this end he offered himselfupon the altar of numerous love affairs which didnot amuse him in the least. Of course, the indulgenceof this vanity meant expense, since the fair requiremoney and presents, and he who pursues them shouldbe well dressed and horsed and able to do things inthe very finest style. Also their relatives mustbe entertained, and when they were entertained impressedwith the sense that they had the honour to be guestsof a grandee of Spain.

Now that of a grandee has never been a cheap profession;indeed, as many a pauper peer knows to-day, rank withoutresources is a terrific burden. Montalvo hadthe rank, for he was a well-born man, whose sole heritagewas an ancient tower built by some warlike ancestorin a position admirably suited to the purpose of thesaid ancestor, namely, the pillage of travellers througha neighbouring mountain pass. When, however,travellers ceased to use that pass, or for other reasonsrobbery became no longer productive, the revenues ofthe Montalvo family declined till at the present datethey were practically nil. Thus it came aboutthat the status of the last representative of thisancient stock was that of a soldier of fortune ofthe common type, endowed, unfortunately for himself,with grand ideas, a gambler’s fatal fire, expensivetastes, and more than the usual pride of race.

Although, perhaps, he had never defined them veryclearly, even to himself, Juan de Montalvo had twoaims in life: first to indulge his every freakand fancy to the full, and next—­but thiswas secondary and somewhat nebulous—­tore-establish the fortunes of his family. In themselvesthey were quite legitimate aims, and in those times,when fishers of troubled waters generally caught something,and when men of ability and character might forcetheir way to splendid positions, there was no reasonwhy they should not have led him to success. Yetso far, at any rate, in spite of many opportunities,he had not succeeded although he was now a man ofmore than thirty. The causes of his failureswere various, but at the bottom of them lay his lackof stability and genuineness.

A man who is always playing a part amuses every onebut convinces nobody. Montalvo convinced nobody.When he discoursed on the mysteries of religion withpriests, even priests who in those days for the mostpart were stupid, felt that they assisted in a mereintellectual exercise. When his theme was warhis audience guessed that his object was probablylove. When love was his song an inconvenient instinctwas apt to assure the lady immediately concerned thatit was love of self and not of her. They wereall more or less mistaken, but, as usual, the womenwent nearest to the mark. Montalvo’s realaim was self, but he spelt it, Money. Money inlarge sums was what he wanted, and what in this wayor that he meant to win.

Now even in the sixteenth century fortunes did notlie to the hand of every adventurer. Militarypay was small, and not easily recoverable; loot washard to come by, and quickly spent. Even the ransomof a rich prisoner or two soon disappeared in thepayment of such debts of honour as could not be avoided.Of course there remained the possibility of wealthymarriage, which in a country like the Netherlands,that was full of rich heiresses, was not difficultto a high-born, handsome, and agreeable man of theruling Spanish caste. Indeed, after many chancesand changes the time had come at length when Montalvomust either marry or be ruined. For his stationhis debts, especially his gaming debts, were enormous,and creditors met him at every turn. Unfortunatelyfor him, also, some of these creditors were personswho had the ear of people in authority. So atlast it came about that an intimation reached himthat this scandal must be abated, or he must go backto Spain, a country which, as it happened, he didnot in the least wish to visit. In short, thesorry hour of reckoning, that hour which overtakesall procrastinators, had arrived, and marriage, wealthymarriage, was the only way wherewith it could be defied.It was a sad alternative to a man who for his ownvery excellent reasons did not wish to marry, but thishad to be faced.

Thus it came about that, as the only suitable partiein Leyden, the Count Montalvo had sought out the well-favouredand well-endowed Jufvrouw Lysbeth van Hout to be hiscompanion in the great sledge race, and taken so muchtrouble to ensure to himself a friendly reception ather house.

So far, things went well, and, what was more, theopening of the chase had proved distinctly entertaining.Also, the society of the place, after his appropriationof her at a public festival and their long moonlighttete-a-tete, which by now must be common gossip’stalk, would be quite prepared for any amount of attentionwhich he might see fit to pay to Lysbeth. Indeed,why should he not pay attention to an unaffiancedwoman whose rank was lower if her means were greaterthan his own? Of course, he knew that her namehad been coupled with that of Dirk van Goorl.He was perfectly aware also that these two young peoplewere attached to each other, for as they walked hometogether on the previous night Dirk, possibly formotives of his own, had favoured him with a semi-intoxicatedconfidence to that effect. But as they were notaffianced what did that matter? Indeed, had theybeen affianced, what would it matter? Still,Dirk van Goorl was an obstacle, and, therefore, althoughhe seemed to be a good fellow, and he was sorry forhim, Dirk van Goorl must be got out of the way, sincehe was convinced that Lysbeth was one of those stubborn-naturedcreatures who would probably decline to marry himselfuntil this young Leyden lout had vanished. Andyet he did not wish to be mixed up with duels, if forno other reason because in a duel the unexpected mayalways happen, and that would be a poor end.Certainly also he did not wish to be mixed up withmurder; first, because he intensely disliked the ideaof killing anybody, unless he was driven to it; andsecondly, because murder has a nasty way of comingout. One could never be quite sure in what lightthe despatching of a young Netherlander of respectablefamily and fortune would be looked at by those inauthority.

Also, there was another thing to be considered.If this young man died it was impossible to know exactlyhow Lysbeth would take his death. Thus she mightelect to refuse to marry or decide to mourn him forfour or five years, which for all practical purposeswould be just as bad. And yet while Dirk livedhow could he possibly persuade her to transfer heraffections to himself? It seemed, therefore, thatDirk ought to decease. For quite a quarter ofan hour Montalvo thought the matter over, and then,just as he had given it up and determined to leavethings to chance, for a while at least, inspirationcame, a splendid, a heaven-sent inspiration.

Dirk must not die, Dirk must live, but his continuedexistence must be the price of the hand of Lysbethvan Hout. If she was half as fond of the manas he believed, it was probable that she would be delightedto marry anybody else in order to save his preciousneck, for that was just the kind of sentimental idiotcyof which nine women out of ten really enjoyed theindulgence. Moreover, this scheme had other merits;it did every one a good turn. Dirk would be savedfrom extinction for which he should be grateful:Lysbeth, besides earning the honour of an alliance,perhaps only temporary, with himself, would be ableto go through life wrapped in a heavenly glow of virtuearising from the impression that she had really donesomething very fine and tragic, while he, Montalvo,under Providence, the humble purveyor of these blessings,would also benefit to some small extent.

The difficulty was: How could the situation becreated? How could the interesting Dirk be broughtto a pass that would give the lady an opportunityof exercising her finer feelings on his behalf?If only he were a heretic now! Well, by the Popewhy shouldn’t he be a heretic? If evera fellow had the heretical cut this fellow had; flat-faced,sanctimonious-looking, and with a fancy for dark-colouredstockings—­he had observed that all heretics,male and female, wore dark-coloured stockings, perhapsby way of mortifying the flesh. He could thinkof only one thing against it, the young man had drunktoo much last night. But there were certain breedsof heretics who did not mind drinking too much.Also the best could slip sometimes, for, as he hadlearned from the old Castilian priest who taught himLatin, humanum est, etc.

This, then, was the summary of his reflections. (1)That to save the situation, within three months orso he must be united in holy matrimony with Lysbethvan Hout. (2) That if it proved impossible to removethe young man, Dirk van Goorl, from his path by overmatchinghim in the lady’s affections, or by playingon her jealousy (Query: Could a woman be eggedinto becoming jealous of that flounder of a fellowand into marrying some one else out of pique?), strongermeasures must be adopted. (3) That such stronger measuresshould consist of inducing the lady to save her loverfrom death by uniting herself in marriage with onewho for her sake would do violence to his conscienceand manipulate the business. (4) That this plan wouldbe best put into execution by proving the lover tobe a heretic, but if unhappily this could not be provedbecause he was not, still he must figure in that capacityfor this occasion only. (5) That meanwhile it wouldbe well to cultivate the society of Mynheer van Goorlas much as possible, first because he was a personwith whom, under the circumstances, he, Montalvo, wouldnaturally wish to become intimate, and secondly, becausehe was quite certain to be an individual with cashto lend.

Now, these researches after heretics invariably costmoney, for they involved the services of spies.Obviously, therefore, friend Dirk, the Dutch Flounder,was a man to provide the butter in which he was goingto be fried. Why, if any Hollander had a sparkof humour he would see the joke of it himself—­andMontalvo ended his reflections as he had begun them,with a merry peal of laughter, after which he roseand ate a most excellent breakfast.

It was about half-past five o’clock that afternoonbefore the Captain and Acting-Commandant Montalvoreturned from some duty to which he had been attending,for it may be explained that he was a zealous officerand a master of detail. As he entered his lodgingsthe soldier who acted as his servant, a man selectedfor silence and discretion, saluted and stood at attention.

“Is the woman here?” he asked.

“Excellency, she is here, though I had difficultyenough in persuading her to come, for I found herin bed and out of humour.”

“Peace to your difficulties. Where is she?”

“In the small inner room, Excellency.”

“Good, then see that no one disturbs us, and—­stay,when she goes out follow her and note her movementstill you trace her home.”

The man saluted, and Montalvo passed upstairs intothe inner room, carefully shutting both doors behindhim. The place was unlighted, but through thelarge stone-mullioned window the rays of the fullmoon poured brightly, and by them, seated in a straight-backedchair, Montalvo saw a draped form. There wassomething forbidding, something almost unnatural,in the aspect of this sombre form perched thus upona chair in expectant silence. It reminded him—­forhe had a touch of inconvenient imagination—­ofan evil bird squatted upon the bough of a dead treeawaiting the dawn that it might go forth to devoursome appointed prey.

“Is that you, Mother Meg?” he asked intones from which most of the jocosity had vanished.“Quite like old times at The Hague—­isn’tit?”

The moonlit figure turned its head, for he could seethe light shine upon the whites of the eyes.

“Who else, Excellency,” said a voice hoarseand thick with rheum, a voice like the croak of acrow, “though it is little thanks to your Excellency.Those must be strong who can bathe in Rhine water througha hole in the ice and take no hurt.”

“Don’t scold, woman,” he answered,“I have no time for it. If you were duckedyesterday, it served you right for losing your cursedtemper. Could you not see that I had my own gameto play, and you were spoiling it? Must I beflouted before my men, and listen while you warn alady with whom I wish to stand well against me?”

“You generally have a game to play, Excellency,but when it ends in my being first robbed and thennearly drowned beneath the ice—­well, thatis a game which Black Meg does not forget.”

“Hush, mother, you are not the only person witha memory. What was the reward? Twelve florins?Well, you shall have them, and five more; that’sgood pay for a lick of cold water. Are you satisfied?”

“No, Excellency. I wanted the life, thatheretic’s life. I wanted to baste her whileshe burned, or to tread her down while she was buried.I have a grudge against the woman because I know, yes,because I know,” she repeated fiercely, “thatif I do not kill her she will try to kill me.Her husband and her young son were burnt, upon my evidencemostly, but this is the third time she has escapedme.”

“Patience, mother, patience, and I dare saythat everything will come right in the end. Youhave bagged two of the family—­Papa hereticand Young Hopeful. Really you should not grumbleif the third takes a little hunting, or wonder thatin the meanwhile you are not popular with Mama.Now, listen. You know the young woman whom itwas necessary that I should humour yesterday.She is rich, is she not?”

“Yes, I know her, and I knew her father.He left her house, furniture, jewellery, and thirtythousand crowns, which are placed out at good interest.A nice fortune for a gallant who wants money, but itwill be Dirk van Goorl’s, not yours.”

“Ah! that is just the point. Now what doyou know about Dirk van Goorl?”

“A respectable, hard-working burgher, son ofwell-to-do parents, brass-workers who live at Alkmaar.Honest, but not very clever; the kind of man who growsrich, becomes a Burgomaster, founds a hospital forthe poor, and has a fine monument put up to his memory.”

“Mother, the cold water has dulled your wits.When I ask you about a man I want to learn what youknow against him.”

“Naturally, Excellency, naturally, but againstthis one I can tell you nothing. He has no lovers,he does not gamble, he does not drink except a glassafter dinner. He works in his factory all day,goes to bed early, rises early, and calls on the Jufvrouwvan Hout on Sundays; that is all.”

“Where does he attend Mass?”

“At the Groote Kerke once a week, but he doesnot take the Sacrament or go to confession.”

“That sounds bad, mother, very bad. Youdon’t mean to say that he is a heretic?”

“Probably he is, Excellency; most of them areabout here.”

“Dear me, how very shocking. Do you know,I should not like that excellent young woman, a goodCatholic too, like you and me, mother, to become mixedup with one of these dreadful heretics, who might exposeher to all sorts of dangers. For, mother, whocan touch pitch and not be defiled?”

“You waste time, Excellency,” repliedhis visitor with a snort. “What do youwant?”

“Well, in the interests of this young lady,I want to prove that this man is a heretic,and it has struck me that—­as one accustomedto this sort of thing—­you might be ableto find the evidence.”

“Indeed, Excellency, and has it struck you whatmy face would look like after I had thrust my headinto a wasp’s nest for your amusement? Doyou know what it means to me if I go peering aboutamong the heretics of Leyden? Well, I will tellyou; it means that I should be killed. They area strong lot, and a determined lot, and so long asyou leave them alone they will leave you alone, butif you interfere with them, why then it is good night.Oh! yes, I know all about the law and the priestsand the edicts and the Emperor. But the Emperorcannot burn a whole people, and though I hate them,I tell you,” she added, standing up suddenlyand speaking in a fierce, convinced voice, “thatin the end the law and the edicts and the priestswill get the worst of this fight. Yes, theseHollanders will beat them all and cut the throats ofyou Spaniards, and thrust those of you who are leftalive out of their country, and spit upon your memoriesand worship God in their own fashion, and be proudand free, when you are dogs gnawing the bones of yourgreatness; dogs kicked back into your kennels to rotthere. Those are not my own words,” saidMeg in a changed voice as she sat down again.“They are the words of that devil, Martha theMare, which she spoke in my hearing when we had heron the rack, but somehow I think that they will cometrue, and that is why I always remember them.”

“Indeed, her ladyship the Mare is a more interestingperson than I thought, though if she can talk likethat, perhaps, after all, it would have been as wellto drown her. And now, dropping prophecy and leavingposterity to arrange for itself, let us come to business.How much? For evidence which would suffice toprocure his conviction, mind.”

“Five hundred florins, not a stiver less, so,Excellency, you need not waste your time trying tobeat me down. You want good evidence, evidenceon which the Council, or whoever they may appoint,will convict, and that means the unshaken testimonyof two witnesses. Well, I tell you, it isn’teasy to come by; there is great danger to the honestfolk who seek it, for these heretics are desperatepeople, and if they find a spy while they are engagedin devil-worship at one of their conventicles, why—­theykill him.”

“I know all that, mother. What are youtrying to cover up that you are so talkative?It isn’t your usual way of doing business.Well, it is a bargain—­you shall have yourmoney when you produce the evidence. And nowreally if we stop here much longer people will beginto make remarks, for who shall escape aspersion inthis censorious world? So good-night, mother,good-night,” and he turned to leave the room.

“No, Excellency,” she croaked with a snortof indignation, “no pay, no play; I don’twork on the faith of your Excellency’s word alone.”

“How much?” he asked again.

“A hundred florins down.”

Then for a while they wrangled hideously, their headsheld close together in the patch of moonlight, andso loathsome did their faces look, so plainly wasthe wicked purpose of their hearts written upon them,that in that faint luminous glow they might have beenmistaken for emissaries from the under-world chafferingover the price of a human soul. At last the bargainwas struck for fifty florins, and having receivedit into her hand Black Meg departed.

“Sixty-seven in all,” she muttered toherself as she regained the street. “Well,it was no use holding out for any more, for he hasn’tgot the cash. The man’s as poor as Lazarus,but he wants to live like Dives, and, what is more,he gambles, as I learned at The Hague. Also, there’ssomething queer about his past; I have heard as muchas that. It must be looked into, and perhapsthe bundle of papers which I helped myself to outof his desk while I was waiting”—­andshe touched the bosom of her dress to make sure thatthey were safe—­“may tell me a thingor two, though likely enough they are only unpaidbills. Ah! most noble cheat and captain, beforeyou have done with her you may find that Black Megknows how to pay back hot water for cold!”

CHAPTER V

THE DREAM OF DIRK

On the day following Montalvo’s interview withBlack Meg Dirk received a message from that gentleman,sent to his lodging by an orderly, which remindedhim that he had promised to dine with him this verynight. Now he had no recollection of any suchengagement. Remembering with shame, however,that there were various incidents of the evening ofthe supper whereof his memory was most imperfect,he concluded that this must be one of them. Somuch against his own wishes Dirk sent back an answerto say that he would appear at the time and placeappointed.

This was the third thing that had happened to annoyhim that day. First he had met Pieter van deWerff, who informed him that all Leyden was talkingabout Lysbeth and the Captain Montalvo, to whom shewas said to have taken a great fancy. Next whenhe went to call at the house in the Bree Straat hewas told that both Lysbeth and his cousin Clara hadgone out sleighing, which he did not believe, foras a thaw had set in the snow was no longer in a conditionsuitable to that amusement. Moreover, he couldalmost have sworn that, as he crossed the street, hecaught sight of Cousin Clara’s red face peepingat him from between the curtains of the upstairs sitting-room.Indeed he said as much to Greta, who, contrary tocustom, had opened the door to him.

“I am sorry if Mynheer sees visions,”answered that young woman imperturbably. “Itold Mynheer that the ladies had gone out sleighing.”

“I know you did, Greta; but why should theygo out sleighing in a wet thaw?”

“I don’t know, Mynheer. Ladies dothose things that please them. It is not my placeto ask their reasons.”

Dirk looked at Greta, and was convinced that she waslying. He put his hand in his pocket, to findto his disgust that he had forgotten his purse.Then he thought of giving her a kiss and trying tomelt the truth out of her in this fashion, but rememberingthat if he did, she might tell Lysbeth, which wouldmake matters worse than ever, refrained. So theend of it was that he merely said “Oh! indeed,”and went away.

“Great soft-head,” reflected Greta, asshe watched his retreating form, “he knew Iwas telling lies, why didn’t he push past me,or—­do anything. Ah! Mynheer Dirk,if you are not careful that Spaniard will take yourwind. Well, he is more amusing, that’s certain.I am tired of these duck-footed Leydeners, who daren’twink at a donkey lest he should bray, and among suchholy folk somebody a little wicked is rather a change.”Then Greta, who, it may be remembered, came from Brussels,and had French blood in her veins, went upstairs tomake a report to her mistress, telling her all thatpassed.

“I did not ask you to speak falsehoods as tomy being out sleighing and the rest. I told youto answer that I was not at home, and mind you saythe same to the Captain Montalvo if he calls,”said Lysbeth with some acerbity as she dismissed her.

In truth she was very sore and angry, and yet ashamedof herself because it was so. But things hadgone so horribly wrong, and as for Dirk, he was themost exasperating person in the world. It wasowing to his bad management and lack of readinessthat her name was coupled with Montalvo’s atevery table in Leyden. And now what did she hearin a note from the Captain himself, sent to make excusesfor not having called upon her after the supper party,but that Dirk was going to dine with him that night?Very well, let him do it; she would know how to payhim back, and if necessary was ready to act up toany situation which he had chosen to create.

Thus thought Lysbeth, stamping her foot with vexation,but all the time her heart was sore. All thetime she knew well enough that she loved Dirk, and,however strange might be his backwardness in speakingout his mind, that he loved her. And yet shefelt as though a river was running between them.In the beginning it had been a streamlet, but now itwas growing to a torrent. Worse still the Spaniardwas upon her bank of the river.

After he had to some extent conquered his shynessand irritation Dirk became aware that he was reallyenjoying his dinner at Montalvo’s quarters.There were three guests besides himself, two Spanishofficers and a young Netherlander of his own classand age, Brant by name. He was the only son ofa noted and very wealthy goldsmith at The Hague, whohad sent him to study certain mysteries of the metalworker’s art under a Leyden jeweller famousfor the exquisite beauty of his designs. Thedinner and the service were both of them perfect instyle, but better than either proved the conversation,which was of a character that Dirk had never heardat the tables of his own class and people. Notthat there was anything even broad about it, as mightperhaps have been expected. No, it was the talkof highly accomplished and travelled men of the world,who had seen much and been actors in many moving events;men who were not overtrammelled by prejudices, religiousor other, and who were above all things desirous ofmaking themselves agreeable and instructive to thestranger within their gates. The Heer Brant also,who had but just arrived in Leyden, showed himselfan able and polished man, one that had been educatedmore thoroughly than was usual among his class, andwho, at the table of his father, the opulent Burgomasterof The Hague, from his youth had associated with allclasses and conditions of men. Indeed it wasthere that he made the acquaintance of Montalvo, whorecognising him in the street had asked him to dinner.

After the dishes were cleared, one of the Spanishofficers rose and begged to be excused, pleading somemilitary duty. When he had saluted his commandantand gone, Montalvo suggested that they should playa game of cards. This was an invitation whichDirk would have liked to decline, but when it cameto the point he did not, for fear of seeming peculiarin the eyes of these brilliant men of the world.

So they began to play, and as the game was simplevery soon he picked up the points of it, and whatis more, found them amusing. At first the stakeswere not high, but they doubled themselves in someautomatic fashion, till Dirk was astonished to findthat he was gambling for considerable sums and winningthem. Towards the last his luck changed a little,but when the game came to an end he found himself thericher by about three hundred and fifty florins.

“What am I do to with this?” he askedcolouring up, as with sighs, which in one instancewere genuine enough, the losers pushed the money acrossto him.

“Do with it?” laughed Montalvo, “didanybody ever hear such an innocent! Why, buyyour lady-love, or somebody else’s lady-love,a present. No, I’ll tell you a better usethan this, you give us to-morrow night at your lodgingthe best dinner that Leyden can produce, and a chanceof winning some of this coin back again. Is itagreed?”

“If the other gentlemen wish it,” saidDirk, modestly, “though my apartment is buta poor place for such company.”

“Of course we wish it,” replied the threeas with one voice, and the hour for meeting havingbeen fixed they parted, the Heer Brant walking withDirk to the door of his lodging.

“I was going to call on you to-morrow,”he said, “to bring to you a letter of introductionfrom my father, though that should scarcely be neededas, in fact, we are cousins—­second cousinsonly, our mothers having been first cousins.”

“Oh! yes, Brant of The Hague, of whom my motherused to speak, saying that they were kinsmen to beproud of, although she had met them but little.Well, welcome, cousin; I trust that we shall be friends.”

“I am sure of it,” answered Brant, andputting his arm through Dirk’s he pressed itin a peculiar fashion that caused him to start andlook round. “Hush!” muttered Brant,“not here,” and they began to talk oftheir late companions and the game of cards which theyhad played, an amusement as to the propriety of whichDirk intimated that he had doubts.

Young Brant shrugged his shoulders. “Cousin,”he said, “we live in the world, so it is aswell to understand the world. If the risking ofa few pieces at play, which it will not ruin us tolose, helps us to understand it, well, for my partI am ready to risk them, especially as it puts uson good terms with those who, as things are, it iswise we should cultivate. Only, cousin, if Imay venture to say it, be careful not to take morewine than you can carry with discretion. Betterlose a thousand florins than let drop one word thatyou cannot remember.”

“I know, I know,” answered Dirk, thinkingof Lysbeth’s supper, and at the door of hislodgings they parted.

Like most Netherlanders, when Dirk made up his mindto do anything he did it thoroughly. Thus, havingundertaken to give a dinner party, he determined togive a good dinner. In ordinary circumstanceshis first idea would have been to consult his cousins,Clara and Lysbeth. After that monstrous storyabout the sleighing, however, which by inquiry fromthe coachman of the house, whom he happened to meet,he ascertained to be perfectly false, this, for theyoung man had some pride, he did not feel inclinedto do. So in place of it he talked first to hislandlady, a worthy dame, and by her advice afterwardswith the first innkeeper of Leyden, a man of resourceand experience. The innkeeper, well knowing thatthis customer would pay for anything which he ordered,threw himself into the affair heartily, with the resultthat by five o’clock relays of cooks and otherattendants were to be seen streaming up Dirk’sstaircase, carrying every variety of dish that couldbe supposed to tempt the appetite of high-class cavaliers.

Dirk’s apartment consisted of two rooms situatedupon the first floor of an old house in a street thathad ceased to be fashionable. Once, however,it had been a fine house, and, according to the ideasof the time, the rooms themselves were fine, especiallythe sitting chamber, which was oak-panelled, low,and spacious, with a handsome fireplace carrying thearms of its builder. Out of it opened his sleepingroom—­which had no other doorway—­likewiseoak-panelled, with tall cupboards, not unlike thecanopy of a tomb in shape and general appearance.

The hour came, and with it the guests. The feastbegan, the cooks streamed up and down bearing relaysof dishes from the inn. Above the table hunga six-armed brass chandelier, and in each of its socketsguttered a tallow candle furnishing light to the companybeneath, although outside of its bright ring therewas shadow more or less dense. Towards the endof dinner a portion of the rush wick of one of thesecandles fell into the brass saucer beneath, causingthe molten grease to burn up fiercely. As itchanced, by the light of this sudden flare, Montalvo,who was sitting opposite to the door, thought thathe caught sight of a tall, dark figure gliding alongthe wall towards the bedroom. For one instanthe saw it, then it was gone.

“Caramba, my friend,” he said,addressing Dirk, whose back was turned towards thefigure, “have you any ghosts in this gloomy oldroom of yours? Because, if so, I think I havejust seen one.”

“Ghosts!” answered Dirk, “no, Inever heard of any; I do not believe in ghosts.Take some more of that pasty.”

Montalvo took some more pasty, and washed it downwith a glass of wine. But he said no more aboutghosts—­perhaps an explanation of the phenomenonhad occurred to him; at any rate he decided to leavethe subject alone.

After the dinner they gambled, and this evening thestakes began where those of the previous night leftoff. For the first hour Dirk lost, then the luckturned and he won heavily, but always from Montalvo.

“My friend,” said the captain at last,throwing down his cards, “certainly you arefated to be unfortunate in your matrimonial adventures,for the devil lives in your dice-box, and his highnessdoes not give everything. I pass,” andhe rose from the table.

“I pass also,” said Dirk following himinto the window place, for he wished to take no moremoney. “You have been very unlucky, Count,”he said.

“Very, indeed, my young friend,” answeredMontalvo, yawning, “in fact, for the next sixmonths I must live on—­well—­well,nothing, except the recollection of your excellentdinner.”

“I am sorry,” muttered Dirk, confusedly,“I did not wish to take your money; it was theturn of those accursed dice. See here, let ussay no more about it.”

“Sir,” said Montalvo, with a sudden sternness,“an officer and a gentleman cannot treat a debtof honour thus; but,” he added with a littlelaugh, “if another gentleman chances to be goodenough to charge a debt of honour for a debt of honour,the affair is different. If, for instance, itwould suit you to lend me four hundred florins, which,added to the six hundred which I have lost to-night,would make a thousand in all, well, it will be a convenienceto me, though should it be any inconvenience to you,pray do not think of such a thing.”

“Certainly,” answered Dirk, “I havewon nearly as much as that, and here at my own table.Take them, I beg of you, captain,” and emptyinga roll of gold into his hand, he counted it with theskill of a merchant, and held it towards him.

Montalvo hesitated. Then he took the money, pouringit carelessly into his pocket.

“You have not checked the sum,” said Dirk.

“My friend, it is needless,” answeredhis guest, “your word is rather better thanany bond,” and again he yawned, remarking thatit was getting late.

Dirk waited a few moments, thinking in his coarse,business-like way that the noble Spaniard might wishto say something about a written acknowledgment.As, however, this did not seem to occur to him, andthe matter was not one of ordinary affairs, he ledthe way back to the table, where the other two werenow showing their skill in card tricks.

A few minutes later the two Spaniards took their departure,leaving Dirk and his cousin Brant alone.

“A very successful evening,” said Brant,“and, cousin, you won a great deal.”

“Yes,” answered Dirk, “but all thesame I am a poorer man than I was yesterday.”

Brant laughed. “Did he borrow of you?”he asked. “Well, I thought he would, andwhat’s more, don’t you count on that money.Montalvo is a good sort of fellow in his own fashion,but he is an extravagant man and a desperate gambler,with a queer history, I fancy—­at least,nobody knows much about him, not even his brotherofficers. If you ask them they shrug their shouldersand say that Spain is a big kettle full of all sorts

of fish. One thing I do know, however, that heis over head and ears in debt; indeed, there was troubleabout it down at The Hague. So, cousin, don’tyou play with him more than you can help, and don’treckon on that thousand florins to pay your bills with.It is a mystery to me how the man gets on, but I amtold that a foolish old vrouw in Amsterdam lent hima lot till she discovered—­but there, I don’ttalk scandal. And now,” he added, changinghis voice, “is this place private?”

“Let’s see,” said Dirk, “theyhave cleared the things away, and the old housekeeperhas tidied up my bedroom. Yes, I think so.Nobody ever comes up here after ten o’clock.What is it?”

Brant touched his arm, and, understanding the truth,Dirk led the way into the window-place. There,standing with his back to the room, and his handscrossed in a peculiar fashion, he uttered the word,“Jesus,” and paused. Brantalso crossed his hands and answered, or, rather, continued,“wept.” It was the passwordof those of the New Religion.

“You are one of us, cousin?” said Dirk.

“I and all my house, my father, my mother, mysister, and the maiden whom I am to marry. Theytold me at The Hague that I must seek of you or theyoung Heer Pieter van de Werff, knowledge of thosethings which we of the Faith need to know; who areto be trusted, and who are not to be trusted; whereprayer is held, and where we may partake of the pureSacrament of God the Son.”

Dirk took his cousin’s hand and pressed it.The pressure was returned, and thenceforward brothercould not have trusted brother more completely, fornow between them was the bond of a common and burningfaith.

Such bonds the reader may say, tie ninety out of everyhundred people to each other in the present year ofgrace, but it is not to be observed that a like mutualconfidence results. No, because the circumstanceshave changed. Thanks very largely to Dirk vanGoorl and his fellows of that day, especially to oneWilliam of Orange, it is no longer necessary for devoutand God-fearing people to creep into holes and corners,like felons hiding from the law, that they may worshipthe Almighty after some fashion as pure as it is simple,knowing the while that if they are found so doingtheir lot and the lot of their wives and children willbe the torment and the stake. Now the thumbscrewand the rack as instruments for the discomfiture ofheretics are relegated to the dusty cases of museums.But some short generations since all this was different,for then a man who dared to disagree with certain doctrineswas treated with far less mercy than is shown to adog on the vivisector’s table.

Little wonder, therefore, that those who lay undersuch a ban, those who were continually walking inthe cold shadow of this dreadful doom, clung to eachother, loved each other, and comforted each other tothe last, passing often enough hand-in-hand throughthe fiery gates to that country in which there isno more pain. To be a member of the New Religionin the Netherlands under the awful rule of Charlesthe Emperor and Philip the King was to be one of avast family. It was not “sir” or“mistress” or “madame,” itwas “my father” and “my mother,”or “my sister” and “my brother;”yes, and between people who were of very differentstatus and almost strangers in the flesh; strangersin the flesh but brethren in spirit.

It will be understood that in these circumstancesDirk and Brant, already liking each other, and beingalready connected by blood, were not slow in comingto a complete understanding and fellowship.

There they sat in the window-place telling each otherof their families, their hopes and fears, and evenof their lady-loves. In this, as in every otherrespect, Hendrik Brant’s story was one of simpleprosperity. He was betrothed to a lady of TheHague, the only daughter of a wealthy wine-merchant,who, according to his account, seemed to be as beautifulas she was good and rich, and they were to be marriedin the spring. But when Dirk told him of hisaffair, he shook his wise young head.

“You say that both she and her aunt are Catholics?”he asked.

“Yes, cousin, this is the trouble. I thinkthat she is fond of me, or, at any rate, she was untila few days since,” he added ruefully, “buthow can I, being a ‘heretic,’ ask her toplight her troth to me unless I tell her? Andthat, you know, is against the rule; indeed, I scarcelydare to do so.”

“Had you not best consult with some godly elderwho by prayer and words may move your lady’sheart till the light shines on her?” asked Brant.

“Cousin, it has been done, but always thereis the other in the way, that red-nosed Aunt Clara,who is a mad idolator; also there is the serving-woman,Greta, whom I take for little better than a spy.Therefore, between the two of them I see little chancethat Lysbeth will ever hear the truth this side ofmarriage. And yet how dare I marry her?Is it right that I should marry her and therefore,perhaps, bring her too to some dreadful fate suchas may wait for you or me? Moreover, now sincethis man Montalvo has crossed my path, all things seemto have gone wrong between me and Lysbeth; indeedbut yesterday her door was shut on me.”

“Women have their fancies,” answered Brant,slowly; “perhaps he has taken hers; she wouldnot be the first who walked that plank. Or, perhaps,she is vexed with you for not speaking out ere this;for, man, not knowing what you are, how can she readyour mind?”

“Perhaps, perhaps,” said Dirk, “butI know not what to do,” and in his perplexityhe struck his forehead with his hand.

“Then, brother, in that case what hinders thatwe should ask Him Who can tell you?” said Brant,calmly.

Dirk understood what he meant at once. “Itis a wise thought, and a good one, cousin. Ihave the Holy Book; first let us pray, and then wecan seek wisdom there.”

“You are rich, indeed,” answered Brant;“sometime you must tell me how and where youcame by it.”

“Here in Leyden, if one can afford to pay forthem, such goods are not hard to get,” saidDirk; “what is hard is to keep them safely,for to be found with a Bible in your pocket is tocarry your own death-warrant.”

Brant nodded. “Is it safe to show it here?”he asked.

“As safe as anywhere, cousin; the window isshuttered, the door is, or will be, locked, but whocan say that he is safe this side of the stake ina land where the rats and mice carry news and the windbears witness? Come, I will show you were I keepit,” and going to the mantelpiece he took downa candle-stick, a quaint brass, ornamented on its massiveoblong base with two copper snails, and lit the candle.“Do you like the piece?” he asked; “itis my own design, which I cast and filed out in myspare hours,” and he gazed at the holder withthe affection of an artist. Then without waitingfor an answer, he led the way to the door of his sitting-roomand paused.

“What is it?” asked Brant.

“I thought I heard a sound, that is all, butdoubtless the old vrouw moves upon the stairs.Turn the key, cousin, so, now come on.”

They entered the sleeping chamber, and having glancedround and made sure that it was empty, and the windowshut, Dirk went to the head of the bed, which wasformed of oak-panels, the centre one carved with amagnificent coat-of-arms, fellow to that in the fireplaceof the sitting-room. At this panel Dirk beganto work, till presently it slid aside, revealing ahollow, out of which he took a book bound in boardscovered with leather. Then, having closed thepanel, the two young men returned to the sitting-room,and placed the volume upon the oak table beneath thechandelier.

“First let us pray,” said Brant.

It seems curious, does it not, that two young menas a finale to a dinner party, and a gamblingmatch at which the stakes had not been low; youngmen who like others had their weaknesses, for one ofthem, at any rate, could drink too much wine at times,and both being human doubtless had further sins tobear, should suggest kneeling side by side to offerprayers to their Maker before they studied the Scriptures?But then in those strange days prayer, now so common(and so neglected) an exercise, was an actual luxury.To these poor hunted men and women it was a joy tobe able to kneel and offer thanks and petitions toGod, believing themselves to be safe from the swordof those who worshipped otherwise. Thus it cameabout that, religion being forbidden, was to them avery real and earnest thing, a thing to be indulgedin at every opportunity with solemn and grateful hearts.So there, beneath the light of the guttering candles,they knelt side by side while Brant, speaking forboth of them, offered up a prayer—­a sighttouching enough and in its way beautiful.

The words of his petition do not matter. He prayedfor their Church; he prayed for their country thatit might be made strong and free; he even prayed forthe Emperor, the carnal, hare-lipped, guzzling, ableHapsburg self-seeker. Then he prayed for themselvesand all who were dear to them, and lastly, that lightmight be vouchsafed to Dirk in his present difficulty.No, not quite lastly, for he ended with a petitionthat their enemies might be forgiven, yes, even thosewho tortured them and burnt them at the stake, sincethey knew not what they did. It may be wonderedwhether any human aspirations could have been morethoroughly steeped in the true spirit of Christianity.

When at length he had finished they rose from theirknees.

“Shall I open the Book at a hazard,” askedDirk, “and read what my eye falls on?”

“No,” answered Brant, “for it savoursof superstition; thus did the ancients with the writingsof the poet Virgilius, and it is not fitting thatwe who hold the light should follow the example ofthose blind heathen. What work of the Book, brother,are you studying now?”

“The first letter of Paul to the Corinthians,which I have never read before,” he answered.

“Then begin where you left off, brother, andread your chapter. Perhaps we may find instructionin it; if not, no answer is vouchsafed to us to-night.”

So from the black-letter volume before him Dirk beganto read the seventh chapter, in which, as it chances,the great Apostle deals with the marriage state.On he read, in a quiet even voice, till he came tothe twelfth and four following verses, of which thelast three run: “For the unbelieving husbandis sanctified by the wife, and the unbelieving wifeis sanctified by the husband: else were your childrenunclean; but now they are holy. But if the unbelievingdepart, let him depart. A brother or a sisteris not under bondage in such cases; but God has calledus to peace. For what knowest thou, O wife, whetherthou shalt save thy husband? or how knowest thou,O man, whether thou shalt save thy wife?” Dirk’svoice trembled, and he paused.

“Continue to the end of the chapter,”said Brant, so the reader went on.

There is a sound. They do not hear it, but thedoor of the bedchamber behind them opens ever so little.They do not see it, but between door and lintel somethingwhite thrusts itself, a woman’s white face crownedwith black hair, and set in it two evil, staring eyes.Surely, when first he raised his head in Eden, Satanmight have worn such a countenance as this. Itcranes itself forward till the long, thin neck seemsto stretch; then suddenly a stir or a movement alarmsit, and back the face draws like the crest of a startledsnake. Back it draws, and the door closes again.

The chapter is read, the prayer is prayed, and strangemay seem the answer to that prayer, an answer to shakeout faith from the hearts of men; men who are impatient,who do not know that as the light takes long in travellingfrom a distant star, so the answer from the Throneto the supplication of trust may be long in coming.It may not come to-day or to-morrow. It may notcome in this generation or this century; the prayerof to-day may receive its crown when the children’schildren of the lips that uttered it have in theirturn vanished in the dust. And yet that Divinereply may in no wise be delayed; even as our libertyof this hour may be the fruit of those who died whenDirk van Goorl and Hendrik Brant walked upon the earth;even as the vengeance that but now is falling on theSpaniard may be the reward of the deeds of shame thathe worked upon them and upon their kin long generationsgone. For the Throne is still the Throne, andthe star is still the star; from the one flows justiceand from the other light, and to them time and spaceare naught.

Dirk finished the chapter and closed the Book.

“It seems that you have your answer, Brother,”said Brant quietly.

“Yes,” replied Dirk, “it is writtenlarge enough:—­’The unbelieving wifeis sanctified by the husband . . . how knowest thou,O man, whether thou shalt save thy wife?’ Hadthe Apostle foreseen my case he could not have setthe matter forth more clearly.”

“He, or the Spirit in him, knew all cases, andwrote for every man that ever shall be born,”answered Brant. “This is a lesson to us.Had you looked sooner you would have learned sooner,and mayhap much trouble might have been spared.As it is, without doubt you must make haste and speakto her at once, leaving the rest with God.”

“Yes,” said Dirk, “as soon as maybe, but there is one thing more; ought I tell herall the truth?”

“I should not be careful to hide it, friend,and now, good night. No, do not come to the doorwith me. Who can tell, there may be watcherswithout, and it is not wise that we should be seentogether so late.”

When his cousin and new-found friend had gone Dirksat for a while, till the guttering tallow lightsoverhead burned to the sockets indeed. Then,taking the candle from the snail-adorned holder, helit it, and, having extinguished those in the chandeliers,went into his bedroom and undressed himself.The Bible he returned to its hiding-place and closedthe panel, after which he blew out the light and climbedinto the tall bed.

As a rule Dirk was a most excellent sleeper; whenhe laid his head on the pillow his eyes closed nordid they open again until the appointed and accustomedhour. But this night he could not sleep.Whether it was the dinner or the wine, or the gambling,or the prayer and the searching of the Scriptureswith his cousin Brant, the result remained the same;he was very wakeful, which annoyed him the more asa man of his race and phlegm found it hard to attributethis unrest to any of these trivial causes. Still,as vexation would not make him sleep, he lay awakewatching the moonlight flood the chamber in broad barsand thinking.

Somehow as Dirk thought thus he grew afraid; it seemedto him as though he shared that place with anotherpresence, an evil and malignant presence. Neverin his life before had he troubled over or been troubledby tales of spirits, yet now he remembered Montalvo’sremark about a ghost, and of a surety he felt as thoughone were with him there. In this strange andnew alarm he sought for comfort and could think ofnone save that which an old and simple pastor hadrecommended to him in all hours of doubt and danger,namely, if it could be had, to clasp a Bible to hisheart and pray.

Well, both things were easy. Raising himselfin bed, in a moment he had taken the book from itshiding-place and closed the panel. Then pressingit against his breast between himself and the mattresshe lay down again, and it would seem that the charmworked, for presently he was asleep.

Yet Dirk dreamed a very evil dream. He dreamedthat a tall black figure leaned over him, and thata long white hand was stretched out to his bed-headwhere it wandered to and fro, till at last he heardthe panel slide home with a rattling noise.

Then it seemed to him that he woke, and that his eyesmet two eyes bent down over him, eyes which searchedhim as though they would read the very secrets ofhis heart. He did not stir, he could not, butlo! in this dream of his the figure straightened itselfand glided away, appearing and disappearing as itcrossed the bars of moonlight until it vanished bythe door.

A while later and Dirk woke up in truth, to find thatalthough the night was cold enough the sweat ran inbig drops from his brow and body. But now strangelyenough his fear was gone, and, knowing that he hadbut dreamed a dream, he turned over, touched the Bibleon his breast, and fell sleeping like a child, tobe awakened only by the light of the rising wintersun pouring on his face.

Then Dirk remembered that dream of the bygone night,and his heart grew heavy, for it seemed to him thatthis vision of a dark woman searching his face withthose dreadful eyes was a portent of evil not far away.

CHAPTER VI

THE BETROTHAL OF LYSBETH

On the following morning when Montalvo entered hisprivate room after breakfast, he found a lady awaitinghim, in whom, notwithstanding the long cloak and veilshe wore, he had little difficulty in recognisingBlack Meg. In fact Black Meg had been waitingsome while, and being a person of industrious habitsshe had not neglected to use her time to the bestadvantage.

The reader may remember that when Meg visited thegallant Captain Montalvo upon a previous occasion,she had taken the liberty of helping herself to certainpapers which she found lying just inside an unlockeddesk. These papers on examination, as she fearedmight be the case, for the most part proved to bequite unimportant—­unpaid accounts, militaryreports, a billet or two from ladies, and so forth.But in thinking the matter over Black Meg rememberedthat this desk had another part to it, which seemedto be locked, and, therefore, just in case they shouldprove useful, she took with her a few skeleton keysand one or two little instruments of steel and attendedthe pleasure of her noble patron at an hour when shebelieved that he would be at breakfast in anotherroom. Things went well; he was at breakfast andshe was left alone in the chamber with the desk.The rest may be guessed. Replacing the worthlessbundle in the unlocked part, by the aid of her keysand instruments she opened the inner half. Theresure enough were letters hidden, and in a little drawertwo miniatures framed in gold, one of a lady, youngand pretty with dark eyes, and the other of two children,a boy and a girl of five or six years of age.Also there was a curling lock of hair labelled inMontalvo’s writing—­“Juanita’shair, which she gave me as a keepsake.”

Here was treasure indeed whereof Black Meg did notfail to possess herself. Thrusting the lettersand other articles into the bosom of her dress tobe examined at leisure, she was clever enough, beforeclosing and re-locking the desk, to replace them witha dummy bundle, hastily made up from some papers thatlay about.

When everything had been satisfactorily arranged shewent outside and chattered for a while with the soldieron guard, only re-entering the room by one door asMontalvo appeared in it through the other.

“Well, my friend,” he said, “haveyou the evidence?”

“I have some evidence, Excellency,” sheanswered. “I was present at the dinnerthat you ate last night, although none of it came myway, and—­I was present afterwards.”

“Indeed. I thought I saw you slip in, andallow me to congratulate you on that; it was verywell thought out and done, just as folk were movingup and down the stairs. Also, when I went home,I believe that I recognised a gentleman in the streetwhom I have been given to understand you honour withyour friendship, a short, stout person with a baldhead; let me see, he was called the Butcher at TheHague, was he not? No, do not pout, I have nowish to pry into the secrets of ladies, but stillin my position here it is my business to know a thingor two. Well, what did you see?”

“Excellency, I saw the young man I was sentto watch and Hendrik Brant, the son of the rich goldsmithat The Hague, praying side by side upon their knees.”

“That is bad, very bad,” said Montalvoshaking his head, “but——­”

“I saw,” she went on in her hoarse voice,“the pair of them read the Bible.”

“How shocking!” replied Montalvo witha simulated shudder. “Think of it, my orthodoxfriend, if you are to be believed, these two persons,hitherto supposed to be respectable, have been discoveredin the crime of consulting that work upon which ourFaith is founded. Well, those who could readanything so dull must, indeed, as the edicts tell us,be monsters unworthy to live. But, if you please,your proofs. Of course you have this book?”

Then Black Meg poured forth all her tale—­howshe had watched and seen something, how she had listenedand heard little, how she had gone to the secret panel,bending over the sleeping man, and found—­nothing.

“You are a poor sort of spy, mother,”commented the captain when she had done, “and,upon my soul, I do not believe that even a Papal inquisitorcould hang that young fellow on your evidence.You must go back and get some more.”

“No,” answered Black Meg with decision,“if you want to force your way into conventiclesyou had best do it yourself. As I wish to go onliving here is no job for me. I have proved toyou that this young man is a heretic, so now giveme my reward.”

“Your reward? Ah! your reward. No,I think not at present, for a reward presupposes services—­andI see none.”

Black Meg began to storm.

“Be silent,” said Montalvo, dropping hisbantering tone. “Look, I will be frankwith you. I do not want to burn anybody.I am sick of all this nonsense about religion, andfor aught I care every Netherlander in Leyden mayread the Bible until he grows tired. I seek tomarry that Jufvrouw Lysbeth van Hout, and to do thisI desire to prove that the man whom she loves, Dirkvan Goorl, is a heretic. What you have told memay or may not be sufficient for my purpose.If it is sufficient you shall be paid liberally aftermy marriage; if not—­well, you have had enough.As for your evidence, for my part I may say that Ido not believe a word of it, for were it true youwould have brought the Bible.”

As he spoke he rang a bell which stood upon a table,and before Meg could answer the soldier appeared.

“Show this good woman out,” he said, adding,in a loud voice, “Mother, I will do my bestfor you and forward your petition to the proper quarter.Meanwhile, take this trifle in charity,” andhe pressed a florin into her hand. “Now,guard, the prisoners, the prisoners. I have notime to waste—­and listen—­letme be troubled with no more beggars, or you will hearof it.”

That afternoon Dirk, filled with a solemn purpose,and dressed in his best suit, called at the housein the Bree Straat, where the door was again openedby Greta, who looked at him expectantly.

“Is your mistress in?” he stammered.“I have come to see your mistress.”

“Alas! Mynheer,” answered the youngwoman, “you are just too late. My mistressand her aunt, the Vrouw Clara, have gone away to stayfor a week or ten days as the Vrouw Clara’shealth required a change.”

“Indeed,” said Dirk aghast, “andwhere have they gone?”

“Oh! Mynheer, I do not know that, theydid not tell me,” and no other answer couldhe extract from her.

So Dirk went away discomfited and pondering.An hour later the Captain Montalvo called, and strangeto say proved more fortunate. By hook or by crookhe obtained the address of the ladies, who were visiting,it appeared, at a seaside village within the limitsof a ride. By a curious coincidence that veryafternoon Montalvo, also seeking rest and change ofair, appeared at the inn of this village, giving itout that he proposed to lodge there for a while.

As he walked upon the beach next day, whom shouldhe chance to meet but the Vrouw Clara van Ziel, andnever did the worthy Clara spend a more pleasant morning.So at least she declared to Lysbeth when she broughther cavalier back to dinner.

The reader may guess the rest. Montalvo paidhis court, and in due course Montalvo was refused.He bore the blow with a tender resignation.

“Confess, dear lady,” he said, “thatthere is some other man more fortunate.”

Lysbeth did not confess, but, on the other hand, neitherdid she deny.

“If he makes you happy I shall be more thansatisfied,” the Count murmured, “but,lady, loving you as I do, I do not wish to see youmarried to a heretic.”

“What do you mean, Senor?” asked Lysbeth,bridling.

“Alas!” he answered, “I mean that,as I fear, the worthy Heer Dirk van Goorl, a friendof mine for whom I have every respect, although hehas outstripped me in your regard, has fallen intothat evil net.”

“Such accusations should not be made,”said Lysbeth sternly, “unless they can be proved.Even then——­” and she stopped.

“I will inquire further,” replied theswain. “For myself I accept the position,that is until you learn to love me, if such shouldbe my fortune. Meanwhile I beg of you at leastto look upon me as a friend, a true friend who wouldlay down his life to serve you.”

Then, with many a sigh, Montalvo departed home toLeyden upon his beautiful black horse, but not beforehe had enjoyed a few minutes’ earnest conversationwith the worthy Tante Clara.

“Now, if only this old lady were concerned,”he reflected as he rode away, “the matter mightbe easy enough, and the Saints know it would be oneto me, but unhappily that obstinate pig of a Hollandergirl has all the money in her own right. In whatlabours do not the necessities of rank and stationinvolve a man who by disposition requires only easeand quiet! Well, my young friend Lysbeth, ifI do not make you pay for these exertions before youare two months older, my name is not Juan de Montalvo.”

Three days later the ladies returned to Leyden.Within an hour of their arrival the Count called,and was admitted.

“Stay with me,” said Lysbeth to her AuntClara as the visitor was announced, and for a whileshe stayed. Then, making an excuse, she vanishedfrom the room, and Lysbeth was left face to face withher tormentor.

“Why do you come here?” she asked; “Ihave given you my answer.”

“I come for your own sake,” he replied,“to give you my reasons for conduct which youmay think strange. You remember a certain conversation?”

“Perfectly,” broke in Lysbeth.

“A slight mistake, I think, Jufvrouw, I meana conversation about an excellent friend of yours,whose spiritual affairs seem to interest you.”

“What of it, Senor?”

“Only this; I have made inquiries and——­”

Lysbeth looked up unable to conceal her anxiety.

“Oh! Jufvrouw, let me beg of you to learnto control your expression; the open face of childhoodis so dangerous in these days.”

“He is my cousin.”

“I know; were he anything more, I should beso grieved, but we can most of us spare a cousin ortwo.”

“If you would cease amusing yourself, Senor——­”

“And come to the point? Of course I will.Well, the result of my inquiries has been to findout that this worthy person is a heretic ofthe most pernicious sort. I said inquiries, butthere was no need for me to make any. He hasbeen——­”

“Not denounced,” broke in Lysbeth.

“Oh! my dear lady, again that tell-tale emotionfrom which all sorts of things might be concluded.Yes—­denounced—­but fortunatelyto myself as a person appointed under the Edict.It will, I fear, be my duty to have him arrested thisevening—­you wish to sit down, allow me tohand you a chair—­but I shall not deal withthe case myself. Indeed, I propose to pass himover to the worthy Ruard Tapper, the Papal Inquisitor,you know—­every one has heard of the unpleasantTapper—­who is to visit Leyden next week,and who, no doubt, will make short work of him.”

“What has he done?” asked Lysbeth in alow voice, and bending down her head to hide the workingof her features.

“Done? My dear lady, it is almost too dreadfulto tell you. This misguided and unfortunate youngman, with another person whom the witnesses have notbeen able to identify, was seen at midnight readingthe Bible.”

“The Bible! Why should that be wrong?”

“Hush! Are you also a heretic? Doyou not know that all this heresy springs from thereading of the Bible? You see, the Bible is avery strange book. It seems that there are manythings in it which, when read by an ordinary layman,appear to mean this or that. When read by a consecratedpriest, however, they mean something quite different.In the same way, there are many doctrines which thelayman cannot find in the Bible that to the consecratedeye are plain as the sun and the moon. The differencebetween heresy and orthodoxy is, in short, the differencebetween what can actually be found in the letter ofthis remarkable work, and what is really there—­accordingto their holinesses.”

“Almost thou persuadest me——­”began Lysbeth bitterly.

“Hush! lady—­to be, what you are,an angel.”

There came a pause.

“What will happen to him?” asked Lysbeth.

“After—­after the usual painful preliminariesto discover accomplices, I presume the stake, butpossibly, as he has the freedom of Leyden, he mightget off with hanging.”

“Is there no escape?”

Montalvo walked to the window, and looking out ofit remarked that he thought it was going to snow.Then suddenly he wheeled round, and staring hard atLysbeth asked,

“Are you really interested in this heretic,and do you desire to save him?”

Lysbeth heard and knew at once that the buttons wereoff the foils. The bantering, whimsical tonewas gone. Now her tormentor’s voice wasstern and cold, the voice of a man who was playingfor great stakes and meant to win them.

She also gave up fencing.

“I am and I do,” she answered.

“Then it can be done—­at a price.”

“What price?”

“Yourself in marriage within three weeks.”

Lysbeth quivered slightly, then sat still.

“Would not my fortune do instead?” sheasked.

“Oh! what a poor substitute you offer me,”Montalvo said, with a return to his hateful banter.Then he added, “That offer might be consideredwere it not for the abominable laws which you havehere. In practice it would be almost impossiblefor you to hand over any large sum, much of whichis represented by real estate, to a man who is notyour husband. Therefore I am afraid I must stipulatethat you and your possessions shall not be separated.”

Again Lysbeth sat silent. Montalvo, watchingher with genuine interest, saw signs of rebellion,perchance of despair. He saw the woman’smental and physical loathing of himself conqueringher fears for Dirk. Unless he was much mistakenshe was about to defy him, which, as a matter of fact,would have proved exceedingly awkward, as his pecuniaryresources were exhausted. Also on the very insufficientevidence which he possessed he would not have daredto touch Dirk, and thus to make himself a thousandpowerful enemies.

“It is strange,” he said, “thatthe irony of circumstances should reduce me to pleadingfor a rival. But, Lysbeth van Hout, before youanswer I beg you to think. Upon the next movementsof your lips it depends whether that body you loveshall be stretched upon the rack, whether those eyeswhich you find pleasant shall grow blind with agonyin the darkness of a dungeon, and whether that fleshwhich you think desirable shall scorch and witherin the furnace. Or, on the other hand, whethernone of these things shall happen, whether this youngman shall go free, to be for a month or two a littlepiqued—­a little bitter—­aboutthe inconstancy of women, and then to marry some opulentand respected heretic. Surely you could scarcelyhesitate. Oh! where is the self-sacrificing spiritof the sex of which we hear so much? Choose.”

Still there was no answer. Montalvo, playinghis trump card, drew from his vest an official-lookingdocument, sealed and signed.

“This,” he said, “is the informationto be given to the incorruptible Ruard Trapper.Look, here written on it is your cousin’s name.My servant waits for me in your kitchen. If youhesitate any longer, I call him and in your presencecharge him to hand that paper to the messenger whostarts this afternoon for Brussels. Once givenit cannot be recalled and the pious Dirk’s doomis sealed.”

Lysbeth’s spirit began to break. “Howcan I?” she asked. “It is true thatwe are not affianced; perhaps for this very reasonwhich I now learn. But he cares for me and knowsthat I care for him. Must I then, in additionto the loss of him, be remembered all his life as littlebetter than a light-of-love caught by the tricks andglitter of such a man as you? I tell you thatfirst I will kill myself.”

Again Montalvo went to the window, for this hint ofsuicide was most disconcerting. No one can marrya dead woman, and Lysbeth was scarcely likely to leavea will in his favour. It seemed that what troubledher particularly was the fear lest the young man shouldthink her conduct light. Well, why should shenot give him a reason which he would be the firstto acknowledge as excellent for breaking with him?Could she, a Catholic, be expected to wed a heretic,and could he not be made to tell her that he was aheretic?

Behold an answer to his question! The Saintsthemselves, desiring that this pearl of price shouldcontinue to rest in the bosom of the true Church,had interfered in his behalf, for there in the streetbelow was Dirk van Goorl approaching Lysbeth’sdoor. Yes, there he was dressed in his best burgher’ssuit, his brow knit with thought, his step hesitating;a very picture of the timid, doubtful lover.

“Lysbeth van Hout,” said the Count, turningto her, “as it chances the Heer Dirk van Goorlis at your door. You will admit him, and thismatter can be settled one way or the other. Iwish to point out to you how needless it is that theyoung man should be left believing that you have treatedhim ill. All which is necessary is that you shouldask whether or no he is of your faith. If I knowhim, he will not lie to you. Then it remainsonly for you to say—­for doubtless the mancomes here to seek your hand—­that howevermuch it may grieve you to give such an answer, youcan take no heretic to husband. Do you understand?”

Lysbeth bowed her head.

“Then listen. You will admit your suitor;you will allow him to make his offer to you now—­ifhe is so inclined; you will, before giving any answer,ask him of his faith. If he replies that he isa heretic, you will dismiss him as kindly as you wish.If he replies that he is a true servant of the Church,you will say that you have heard a different taleand must have time to make inquiries. Rememberalso that if by one jot you do otherwise than I havebid you, when Dirk van Goorl leaves the room you seehim for the last time, unless it pleases you—­toattend his execution. Whereas if you obey anddismiss him finally, as the door shuts behind himI put this Information in the fire and satisfy youthat the evidence upon which it is based is for everdeprived of weight and done with.”

Lysbeth looked a question.

“I see you are wondering how I should know whatyou do or do not do. It is simple. I shallbe the harmless but observant witness of your interview.Over this doorway hangs a tapestry; you will grantme the privilege—­not a great one for afuture husband—­of stepping behind it.”

“Never, never,” said Lysbeth, “Icannot be put to such a shame. I defy you.”

As she spoke came the sound of knocking at the streetdoor. Glancing up at Montalvo, for the secondtime she saw that look which he had worn at the crisisof the sledge race. All its urbanity, its carelessbonhomie, had vanished. Instead of theseappeared a reflection of the last and innermost natureof the man, the rock foundation, as it were, uponwhich was built the false and decorated superstructurethat he showed to the world. There were the glaringeyes, there the grinning teeth of the Spanish wolf;a ravening brute ready to rend and tear, if so hemight satisfy himself with the meat his soul desired.

“Don’t play tricks with me,” hemuttered, “and don’t argue, for thereis no time. Do as I bid you, girl, or on yourhead will be this psalm-singing fellow’s blood.And, look you, don’t try setting him on me,for I have my sword and he is unarmed. If needbe a heretic may be killed at sight, you know, thatis by one clothed with authority. When the servantannounces him go to the door and order that he is tobe admitted,” and picking up his plumed hat,which might have betrayed him, Montalvo stepped behindthe arras.

For a moment Lysbeth stood thinking. Alas! shecould see no possible escape, she was in the toils,the rope was about her throat. Either she mustobey or, so she thought, she must give the man sheloved to a dreadful death. For his sake she woulddo it, for his sake and might God forgive her!Might God avenge her and him!

Another instant and there came a knock upon the door.She opened it.

“The Heer van Goorl stands below,” saidthe voice of Greta, “wishing to see you, madam.”

“Admit him,” answered Lysbeth, and goingto a chair almost in the centre of the room, she seatedherself.

Presently Dirk’s step sounded on the stair,that known, beloved step for which so often she hadlistened eagerly. Again the door opened and Gretaannounced the Heer van Goorl. That she could notsee the Captain Montalvo evidently surprised the woman,for her eyes roamed round the room wonderingly, butshe was too well trained, or too well bribed, to showher astonishment. Gentlemen of this kidney, asGreta had from time to time remarked, have a facultyfor vanishing upon occasion.

So Dirk walked into the fateful chamber as some innocentand unsuspecting creature walks into a bitter snare,little knowing that the lady whom he loved and whomhe came to win was set as a bait to ruin him.

“Be seated, cousin,” said Lysbeth, ina voice so forced and strained that it caused himto look up. But he saw nothing, for her head wasturned away from him, and for the rest his mind wastoo preoccupied to be observant. By nature simpleand open, it would have taken much to wake Dirk intosuspicion in the home and presence of his love andcousin, Lysbeth.

“Good day to you, Lysbeth,” he said awkwardly;“why, how cold your hand is! I have beentrying to find you for some time, but you have alwaysbeen out or away, leaving no address.”

“I have been to the sea with my Aunt Clara,”she answered.

Then for a while—­five minutes or more—­therefollowed a strained and stilted conversation.

“Will the booby never come to the point?”reflected Montalvo, surveying him through a join inthe tapestry. “By the Saints, what a foolhe looks!”

“Lysbeth,” said Dirk at last, “Iwant to speak to you.”

“Speak on, cousin,” she answered.

“Lysbeth, I—­I—­have lovedyou for a long while, and I—­have come toask you to marry me. I have put it off for ayear or more for reasons which I hope to tell yousome day, but I can keep silent no longer, especiallynow when I see that a much finer gentleman is tryingto win you—­I mean the Spanish Count, Montalvo,”he added with a jerk.

She said nothing in reply. So Dirk went on pouringout all his honest passion in words that momentarilygathered weight and strength, till at length theywere eloquent enough. He told her how since firstthey met he had loved her and only her, and how hisone desire in life was to make her happy and be happywith her. Pausing at length he began to speakof his prospects—­then she stopped him.

“Your pardon, Dirk,” she said, “butI have a question to ask of you,” and her voicedied away in a kind of sob. “I have heardrumours about you,” she went on presently, “whichmust be cleared up. I have heard, Dirk, thatby faith you are what is called a heretic. Isit true?”

He hesitated before answering, feeling that much dependedon that answer. But it was only for an instant,since Dirk was far too honest a man to lie.

“Lysbeth,” he said, “I will tellto you what I would not tell to any other living creature,not being one of my own brotherhood, for whether youaccept me or reject me, I know well that I am as safein speaking to you as when upon my knees I speak tothe God I serve. I am what you call aheretic. I am a member of that true faith to whichI hope to draw you, but which if you do not wish itI should never press upon you. It is chieflybecause I am what I am that for so long I have hungback from speaking to you, since I did not know whetherit would be right—­things being thus—­toask you to mix your lot with mine, or whether I oughtto marry you, if you would marry me, keeping thissecret from you. Only the other night I soughtcounsel of—­well, never mind of whom—­andwe prayed together, and together searched the Wordof God. And there, Lysbeth, by some wonderfulmercy, I found my prayer answered and my doubts solved,for the great St. Paul had foreseen this case, as inthat Book all cases are foreseen, and I read how theunbelieving wife may be sanctified by the husband,and the unbelieving husband by the wife. Theneverything grew clear to me, and I determined to speak.And now, dear, I have spoken, and it is for you toanswer.”

“Dirk, dear Dirk,” she replied almostwith a cry, “alas! for the answer which I mustgive you. Renounce the error of your ways, makeconfession, and be reconciled to the Church and—­Iwill marry you. Otherwise I cannot, no, and althoughI love you, you and no other man”—­hereshe put an energy into her voice that was almost dreadful—­“withall my heart and soul and body; I cannot, I cannot,I cannot!”

Dirk heard, and his ruddy face turned ashen grey.

“Cousin,” he replied, “you seekof me the one thing which I must not give. Evenfor your sake I may not renounce my vows and my Godas I behold Him. Though it break my heart tobid you farewell and live without you, here I payyou back in your own words—­I cannot, I cannot,I cannot!”

Lysbeth looked at him, and lo! his short, massiveform and his square-cut, honest countenance in thatardour of renunciation had suffered a change to thingsalmost divine. At that moment—­to hersight at least—­this homely Hollander worethe aspect of an angel. She ground her teethand pressed her hands upon her heart. “Forhis sake—­to save him,” she mutteredto herself—­then she spoke.

“I respect you for it, I love you for it morethan ever; but, Dirk, it is over between us.One day, here or hereafter, you will understand andyou will forgive.”

“So be it,” said Dirk hastily, stretchingout his hand to find his hat, for he was too blindto see. “It is a strange answer to my prayer,a very strange answer; but doubtless you are rightto follow your lights as I am sure that I am rightto follow mine. We must carry our cross, dearLysbeth, each of us; you see that we must carry ourcross. Only I beg of you—­I don’tspeak as a jealous man, because the thing has gonefurther than jealousy—­I speak as a friend,and come what may while I live you will always findme that—­I beg of you, beware of the Spaniard,Montalvo. I know that he followed you to the coast;I have heard too he boasts that he will marry you.The man is wicked, although he took me in at first.I feel it—­his presence seems to poison theair, yes, this very air I breathe. But oh! andI should like him to hear me say it, because I amsure that he is at the bottom of all this, his hourwill come. For whatever he does he will be paidback; he will be paid back here and hereafter.And now, good-bye. God bless you and protect you,dear Lysbeth. If you think it wrong you are quiteright not to marry me, and I know that you will keepmy secret. Good-bye, again,” and liftingher hand Dirk kissed it. Then he stumbled fromthe room.

As for Lysbeth she cast herself at full length, andin the bitterness of her heart beat her brow uponthe boards.

When the front door had shut behind Dirk, but notbefore, Montalvo emerged from his hiding place andstood over the prostrate Lysbeth. He tried toadopt his airy and sarcastic manner, but he was shakenby the scene which he had overheard, shaken and somewhatfrightened also, for he felt that he had called intobeing passions of which the force and fruits couldnot be calculated.

“Bravo! my little actress,” he began,then gave it up and added in his natural voice, “youhad best rise and see me burn this paper.”

Lysbeth struggled to her knees and watched him thrustthe document between two glowing peats.

“I have fulfilled my promise,” he said,“and that evidence is done with, but in caseyou should think of playing any tricks and not fulfillingyours, please remember that I have fresh evidence infinitelymore valuable and convincing, to gain which, indeed,I condescended to a stratagem not quite in keepingwith my traditions. With my own ears I heardthis worthy gentleman, who is pleased to think so poorlyof me, admit that he is a heretic. That is enoughto burn him any day, and I swear that if within threeweeks we are not man and wife, burn he shall.”

While he was speaking Lysbeth had risen slowly toher feet. Now she confronted him, no longer theLysbeth whom he had known, but a new being filledlike a cup with fury that was the more awful becauseit was so quiet.

“Juan de Montalvo,” she said in a lowvoice, “your wickedness has won and for Dirk’ssake my person and my goods must pay its price.So be it since so it must be, but listen. I makeno prophecies about you; I do not say that this orthat shall happen to you, but I call down upon youthe curse of God and the execration of men.”

Then she threw up her hands and began to pray.“God, Whom it has pleased that I should be givento a fate far worse than death; O God, blast the mindand the soul of this monster. Let him henceforthnever know a peaceful hour; let misfortune come uponhim through me and mine; let fears haunt his sleep.Let him live in heavy labour and die in blood andmisery, and through me; and if I bear children to him,let the evil be upon them also.”

She ceased. Montalvo looked at her and triedto speak. Again he looked and again he triedto speak, but no words would come.

Then the fear of Lysbeth van Hout fell upon him, thatfear which was to haunt him all his life. Heturned and crept from the room, and his face was likethe face of an old man, nor, notwithstanding the heightof his immediate success, could his heart have beenmore heavy if Lysbeth had been an angel sent straightfrom Heaven to proclaim to him the unalterable doomof God.

CHAPTER VII

HENDRIK BRANT HAS A VISITOR

Nine months had gone by, and for more then eight ofthem Lysbeth had been known as the Countess Juan deMontalvo. Indeed of this there could be no doubt,since she was married with some ceremony by the Bishopin the Groote Kerk before the eyes of all men.Folk had wondered much at these hurried nuptials,though some of the more ill-natured shrugged theirshoulders and said that when a young woman had compromisedherself by long and lonely drives with a Spanish cavalier,and was in consequence dropped by her own admirer,why the best thing she could do was to marry as soonas possible.

So the pair, who looked handsome enough before thealtar, were wed, and went to taste of such nuptialbliss as was reserved for them in Lysbeth’scomfortable house in the Bree Straat. Here theylived almost alone, for Lysbeth’s countrymenand women showed their disapproval of her conductby avoiding her company, and, for reasons of his own,Montalvo did not encourage the visiting of Spaniardsat his house. Moreover, the servants were changed,while Tante Clara and the girl Greta had also disappeared.Indeed, Lysbeth, finding out the false part whichthey had played towards her, dismissed them both beforeher marriage.

It will be guessed that after the events that ledto their union Lysbeth took little pleasure in herhusband’s society. She was not one of thosewomen who can acquiesce in marriage by fraud or capture,and even learn to love the hand which snared them.So it came about that to Montalvo she spoke very seldom;indeed after the first week of marriage she only sawhim on rare occasions. Very soon he found outthat his presence was hateful to her, and turned herdetestation to account with his usual cleverness.In other words, Lysbeth bought freedom by parting withher property—­in fact, a regular tariffwas established, so many guilders for a week’sliberty, so many for a month’s.

This was an arrangement that suited Montalvo wellenough, for in his heart he was terrified of thiswoman, whose beautiful face had frozen into a perpetualmask of watchful hatred. He could not forget thatfrightful curse which had taken deep root in his superstitiousmind, and already seemed to flourish there, for itwas true that since she spoke it he had never knowna quiet hour. How could he when he was hauntednight and day by the fear lest his wife should murderhim?

Surely, if ever Death looked out of a woman’seyes it looked out of hers, and it seemed to him thatsuch a deed might trouble her conscience little; thatshe might consider it in the light of an execution,and not as a murder. Bah! he could not bear tothink of it. What would it be to drink his wineone day and then feel a hand of fire gripping at hisvitals because poison had been set within the cup;or, worse still, if anything could be worse, to wakeat night and find a stiletto point grating againsthis backbone? Little wonder that Montalvo sleptalone and was always careful to lock his door.

He need not have taken such precautions; whateverher eyes might say, Lysbeth had no intention of killingthis man. In that prayer of hers she had, asit were, placed the matter in the hand of a higherPower, and there she meant to leave it, feeling quiteconvinced that although vengeance might tarry it wouldfall at last. As for her money, he could haveit. From the beginning her instinct told her thather husband’s object was not amorous, but purelymonetary, a fact of which she soon had plentiful proof,and her great, indeed her only hope was that whenthe wealth was gone he would go too. An otter,says the Dutch proverb, does not nest in a dry dyke.

But oh! what months those were, what dreadful months!From time to time she saw her husband—­whenhe wanted cash—­and every night she heardhim returning home, often with unsteady steps.Twice or thrice a week also she was commanded to preparea luxurious meal for himself and some six or eightcompanions, to be followed by a gambling party at whichthe stakes ruled high. Then in the morning, beforehe was up, strange people would arrive, Jews someof them, and wait till they could see him, or catchhim as he slipped from the house by a back way.These men, Lysbeth discovered, were duns seeking paymentof old debts. Under such constant calls her fortune,which if substantial was not great, melted rapidly.Soon the ready money was gone, then the shares in certainships were sold, then the land and the house itselfwere mortgaged.

So the time went on.

Almost immediately after his refusal by Lysbeth, Dirkvan Goorl had left Leyden, and returned to Alkmaar,where his father lived. His cousin and friend,however, Hendrik Brant, remained there studying thejeweller’s art under the great master of filigreework, who was known as Petrus. One morning, asHendrik was sitting at breakfast in his lodging, itwas announced that a woman who would not give hername, wished to see him. Moved more by curiositythan by any other reason, he ordered her to be admitted.When she entered he was sorry, for in the gaunt personand dark-eyed face he recognised one against whomhe had been warned by the elders of his church asa spy, a creature who was employed by the papal inquisitorsto get up cases against heretics, and who was knownas Black Meg.

“What is your business with me?” Brantasked sternly.

“Nothing to your hurt, worthy Heer, believeme, nothing to your hurt. Oh! yes, I know thattales are told against me, who only earn an honestliving in an honest way, to keep my poor husband, whois an imbecile. Once alas! he followed that madAnabaptist fool, John of Leyden, the fellow who setup as a king, and said that men might have as manywives as they wished. That was what sent my husbandsilly, but, thanks be to the Saints, he has repentedof his errors and is reconciled to the Church andChristian marriage, and now, I, who have a forgivingnature, am obliged to support him.”

“Your business?” said Brant.

“Mynheer,” she answered, dropping herhusky voice, “you are a friend of the CountessMontalvo, she who was Lysbeth van Hout?”

“No, I am acquainted with her, that is all.”

“At least you are a friend of the Heer Dirkvan Goorl who has left this town for Alkmaar; he whowas her lover?”

“Yes, I am his cousin, but he is not the loverof any married woman.”

“No, no, of course not; love cannot look througha bridal veil, can it? Still, you are his friend,and, therefore, perhaps, her friend, and—­sheisn’t happy.”

“Indeed? I know nothing of her presentlife: she must reap the field which she has sown.That door is shut.”

“Not altogether perhaps. I thought it mightinterest Dirk van Goorl to learn that it is stillajar.”

“I don’t see why it should. Fishmerchants are not interested in rotten herrings; theywrite off the loss and send out the smack for a freshcargo.”

“The first fish we catch is ever the finest,Mynheer, and if we haven’t quite caught it,oh! what a fine fish is that.”

“I have no time to waste in chopping riddles.What is your errand? Tell it, or leave it untold,but be quick.”

Black Meg leant forward, and the hoarse voice sankto a cavernous whisper.

“What will you give me,” she asked, “ifI prove to you that the Captain Montalvo is not marriedat all to Lysbeth van Hout?”

“It does not much matter what I would give you,for I saw the thing done in the Groote Kerk yonder.”

“Things are not always done that seem to bedone.”

“Look here, woman, I have had enough of this,”and Brant pointed to the door.

Black Meg did not stir, only she produced a packetfrom the bosom of her dress and laid it on the table.

“A man can’t have two wives living atonce, can he?”

“No, I suppose not—­that is, legally.”

“Well, if I show you that Montalvo has two wives,how much?”

Brant became interested. He hated Montalvo; heguessed, indeed he knew something of the part whichthe man had played in this infamous affair, and knewalso that it would be a true kindness to Lysbeth torid her of him.

“If you proved it,” he said, “letus say two hundred florins.”

“It is not enough, Mynheer.”

“It is all I have to offer, and, mind you, whatI promise to pay.”

“Ah! yes, the other promises and doesn’tpay—­the rogue, the rogue,” she added,striking a bony fist upon the table. “Well,I agree, and I ask no bond, for you merchant folkare not like cavaliers, your word is as good as yourpaper. Now read these,” and she opened thepacket and pushed its contents towards him.

With the exception of two miniatures, which he placedupon one side, they were letters written in Spanishand in a very delicate hand. Brant knew Spanishwell, and in twenty minutes he had read them all.They proved to be epistles from a lady who signedherself Juanita de Montalvo, written to the CountJuan de Montalvo, whom she addressed as her husband.Very piteous documents they were also, telling a talethat need not be set out here of heartless desertion;pleading for the writer’s sake and for the sakeof certain children, that the husband and father wouldreturn to them, or at least remit them means to live,for they, his wife and family, were sunk in greatpoverty.

“All this is sad enough,” said Brant witha gesture of disgust as he glanced at the miniatureof the lady and her children, “but it provesnothing. How are we to know that she is the man’swife?”

Black Meg put her hand into the bosom of her dressand produced another letter dated not more than threemonths ago. It was, or purported to be, writtenby the priest of the village where the lady lived,and was addressed to the Captain the Count Juan deMontalvo at Leyden. In substance this epistlewas an earnest appeal to the noble count from onewho had a right to speak, as the man who had christenedhim, taught him, and married him to his wife, eitherto return to her or to forward her the means to joinhim. “A dreadful rumour,” the letterended, “has reached us here in Spain that youhave taken to wife a Dutch lady at Leyden named VanHout, but this I do not believe, since never couldyou have committed such a crime before God and man.Write, write at once, my son, and disperse this blackcloud of scandal which is gathering on your honouredand ancient name.”

“How did you come by these, woman?” askedBrant.

“The last I had from a priest who brought itfrom Spain. I met him at The Hague, and offeredto deliver the letter, as he had no safe means ofsending it to Leyden. The others and the picturesI stole out of Montalvo’s room.”

“Indeed, most honest merchant, and what mightyou have been doing in his Excellency’s room?”

“I will tell you,” she answered, “for,as he never gave me my pay, my tongue is loosed.He wished for evidence that the Heer Dirk van Goorlwas a heretic, and employed me to find it.”

Brant’s face hardened, and he became more watchful.

“Why did he wish such evidence?”

“To use it to prevent the marriage of JufvrouwLysbeth with the Heer Dirk van Goorl.”

“How?”

Meg shrugged her shoulders. “By tellinghis secret to her so that she might dismiss him, Isuppose, or more likely by threatening that, if shedid not, he would hand her lover over to the Inquisitors.”

“I see. And did you get the evidence?”

“Well, I hid in the Heer Dirk’s bedroomone night, and looking through a door saw him andanother young man, whom I do not know, reading theBible, and praying together.”

“Indeed; what a terrible risk you must haverun, for had those young men, or either of them, chancedto catch you, it is quite certain that you would nothave left that room alive. You know these hereticsthink that they are justified in killing a spy atsight, and, upon my word, I do not blame them.In fact, my good woman,” and he leaned forwardand looked her straight in the eyes, “were Iin the same position I would have knocked you on thehead as readily as though you had been a rat.”

Black Meg shrank back, and turned a little blue aboutthe lips.

“Of course, Mynheer, of course, it is a roughgame, and the poor agents of God must take their risks.Not that the other young man had any cause to fear.I wasn’t paid to watch him, and—­asI have said—­I neither know nor care whohe is.”

“Well, who can say, that may be fortunate foryou, especially if he should ever come to know orto care who you are. But it is no affair of ours,is it? Now, give me those letters. What,do you want your money first? Very well,”and, rising, Brant went to a cupboard and produceda small steel box, which he unlocked; and, having takenfrom it the appointed sum, locked it again. “Thereyou are,” he said; “oh, you needn’tstare at the cupboard; the box won’t live thereafter to-day, or anywhere in this house. By theway, I understand that Montalvo never paid you.”

“Not a stiver,” she answered with a suddenaccess of rage; “the low thief, he promisedto pay me after his marriage, but instead of rewardingher who put him in that warm nest, I tell you thatalready he has squandered every florin of the noblelady’s money in gambling and satisfying suchdebts as he was obliged to, so that to-day I believethat she is almost a beggar.”

“I see,” said Brant, “and now goodmorning, and look you, if we should chance to meetin the town, you will understand that I do not knowyou.”

“I understand, Mynheer,” said Black Megwith a grin and vanished.

When she had gone Brant rose and opened the window.“Bah!” he said, “the air is poisoned.But I think I frightened her, I think that I havenothing to fear. Yet who can tell? My God!she saw me reading the Bible, and Montalvo knows it!Well, it is some time ago now, and I must take mychance.”

Ah! who could tell indeed?

Then, taking the miniatures and documents with him,Brant started to call upon his friend and co-religionist,the Heer Pieter van de Werff, Dirk van Goorl’sfriend, and Lysbeth’s cousin, a young man forwhose judgment and abilities he had a great respect.As a result of this visit, these two gentlemen leftthat afternoon for Brussels, the seat of Government,where they had very influential friends.

It will be sufficient to tell the upshot of theirvisit. Just at that time the Government of theNetherlands wished for its own reasons to stand wellwith the citizen class, and when those in authoritylearned of the dreadful fraud that had been playedoff upon a lady of note who was known to be a goodCatholic, for the sole object of robbing her of herfortune, there was indignation in high places.Indeed, an order was issued, signed by a hand whichcould not be resisted—­so deeply was onewoman moved by the tale of another’s wrong—­thatthe Count Montalvo should be seized and put upon histrial, just as though he were any common Netherlandmalefactor. Moreover, since he was a man withmany enemies, no one was found to stand between himand the Royal decree.

Three days later Montalvo made an announcement toLysbeth. For a wonder he was supping at homealone with his wife, whose presence he had commanded.She obeyed and attended, sitting at the further endof the table, whence she rose from time to time towait upon him with her own hands. Watching himthe while with her quiet eyes, she noticed that hewas ill at ease.

“Cannot you speak?” he asked at last andsavagely. “Do you think it is pleasantfor a man to sit opposite a woman who looks like acorpse in her coffin till he wishes she were one?”

“So do I,” answered Lysbeth, and againthere was silence.

Presently she broke it. “What do you want?”she asked. “More money?”

“Of course I want money,” he answeredfuriously.

“Then there is none; everything has gone, andthe notary tells me that no one will advance anotherstiver on the house. All my jewellery is soldalso.”

He glanced at her hand. “You have stillthat ring,” he said.

She looked at it. It was a hoop of gold set withemeralds of considerable value which her husband hadgiven her before marriage and always insisted uponher wearing. In fact, it had been bought withthe money which he borrowed from Dirk van Goorl.

“Take it,” she said, smiling for the firsttime, and drawing off the ring she passed it overto him. He turned his head aside as he stretchedhis hand towards the trinket lest his face should betraythe shame which even he must feel.

“If your child should be a son,” he muttered,“tell him that his father had nothing but apiece of advice to leave him; that he should nevertouch a dice-box.”

“Are you going away then?” she asked.

“For a week or two I must. I have beenwarned that a difficulty has arisen, about which Ineed not trouble you. Doubtless you will hearof it soon enough, and though it is not true, I mustleave Leyden until the thing blows over. In factI am going now.”

“You are about to desert me,” she answered;“having got all my money, I say that you aregoing to desert me who am—­thus! I seeit in your face.”

Montalvo turned away and pretended not to hear.

“Well, thank God for it,” Lysbeth added,“only I wish that you could take your memoryand everything else of yours with you.”

As these bitter words passed her lips the door opened,and there entered one of his own subalterns, followedby four soldiers and a man in a lawyer’s robe.

“What is this?” asked Montalvo furiously.

The subaltern saluted as he entered:

“My captain, forgive me, but I act under orders,and they are to arrest you alive, or,” he addedsignificantly, “dead.”

“Upon what charge?” asked Montalvo.

“Here, notary, you had best read the charge,”said the subaltern, “but perhaps the lady wouldlike to retire first,” he added awkwardly.

“No,” answered Lysbeth, “it mightconcern me.”

“Alas! Senora, I fear it does,” putin the notary. Then he began to read the document,which was long and legal. But she was quick tounderstand. Before ever it was done Lysbeth knewthat she was not the lawful wife of Count Juan deMontalvo, and that he was to be put upon his trialfor his betrayal of her and the trick he had playedthe Church. So she was free—­free,and overcome by that thought she staggered, fell, andswooned away.

When her eyes opened again, Montalvo, officer, notary,and soldiers, all had vanished.

CHAPTER VIII

THE MARE’S STABLE

When Lysbeth’s reason returned to her in thatempty room, her first sense was one of wild exultation.She was free, she was not Montalvo’s wife, neveragain could she be obliged to see him, never againcould she be forced to endure the contamination ofhis touch—­that was her thought. Shewas sure that the story was true; were it not truewho could have moved the authorities to take actionagainst him? Moreover, now that she had the key,a thousand things were explained, trivial enough inthemselves, each of them, but in their sum amountingto proof positive of his guilt. Had he not spokenof some entanglement in Spain and of children?Had he not in his sleep—­but it was needlessto remember all these things. She was free!She was free! and there on the table still lay thesymbol of her bondage, the emerald ring that was togive him the means of flight, a flight from this chargewhich he knew was hanging over him. She tookit up, dashed it to the ground and stamped upon it.Next she fell upon her knees, praising and blessingGod, and then, worn out, crept away to rest.

The morning came, the still and beautiful autumn morning,but now all her exultation had left her, and Lysbethwas depressed and heavy hearted. She rose andassisted the one servant who remained in the houseto prepare their breakfast, taking no heed of the sidelongglances that the woman cast at her. Afterwardsshe went to the market to spend some of her last florinsin necessaries. Here and in the streets she becameaware that she was the object of remark, for peoplenudged each other and stared at her. Moreover,as she hurried home appalled, her quick ear caughtthe conversation of two coarse women while they walkedbehind her.

“She’s got it now,” said one.

“Serve her right, too,” answered the other,“for running after and marrying a Spanish don.”

“Marrying?” broke in the first, “itwas the best that she could do. She couldn’tstop to ask questions. Some corpses must be buriedquickly.”

Glancing behind her, Lysbeth saw the creature nipher nostrils with her fingers, as though to shut outan evil smell.

Then she could bear it no longer, and turned uponthem.

“You are evil slanderers,” she said, andwalked away swiftly, pursued by the sound of theirloud, insulting laughter.

At the house she was told that two men were waitingto see her. They proved to be creditors clamouringfor large sums of money, which she could not pay.Lysbeth told them that she knew nothing of the matter.Thereupon they showed her her own writing at the footof deeds, and she remembered that she had signed morethings than she chose to keep count of, everythingindeed that the man who called himself her husbandput before her, if only to win an hour of blessedfreedom from his presence. At length the dunswent away vowing that they would have their money ifthey dragged the bed from under her.

After that came loneliness and silence. No friendappeared to cheer her. Indeed, she had no friendsleft, for by her husband’s command she had brokenoff her acquaintance with all who after the strangecircumstances connected with her marriage were stillinclined to know her. He said that he would haveno chattering Dutch vrouws about the house, and theysaid and believed that the Countess de Montalvo hadbecome too proud to associate with those of her ownclass and people.

Midday came and she could eat no food; indeed, shehad touched none for twenty-four hours; her gorgerose against it, although in her state she neededfood. Now the shame of her position began to comehome to Lysbeth. She was a wife and no wife;soon she must bear the burden of motherhood, and oh!what would that child be? And what should shebe, its mother? What, too, would Dirk think ofher? Dirk, for whom she had done and sufferedall these things. Through the long afternoon hoursshe lay upon her bed thinking such thoughts as thesetill at length her mind gave and Lysbeth grew light-headed.Her brain became a chaos, a perfect hell of distortedimaginations.

Then out of its turmoil and confusion rose a visionand a desire; a vision of peace and a desire for rest.But what rest was there for her except the rest ofdeath? Well, why not die? God would forgiveher, the Mother of God would plead for her who wasshamed and broken-hearted and unfit to live.Even Dirk would think kindly of her when she was dead,though, doubtless, now if he met her he would coverhis eyes with his hand. She was burning hot andshe was thirsty. How cool the water would beon this fevered night. What could be better thanto slip into it and slowly let it close above herpoor aching head? She would go out and look atthe water; in that, at any rate, there could be noharm.

She wrapped herself in a long cloak and drew its hoodover her head. Then she slipped from the houseand stole like a ghost through the darkling streetsand out of the Maren or Sea Poort, where the guardlet her pass thinking that she was a country womanreturning to her village. Now the moon was rising,and by the light of it Lysbeth recognised the place.Here was the spot where she had stood on the day ofthe ice carnival, when that woman who was called Marthathe Mare, and who said that she had known her father,had spoken to her. On that water she had gallopedin Montalvo’s sledge, and up yonder canal therace was run. She followed along its banks, rememberingthe reedy mere some miles away spotted with isletsthat were only visited from time to time by fishermenand wild-fowlers; the great Haarlemer Meer which coveredmany thousands of acres of ground. That mereshe felt must look very cool and beautiful on sucha night as this, and the wind would whisper sweetlyamong the tall bulrushes which fringed its banks.

On Lysbeth went and on; it was a long, long walk,but at last she came there, and, oh! the place wassweet and vast and lonely. For so far as hereye could reach in the light of the low moon therewas nothing but glimmering water broken here and thereby the reed-wreathed islands. Hark! how the frogscroaked and the bitterns boomed among the rushes.Look where the wild ducks swam leaving behind thembroad trails of silver as their breasts broke thesurface of the great mere into rippling lines.

There, on an island, not a bowshot from her, grewtufts of a daisy-like marsh bloom, white flowers suchas she remembered gathering when she was a child.A desire came upon her to pluck some of these flowers,and the water was shallow; surely she could wade tothe island, or if not what did it matter? Thenshe could turn to the bank again, or she might stayto sleep a while in the water; what did it matter?She stepped from the bank—­how sweet andcool it felt to her feet! Now it was up to herknees, now it reached her middle, and now the littlewavelets beat against her breast. But she wouldnot go back, for there ahead of her was the island,and the white flowers were so close that she couldcount them, eight upon one bunch and twelve upon thenext. Another step and the water struck her inthe face, one more and it closed above her head.She rose, and a low cry broke from her lips.

Then, as in a dream, Lysbeth saw a skiff glide outfrom among the rushes before her. She saw alsoa strange mutilated face, which she remembered dimly,bending over the edge of the boat, and a long, brownhand stretched out to clasp her, while a hoarse voicebade her keep still and fear nothing.

After this came a sound of singing in her ears and—­darkness.

When Lysbeth woke again she found herself lying uponthe ground, or rather upon a soft mattress of dryreeds and aromatic grasses. Looking round hershe saw that she was in a hut, reed-roofed and plasteredwith thick mud. In one corner of this hut stooda fireplace with a chimney artfully built of clay,and on the fire of turfs boiled an earthen pot.Hanging from the roof by a string of twisted grasswas a fish, fresh caught, a splendid pike, and nearto it a bunch of smoked eels. Over her also wasthrown a magnificent rug of otter skins. Notingthese things, she gathered that she must be in thehovel of some fisherman.

Now by degrees the past came back to Lysbeth, andshe remembered her parting with the man who calledhimself her husband; remembered also her moonlightflight and how she had waded out into the waters ofthe great mere to pluck the white flowers, and how,as they closed above her head a hand had been stretchedout to save her. Lysbeth remembered, and remembering,she sighed aloud. The sound of her sighing seemedto attract the attention of some one who was listeningoutside the hut; at any rate a rough door was openedor pushed aside and a figure entered.

“Are you awake, lady?” asked a hoarsevoice.

“Yes,” answered Lysbeth, “but tellme, how did I come here, and who are you?”

The figure stepped back so that the light from theopen door fell full upon it. “Look, Carolusvan Hout’s daughter and Juan Montalvo’swife; those who have seen me once do not forget me.”

Lysbeth sat up on the bed and stared at the gaunt,powerful form, the deep-set grey eyes, the wide-spreadnostrils, the scarred, high cheek-bones, the teethmade prominent by some devil’s work upon thelips, and the grizzled lock of hair that hung acrossthe forehead. In an instant she knew her.

“You are Martha the Mare,” she said.

“Yes, I am the Mare, none other, and you arein the Mare’s stable. What has he beendoing to you, that Spanish dog, that you came lastnight to ask the Great Water to hide you and yourshame?”

Lysbeth made no answer; the story seemed hard to beginwith this strange woman. Then Martha went on:

“What did I tell you, Lysbeth van Hout?Did I not say that your blood should warn you againstthe Spaniards? Well, well, you saved me from theice and I have saved you from the water. Ah! whowas it that led me to row round by that outer islelast night because I could not sleep? But whatdoes it matter; God willed it so, and here you liein the Mare’s stable. Nay, do not answerme, first you must eat.”

Then, going to the pot, she took it from the fire,pouring its contents into an earthen basin, and, atthe smell of them, for the first time for days Lysbethfelt hungry. Of what that stew was compoundedshe never learned, but she ate it to the last spoonfuland was thankful, while Martha, seated on the groundbeside her, watched her with delight, from time totime stretching out a long, thin hand to touch thebrown hair that hung about her shoulders.

“Come out and look,” said Martha whenher guest had done eating. And she led her throughthe doorway of the hut.

Lysbeth gazed round her, but in truth there was notmuch to see. The hut itself was hidden away ina little clump of swamp willows that grew upon a moundin the midst of a marshy plain, broken here and thereby patches of reed and bulrushes. Walking acrossthis plain for a hundred yards or so, they came tomore reeds, and in them a boat hidden cunningly, forhere was the water of the lake, and, not fifty pacesaway, what seemed to be the shore of an island.The Mare bade her get into the boat and rowed heracross to this island, then round it to another, andthence to another and yet another.

“Now tell me,” she said, “upon whichof them is my stable built?”

Lysbeth shook her head helplessly.

“You cannot tell, no, nor any living man; Isay that no man lives who could find it, save I myself,who know the path there by night or by day. Look,”and she pointed to the vast surface of the mere, “onthis great sea are thousands of such islets, and beforethey find me the Spaniards must search them all, forhere upon the lonely waters no spies or hound willhelp them.” Then she began to row againwithout even looking round, and presently they werein the clump of reeds from which they had started.

“I must be going home,” faltered Lysbeth.

“No,” answered Martha, “it is toolate, you have slept long. Look, the sun is westeringfast, this night you must stop with me. Oh! donot be afraid, my fare is rough, but it is sweet andfresh and plenty; fish from the mere as much as youwill, for who can catch them better than I? Andwater-fowl that I snare, yes, and their eggs; moreover,dried flesh and bacon which I get from the mainland,for there I have friends whom sometimes I meet atnight.”

So Lysbeth yielded, for the great peace of this lakepleased her. Oh! after all that she had gonethrough it was like heaven to watch the sun sinkingtowards the quiet water, to hear the wild-fowl call,to see the fish leap and the halcyons flash by, andabove all to be sure that by nothing short of a miraclecould this divine silence, broken only by Nature’svoices, be defiled with the sound of the hated accentsof the man who had ruined and betrayed her. Yes,she was weary, and a strange unaccustomed langourcrept over her; she would rest there this night also.

So they went back to the hut, and made ready theirevening meal, and as she fried the fish over the fireof peats, verily Lysbeth found herself laughing likea girl again. Then they ate it with appetite,and after it was done, Mother Martha prayed aloud;yes, and without fear, although she knew Lysbeth tobe a Catholic, read from her one treasure, a Testament,crouching there in the light of the fire and saying:

“See, lady, what a place this is for a hereticto hide in. Where else may a woman read fromthe Bible and fear no spy or priest?” Rememberinga certain story, Lysbeth shivered at her words.

“Now,” said the Mare, when she had finishedreading, “tell me before you sleep, what itwas that brought you into the waters of the HaarlemerMeer, and what that Spanish man has done to you.Do not be afraid, for though I am mad, or so theysay, I can keep counsel, and between you and me aremany bonds, Carolus van Hout’s daughter, someof which you know and see, and some that you can neitherknow nor see, but which God will weave in His ownseason.”

Lysbeth looked at the weird countenance, distortedand made unhuman by long torment of body and mind,and found in it something to trust; yes, even signsof that sympathy which she so sorely needed. Soshe told her all the tale from the first word of itto the last.

The Mare listened in silence, for no story of evilperpetrated by a Spaniard seemed to move or astonishher, only when Lysbeth had done, she said:

“Ah! child, had you but known of me, and whereto find me, you should have asked my aid.”

“Why, mother, what could you have done?”answered Lysbeth.

“Done? I would have followed him by nightuntil I found my chance in some lonely place, andthere I would have——­” Thenshe stretched out her bony hand to the red light ofthe fire, and Lysbeth saw that in it was a knife.

She sank back aghast.

“Why are you frightened, my pretty lady?”asked the Mare. “I tell you that I liveon for only one thing—­to kill Spaniards,yes, priests first and then the others. Oh!I have a long count to pay; for every time that hewas tortured a life, for every groan he uttered atthe stake a life; yes, so many for the father andhalf as many for the son. Well, I shall liveto be old, I know that I shall live to be old, andthe count will be discharged, ay, to the last stiver.”

As she spoke, the outlawed Water Wife had risen, andthe flare of the fire struck full upon her. Itwas an awful face that Lysbeth beheld by the lightof it, full of fierceness and energy, the face of aninspired avenger, dread and unnatural, yet not altogetherrepulsive. Indeed, that countenance was suchas an imaginative artist might give to one of thebeasts in the Book of Revelation. Amazed and terrified,Lysbeth said nothing.

“I frighten you, gentle one,” went onthe Mare, “you who, although you have suffered,are still full of the milk of human kindness.Wait, woman, wait till they have murdered the manyou love, till your heart is like my heart, and youalso live on, not for love’s sake, not for life’ssake, but to be a Sword, a Sword, a Sword in the handof God!”

“Cease, I pray you,” said Lysbeth in alow voice; “I am faint, I am ill.”

Ill she was indeed, and before morning there, in thatlonely hovel on the island of the mere, a son wasborn to her.

When she was strong enough her nurse spoke:

“Will you keep the brat, or shall I kill it?”she asked.

“How can I kill my child?” said Lysbeth.

“It is the Spaniard’s child also, andremember the curse you told me of, your own curseuttered on this thing before ever you were married?If it lives that curse shall cling to it, and throughit you, too, shall be accursed. Best let me killit and have done.”

“How can I kill my own child? Touch itnot,” answered Lysbeth sullenly.

So the black-eyed boy lived and throve.

Somewhat slowly, lying there in the island hut, Lysbethwon back her strength. The Mare, or Mother Martha,as Lysbeth had now learned to call her, tended heras few midwives would have done. Food, too, shehad in plenty, for Martha snared the fowl and caughtthe fish, or she made visits to the mainland, andthence brought eggs and milk and flesh, which, soshe said, the boors of that country gave her as muchas she wanted of them. Also, to while away thehours, she would read to her out of the Testament,and from that reading Lysbeth learnt many things whichuntil then she had not known. Indeed, before itwas done with—­Catholic though she was—­shebegan to wonder in what lay the wickedness of theseheretics, and how it came about that they were worthyof death and torment, since, sooth to say, in thisBook she could find no law to which their lives anddoctrine seemed to give offence.

Thus it happened that Martha, the fierce, half-crazywater-dweller, sowed the seed in Lysbeth’s heartthat was to bear fruit in due season.

When three weeks had gone by and Lysbeth was on herfeet again, though as yet scarcely strong enough totravel, Martha told her that she had business whichwould keep her from home a night, but what the businesswas she refused to say. Accordingly on a certainafternoon, having left good store of all things toLysbeth’s hand, the Mare departed in her skiff,nor did she return till after midday on the morrow.Now Lysbeth talked of leaving the island, but Marthawould not suffer it, saying that if she desired togo she must swim, and indeed when Lysbeth went tolook she found that the boat had been hidden elsewhere.So, nothing loth, she stayed on, and in the crispautumn air her health and beauty came back to her,till she was once more much as she had been beforethe day when she went sledging with Juan de Montalvo.

On a November morning, leaving her infant in the hutwith Martha, who had sworn to her on the Bible thatshe would not harm it, Lysbeth walked to the extremityof the island. During the night the first sharpfrost of late autumn had fallen, making a thin filmof ice upon the surface of the lake, which meltedrapidly as the sun grew high. The air too wasvery clear and calm, and among the reeds, now turninggolden at their tips, the finches flew and chirped,forgetful that winter was at hand. So sweet andpeaceful was the scene that Lysbeth, also forgetfulof many things, surveyed it with a kind of rapture.She knew not why, but her heart was happy that morning;it was as though a dark cloud had passed from herlife; as though the blue skies of peace and joy werespread about her. Doubtless other clouds mightappear upon the horizon; doubtless in their seasonthey would appear, but she felt that this horizonwas as yet a long way off, and meanwhile above herbent the tender sky, serene and sweet and happy.

Upon the crisp grass behind her suddenly she hearda footfall, a new footfall, not that of the long,stealthy stride of Martha, who was called the Mare,and swung round upon her heel to meet it.

Oh, God! Who was this? Oh, God! there beforeher stood Dirk van Goorl. Dirk, and no otherthan Dirk, unless she dreamed, Dirk with his kindface wreathed in a happy smile, Dirk with his armsoutstretched towards her. Lysbeth said nothing,she could not speak, only she stood still gazing,gazing, gazing, and always he came on, till now hisarms were round her. Then she sprang back.

“Do not touch me,” she cried, “rememberwhat I am and why I stay here.”

“I know well what you are, Lysbeth,” heanswered slowly; “you are the holiest and purestwoman who ever walked this earth; you are an angelupon this earth; you are the woman who gave her honourto save the man she loved. Oh! be silent, besilent, I have heard the story; I know it every word,and here I kneel before you, and, next to my God, Iworship you, Lysbeth, I worship you.”

“But the child,” she murmured, “itlives, and it is mine and the man’s.”

Dirk’s face hardened a little, but he only answered:

“We must bear our burdens; you have borne yours,I must bear mine,” and he seized her hands andkissed them, yes, and the hem of her garment and kissedit also.

So these two plighted their troth.

Afterwards Lysbeth heard all the story. Montalvohad been put upon his trial, and, as it chanced, thingswent hard with him. Among his judges one wasa great Netherlander lord, who desired to uphold therights of his countrymen; one was a high ecclesiastic,who was furious because of the fraud that had beenplayed upon the Church, which had been trapped intocelebrating a bigamous marriage; and a third was aSpanish grandee, who, as it happened, knew the familyof the first wife who had been deserted.

Therefore, for the luckless Montalvo, when the casehad been proved to the hilt against him by the evidenceof the priest who brought the letter, of the wife’sletters, and of the truculent Black Meg, who now foundan opportunity of paying back “hot water forcold,” there was little mercy. His characterwas bad, and it was said, moreover, that because ofhis cruelties and the shame she had suffered at hishands, Lysbeth van Hout had committed suicide.At least, this was certain, that she was seen runningat night towards the Haarlemer Meer, and that afterthis, search as her friends would, nothing more couldbe heard of her.

So, that an example might be made, although he writhedand fenced his best, the noble captain, Count Juande Montalvo, was sent to serve for fourteen yearsin the galleys as a common slave. And there, forthe while, was an end of him.

There also was an end of the strange and tragic courtshipof Dirk van Goorl and Lysbeth van Hout.

Six months afterwards they were married, and by Dirk’swish took the child, who was christened Adrian, tolive with them. A few months later Lysbeth enteredthe community of the New Religion, and less than twoyears after her marriage a son was born to her, thehero of this story, who was named Foy.

As it happened, she bore no other children.

BOOK THE SECOND

THE RIPENING

CHAPTER IX

ADRIAN, FOY, AND MARTIN THE RED

Many years had gone by since Lysbeth found her loveagain upon the island in the Haarlemer Meer.The son that she bore there was now a grown man, aswas her second son, Foy, and her own hair showed greybeneath the lappets of her cap.

Fast, fast wove the loom of God during those fatefulyears, and the web thereof was the story of a people’sagony and its woof was dyed red with their blood.Edict had followed edict, crime had been heaped uponcrime. Alva, like some inhuman and incarnatevengeance, had marched his army, quiet and harmlessas is the tiger when he stalks his prey, across thefields of France. Now he was at Brussels, andalready the heads of the Counts Egmont and Hoorn hadfallen; already the Blood Council was establishedand at its work. In the Low Countries law hadceased to exist, and there anything might happen howevermonstrous or inhuman. Indeed, with one decreeof the Holy Office, confirmed by a proclamation ofPhilip of Spain, all the inhabitants of the Netherlands,three millions of them, had been condemned to death.Men’s minds were full of terror, for on everyside were burnings and hangings and torturings.Without were fightings, within were fears, and noneknew whom they could trust, since the friend of to-daymight be the informer or judge of to-morrow.All this because they chose to worship God in theirown fashion unaided by images and priests.

Although so long a time had passed, as it chancedthose personages with whom we have already made acquaintancein this history were still alive. Let us beginwith two of them, one of whom we know and one of whom,although we have heard of him before, will requiresome introduction—­Dirk van Goorl and hisson Foy.

Scene—­an upper room above a warehouse overlookingthe market-place of Leyden, a room with small windowsand approached by two staircases; time, a summer twilight.The faint light which penetrated into this chamberthrough the unshuttered windows, for to curtain themwould have been to excite suspicion, showed that abouttwenty people were gathered there, among whom wereone or two women. For the most part they weremen of the better class, middle-aged burghers of sobermien, some of whom stood about in knots, while otherswere seated upon stools and benches. At the endof the room addressing them was a man well on in middlelife, with grizzled hair and beard, small and somewhatmean of stature, yet one through whose poor exteriorgoodness seemed to flow like light through some roughcasement of horn. This was Jan Arentz, the famouspreacher, by trade a basket-maker, a man who showedhimself steadfast to the New Religion through allafflictions, and who was gifted with a spirit whichcould remain unmoved amidst the horrors of perhapsthe most terrible persecution that Christians havesuffered since the days of the Roman Emperors.He was preaching now and these people were his congregation.

“I come not to bring peace but a sword,”was his text, and certainly this night it was mostappropriate and one easy of illustration. Forthere, on the very market-place beneath them, guardedby soldiers and surrounded with the rabble of thecity, two members of his flock, men who a fortnightbefore had worshipped in that same room, at this momentwere undergoing martyrdom by fire!

Arentz preached patience and fortitude. He wentback into recent history and told his hearers howhe himself had passed a hundred dangers; how he hadbeen hunted like a wolf, how he had been tried, howhe had escaped from prisons and from the swords ofsoldiers, even as St. Paul had done before him, andhow yet he lived to minister to them this night.He told them that they must have no fear, that theymust go on quite happy, quite confident, taking whatit pleased God to send them, feeling that it wouldall be for the best; yes, that even the worst wouldbe for the best. What was the worst? Somehours of torment and death. And what lay beyondthe death? Ah! let them think of that. Thewhole world was but a brief and varying shadow, whatdid it matter how or when they walked out of thatshadow into the perfect light? The sky was veryblack, but behind it the sun shone. They mustlook forward with the eye of faith; perhaps the sufferingsof the present generation were part of the schemeof things; perhaps from the earth which they wateredwith their blood would spring the flower of freedom,that glorious freedom in whose day all men would beable to worship their Creator responsible only to theBible law and their own conscience, not to the dogmasor doctrines of other men.

As Arentz spoke thus, eloquently, sweetly, spoke likeone inspired, the twilight deepened and the flareof those sacrificial fires flickered on the windowpane, and the mixed murmurs of the crowd of witnessesbroke upon his listeners’ ears. The preacherpaused and looked down upon the dreadful scene below,for from where he stood he could behold it all.

“Mark is dead,” he said, “and ourdear brother, Andreas Jansen, is dying; the executionersheap the faggots round him. You think it cruel,you think it piteous, but I say to you, No. Isay that it is a holy and a glorious sight, for wewitness the passing of souls to bliss. Brethren,let us pray for him who leaves us, and for ourselveswho stay behind. Yes, and let us pray for thosewho slay him that know not what they do. We watchhis sufferings, but I tell you that Christ his Lordwatches also; Christ who hung upon the Cross, the victimof such men as these. He stands with him in thefire, His hand compasses him, His voice supports him.Brethren, let us pray.”

Then at his bidding every member of that little congregationknelt in prayer for the passing spirit of AndreasJansen.

Again Arentz looked through the window.

“He dies!” he cried; “a soldierhas thrust him through with a pike in mercy, his headfalls forward. Oh! God, if it be Thy will,grant to us a sign.”

Some strange breath passed through that upper chamber,a cold breath which blew upon the brows of the worshippersand stirred their hair, bringing with it a sense ofthe presence of Andreas Jansen, the martyr. Then,there upon the wall opposite to the window, at thevery spot where their brother and companion, Andreas,saint and martyr, was wont to kneel, appeared thesign, or what they took to be a sign. Yes, thereupon the whitewashed wall, reflected, mayhap, fromthe fires below, and showing clearly in the darkenedroom, shone the vision of a fiery cross. Fora second it was seen. Then it was gone, but toevery soul in this room the vision of that cross hadbrought its message; to each a separate message, anindividual inspiration, for in the light of it theyread strange lessons of life and death. The crossvanished and there was silence.

“Brethren,” said the voice of Arentz,speaking in the darkness, “you have seen.Through the fire and through the shadow, follow theCross and fear not.”

The service was over, and below in the emptied market-placethe executioners collected the poor calcined fragmentsof the martyrs to cast them with contumely and filthyjests into the darkling waters of the river.Now, one by one and two by two, the worshippers slippedaway through some hidden door opening on an alley.Let us look at three of their number as they creptthrough bye streets back to a house on the Bree Straatwith which we are acquainted, two of them walking infront and one behind.

The pair were Dirk van Goorl and his son Foy—­therewas no mistaking their relationship. Save thathe had grown somewhat portly and thoughtful, Dirkwas the Dirk of five and twenty years ago, thickset,grey-eyed, bearded, a handsome man according to theDutch standard, whose massive, kindly countenancebetrayed the massive, kindly mind within. Verylike him was his son Foy, only his eyes were blue insteadof grey, and his hair was yellow. Though theyseemed sad enough just now, these were merry and pleasanteyes, and the round, the somewhat childlike face wasmerry also, the face of a person who looked upon thebright side of things.

There was nothing remarkable or distinguished aboutFoy’s appearance, but from it the observer,who met him for the first time, received an impressionof energy, honesty, and good-nature. In truth,such were apt to set him down as a sailor-man, whohad just returned from a long journey, in the courseof which he had come to the conclusion that this worldwas a pleasant place, and one well worth exploring.As Foy walked down the street with his quick and nauticalgait, it was evident that even the solemn and dreadfulscene which he had just experienced had not altogetherquenched his cheery and hopeful spirit. Yet ofall those who listened to the exhortation of the saint-likeArentz, none had laid its burden of faith and carelessnessfor the future to heart more entirely than Foy vanGoorl.

But of this power of looking on the bright side ofthings the credit must be given to his nature andnot to his piety, for Foy could not be sad for long.Dum spiro, spero would have been his motto hadhe known Latin, and he did not mean to grow sorrowful—­overthe prospect of being burnt, for instance—­untilhe found himself fast to the stake. It was thisquality of good spirits in a depressing and melancholyage that made of Foy so extraordinarily popular acharacter.

Behind these two followed a much more remarkable-lookingpersonage, the Frisian, Martin Roos, or Red Martin,so named from his hair, which was red to the vergeof flame colour, and his beard of a like hue that hungalmost to his breast. There was no other suchbeard in Leyden; indeed the boys, taking advantageof his good nature, would call to him as he passed,asking him if it was true that the storks nested init every spring. This strange-looking man, whowas now perhaps a person of forty years of age, forten years or more had been the faithful servant ofDirk van Goorl, whose house he had entered under circumstanceswhich shall be told of in their place.

Any one glancing at Martin casually would not havesaid that he was a giant, and yet his height was considerable;to be accurate, when he stood upright, something oversix feet three inches. The reason why he didnot appear to be tall was that in truth his great bulkshortened him to the eye, and also because his carriedhimself ill, more from a desire to conceal his sizethan for any other reason. It was in girth ofchest and limb that Martin was really remarkable, somuch so that a short-armed man standing before himcould not make his fingers touch behind his back.His face was fair as a girl’s, and almost asflat as a full moon, for of nose he had little.Nature, indeed, had furnished him with one of ordinary,if not excessive size, but certain incidents in Martin’searly career, which in our day would be designatedas that of a prize-fighter, had caused it to spreadabout his countenance in an interesting and curiousfashion. His eyebrows, however, remained prominent.Beneath them appeared a pair of very large, round,and rather mild blue eyes, covered with thick whitelids absolutely devoid of lashes, which eyes had amost unholy trick of occasionally taking fire whentheir owner was irritated. Then they could burnand blaze like lamps tied to a barge on a dark night,with an effect that was all the more alarming becausethe rest of his countenance remained absolutely impassive.

Suddenly while this little company went homewardsa sound arose in the quiet street as of people running.Instantly all three of them pressed themselves intothe doorway of a house and crouched down. Martinlifted his ear and listened.

“Three people,” he whispered; “awoman who flies and two men who follow.”

At that moment a casement was thrown open forty pacesor so away, and a hand, bearing a torch, thrust outof it. By its light they saw the pale face ofa lady speeding towards them, and after her two Spanishsoldiers.

“The Vrouw Andreas Jansen,” whisperedMartin again, “flying from two of the guardwho burned her husband.”

The torch was withdrawn and the casement shut witha snap. In those days quiet burghers could notafford to be mixed up in street troubles, especiallyif soldiers had to do with them. Once more theplace was empty and quiet, except for the sound ofrunning feet.

Opposite to the doorway the lady was overtaken.“Oh! let me go,” she sobbed, “oh!let me go. Is it not enough that you have killedmy husband? Why must I be hunted from my housethus?”

“Because you are so pretty, my dear,”answered one of the brutes, “also you are rich.Catch hold of her, friend. Lord! how she kicks!”

Foy made a motion as though to start out of the doorway,but Martin pressed him back with the flat of his hand,without apparent effort, and yet so strongly thatthe young man could not move.

“My business, masters,” he muttered; “youwould make a noise,” and they heard his breathcome thick.

Now, moving with curious stealthiness for one of sogreat a bulk, Martin was out of the porch. Bythe summer starlight the watchers could see that,before they had caught sight of, or even heard, him,he gripped the two soldiers, small men, like mostSpaniards, by the napes of their necks, one in eitherhand, and was grinding their faces together. This,indeed, was evident, for his great shoulders workedvisibly and their breastplates clicked as they touched.But the men themselves made no sound at all.Then Martin seemed to catch them round the middle,and behold! in another second the pair of them hadgone headlong into the canal, which ran down the centreof the street.

“My God! he has killed them,” mutteredDirk.

“And a good job, too, father,” said Foy,“only I wish that I had shared in it.”

Martin’s great form loomed in the doorway.“The Vrouw Jansen has fled away,” he said,“and the street is quite quiet now, so I thinkthat we had better be moving before any see us, mymasters.”

Some days later the bodies of these Spanish soldierswere found with their faces smashed flat. Itwas suggested in explanation of this plight, thatthey had got drunk and while fighting together hadfallen from the bridge on to the stonework of a pier.This version of their end found a ready acceptance,as it consorted well with the reputations of the men.So there was no search or inquiry.

“I had to finish the dogs,” Martin explainedapologetically—­“may the Lord Jesusforgive me—­because I was afraid that theymight know me again by my beard.”

“Alas! alas!” groaned Dirk, “whattimes are these. Say nothing of this dreadfulmatter to your mother, son, or to Adrian either.”But Foy nudged Martin in the ribs and muttered, “Welldone, old fellow, well done!”

After this experience, which the reader must rememberwas nothing extraordinary in those dark and dreadfuldays when neither the lives of men nor the safetyof women—­especially Protestant men and women—­werethings of much account, the three of them reached homewithout further incident, and quite unobserved.Arriving at the house, they entered it near the Watergateby a back door that led into the stableyard. Itwas opened by a woman whom they followed into a littleroom where a light burned. Here she turned andkissed two of them, Dirk first and then Foy.

“Thank God that I see you safe,” she said.“Whenever you go to the Meeting-place I trembleuntil I hear your footsteps at the door.”

“What’s the use of that, mother?”said Foy. “Your fretting yourself won’tmake things better or worse.”

“Ah! dear, how can I help it?” she repliedsoftly; “we cannot all be young and cheerful,you know.”

“True, wife, true,” broke in Dirk, “thoughI wish we could; we should be lighter-hearted so,”and he looked at her and sighed.

Lysbeth van Goorl could no longer boast the beautywhich was hers when first we met her, but she wasstill a sweet and graceful woman, her figure remainingalmost as slim as it had been in girlhood. Thegrey eyes also retained their depth and fire, onlythe face was worn, though more by care and the burdenof memories than with years. The lot of the lovingwife and mother was hard indeed when Philip the Kingruled in Spain and Alva was his prophet in the Netherlands.

“Is it done?” she asked.

“Yes, wife, our brethren are now saints in Paradise,therefore rejoice.”

“It is very wrong,” she answered witha sob, “but I cannot. Oh!” she addedwith a sudden blaze of indignation, “if He isjust and good, why does God suffer His servants tobe killed thus?”

“Perhaps our grandchildren will be able to answerthat question,” replied Dirk.

“That poor Vrouw Jansen,” broke in Lysbeth,“just married, and so young and pretty.I wonder what will become of her.”

Dirk and Foy looked at each other, and Martin, whowas hovering about near the door, slunk back guiltilyinto the passage as though he had attemptedto injure the Vrouw Jansen.

“To-morrow we will look to it, wife. Andnow let us eat, for we are faint with hunger.”

Ten minutes later they were seated at their meal.The reader may remember the room; it was that whereinMontalvo, ex-count and captain, made the speech whichcharmed all hearers on the night when he had lostthe race at the ice-carnival. The same chandelierhung above them, some portion of the same plate, even,repurchased by Dirk, was on the table, but how differentwere the company and the feast! Aunt Clara, thefatuous, was long dead, and with her many of the companionsof that occasion, some naturally, some by the handof the executioner, while others had fled the land.

Pieter van de Werff still lived, however, and thoughregarded with suspicion by the authorities, was a manof weight and honour in the town, but to-night hewas not present there. The food, too, if amplewas plain, not on account of the poverty of the household,for Dirk had prospered in his worldly affairs, beinghard-working and skilful, and the head of the brassfoundry to which in those early days he was apprenticed,but because in such times people thought little ofthe refinements of eating. When life itself isso doubtful, its pleasures and amusements become ofsmall importance. The ample waiting service ofthe maid Greta, who long ago had vanished none knewwhere, and her fellow domestics was now carried onby the man, Martin, and one old woman, since, as everymenial might be a spy, even the richest employed fewof them. In short all the lighter and more cheerfulparts of life were in abeyance.

“Where is Adrian?” asked Dirk.

“I do not know,” answered Lysbeth.“I thought that perhaps——­”

“No,” replied her husband hastily; “hedid not accompany us; he rarely does.”

“Brother Adrian likes to look underneath thespoon before he licks it,” said Foy with hismouth full.

The remark was enigmatic, but his parents seemed tounderstand what Foy meant; at least it was followedby an uncomfortable and acquiescent silence.Just then Adrian came in, and as we have not seen himsince, some four and twenty years ago, he made hisentry into the world on the secret island in the HaarlemerMeer, here it may be as well to describe his appearance.

He was a handsome young man, but of quite a differentstamp from his half-brother, Foy, being tall, slight,and very graceful in figure; advantages which he hadinherited from his mother Lysbeth. In countenance,however, he differed from her so much that none wouldhave guessed him to be her son. Indeed, Adrian’sface was pure Spanish, there was nothing of a Netherlanderabout his dark beauty. Spanish were the eyesof velvet black, set rather close together, Spanishalso the finely chiselled features and the thin, spreadingnostrils, Spanish the cold, yet somewhat sensual mouth,more apt to sneer than smile; the straight, blackhair, the clear, olive skin, and that indifferent,half-wearied mien which became its wearer well enough,but in a man of his years of Northern blood wouldhave seemed unnatural or affected.

He took his seat without speaking, nor did the othersspeak to him till his stepfather Dirk said:

“You were not at the works to-day, Adrian, althoughwe should have been glad of your help in foundingthe culverin.”

“No, father”—­he called himfather—­answered the young man in a measuredand rather melodious voice. “You see wedon’t quite know who is going to pay for thatpiece. Or at any rate I don’t quite know,as nobody seems to take me into confidence, and ifit should chance to be the losing side, well, it mightbe enough to hang me.”

Dirk flushed up, but made no answer, only Foy remarked:

“That’s right, Adrian, look after yourown skin.”

“Just now I find it more interesting,”went on Adrian loftily and disregardful of his brother,“to study those whom the cannon may shoot thanto make the cannon which is to shoot them.”

“Hope you won’t be one of them,”interrupted Foy again.

“Where have you been this evening, son?”asked Lysbeth hastily, fearing a quarrel.

“I have been mixing with the people, mother,at the scene on the market-place yonder.”

“Not the martyrdom of our good friend, Jansen,surely?”

“Yes, mother, why not? It is terrible,it is a crime, no doubt, but the observer of lifeshould study these things. There is nothing morefascinating to the philosopher than the play of humanpassions. The emotions of the brutal crowd, thestolid indifference of the guard, the grief of thesympathisers, the stoical endurance of the victimsanimated by religious exaltation——­”

“And the beautiful logic of the philosopher,with his nose in the air, while he watches his friendand brother in the Faith being slowly burnt to death,”broke out Foy with passion.

“Hush! hush!” said Dirk, striking hisfist upon the table with a blow that caused the glassesto ring, “this is no subject for word-chopping.Adrian, you would have been better with us than downbelow at that butchery, even though you were lesssafe,” he added, with meaning. “ButI wish to run none into danger, and you are of an ageto judge for yourself. I beg you, however, tospare us your light talk about scenes that we thinkdreadful, however interesting you may have found them.”

Adrian shrugged his shoulders and called to Martinto bring him some more meat. As the great manapproached him he spread out his fine-drawn nostrilsand sniffed.

“You smell, Martin,” he said, “andno wonder. Look, there is blood upon your jerkin.Have you been killing pigs and forgotten to changeit?”

Martin’s round blue eyes flashed, then wentpale and dead again.

“Yes, master,” he answered, in his thickvoice, “I have been killing pigs. But yourdress also smells of blood and fire; perhaps you wenttoo near the stake.” At that moment, toput an end to the conversation, Dirk rose and saidgrace. Then he went out of the room accompaniedby his wife and Foy, leaving Adrian to finish hismeal alone, which he did reflectively and at leisure.

When he left the eating chamber Foy followed Martinacross the courtyard to the walled-in stables, andup a ladder to the room where the serving man slept.It was a queer place, and filled with an extraordinarycollection of odds and ends; the skins of birds, otters,and wolves; weapons of different makes, notably avery large two-handed sword, plain and old-fashioned,but of excellent steel; bits of harness and otherthings.

There was no bed in this room for the reason thatMartin disdained a bed, a few skins upon the floorbeing all that he needed to lie on. Nor did heask for much covering, since so hardy was he by nature,that except in the very bitterest weather his woollenvest was enough for him. Indeed, he had beenknown to sleep out in it when the frost was so sharpthat he rose with his hair and beard covered with icicles.

Martin shut the door and lit three lanterns, whichhe hung to hooks upon the wall.

“Are you ready for a turn, master?” heasked.

Foy nodded as he answered, “I want to get thetaste of it all out of my mouth, so don’t spareme. Lay on till I get angry, it will make meforget,” and taking a leathern jerkin off a peghe pulled it over his head.

“Forget what, master?”

“Oh! the prayings and the burnings and VrouwJansen, and Adrian’s sea-lawyer sort of talk.”

“Ah, yes, that’s the worst of them allfor us,” and the big man leapt forward and whispered.“Keep an eye on him, Master Foy.”

“What do you mean?” asked Foy sharplyand flushing.

“What I say.”

“You forget; you are talking of my brother,my own mother’s son. I will hear no harmof Adrian; his ways are different to ours, but he isgood-hearted at bottom. Do you understand me,Martin?”

“But not your father’s son, master.It’s the sire sets the strain; I have bred horses,and I know.”

Foy looked at him and hesitated.

“No,” said Martin, answering the questionin his eyes. “I have nothing against him,but he always sees the other side, and that’sbad. Also he is Spanish——­”

“And you don’t like Spaniards,”broke in Foy. “Martin, you are a pig-headed,prejudiced, unjust jackass.”

Martin smiled. “No, master, I don’tlike Spaniards, nor will you before you have donewith them. But then it is only fair as they don’tlike me.”

“I say, Martin,” said Foy, following anew line of thought, “how did you manage thatbusiness so quietly, and why didn’t you let medo my share?”

“Because you’d have made a noise, master,and we didn’t want the watch on us; also, beingfulled armed, they might have bettered you.”

“Good reasons, Martin. How did you do it?I couldn’t see much.”

“It is a trick I learned up there in Friesland.Some of the Northmen sailors taught it me. Thereis a place in a man’s neck, here at the back,and if he is squeezed there he loses his senses ina second. Thus, master—­” andputting out his great hand he gripped Foy’s neckin a fashion that caused him the intensest agony.

“Drop it,” said Foy, kicking at his shins.

“I didn’t squeeze; I was only showingyou,” answered Martin, opening his eyes.“Well, when their wits were gone of course itwas easy to knock their heads together, so that theymightn’t find them again. You see,”he added, “if I had left them alive—­well,they are dead anyway, and getting a hot supper bynow, I expect. Which shall it be, master?Dutch stick or Spanish point?”

“Stick first, then point,” answered Foy.

“Good. We need ’em both nowadays,”and Martin reached down a pair of ash plants fittedinto old sword hilts to protect the hands of the players.

They stood up to each other on guard, and then againstthe light of the lanterns it could be seen how hugea man was Martin. Foy, although well-built andsturdy, and like all his race of a stout habit, lookedbut a child beside the bulk of this great fellow.As for their stick game, which was in fact sword exercise,it is unnecessary to follow its details, for the endof it was what might almost have been expected.Foy sprang to and fro slashing and cutting, whileMartin the solid scarcely moved his weapon. Thensuddenly there would be a parry and a reach, and thestick would fall with a thud all down the length ofFoy’s back, causing the dust to start from hisleathern jerkin.

“It’s no good,” said Foy at last,rubbing himself ruefully. “What’sthe use of guarding against you, you great brute, whenyou simply crash through my guard and hit me all thesame? That isn’t science.”

“No, master,” answered Martin, “butit is business. If we had been using swords youwould have been in pieces by now. No blame toyou and no credit to me; my reach is longer and myarm heavier, that is all.”

“At any rate I am beaten,” said Foy; “nowtake the rapiers and give me a chance.”

Then they went at it with the thrusting-swords, renderedharmless by a disc of lead upon their points, andat this game the luck turned. Foy was activeas a cat in the eye of a hawk, and twice he managedto get in under Martin’s guard.

“You’re dead, old fellow,” he saidat the second thrust.

“Yes, young master,” answered Martin,“but remember that I killed you long ago, sothat you are only a ghost and of no account. AlthoughI have tried to learn its use to please you, I don’tmean to fight with a toasting fork. This is myweapon,” and, seizing the great sword whichstood in the corner, he made it hiss through the air.

Foy took it from his hand and looked at it. Itwas a long straight blade with a plain iron guard,or cage, for the hands, and on it, in old letters,was engraved one Latin word, Silentium, “Silence.”

“Why is it called ‘Silence,’ Martin?”

“Because it makes people silent, I suppose,master.”

“What is its history, and how did you come byit?” asked Foy in a malicious voice. Heknew that the subject was a sore one with the hugeFrisian.

Martin turned red as his own beard and looked uncomfortable.“I believe,” he answered, staring upwards,“that it was the ancient Sword of Justice ofa little place up in Friesland. As to how I cameby it, well, I forget.”

“And you call yourself a good Christian,”said Foy reproachfully. “Now I have heardthat your head was going to be chopped off with thissword, but that somehow you managed to steal it firstand got away.”

“There was something of the sort,” mumbledMartin, “but it is so long ago that it slipsmy mind. I was so often in broils and drunk inthose days—­may the dear Lord forgive me—­thatI can’t quite remember things. And now,by your leave, I want to go to sleep.”

“You old liar,” said Foy shaking his headat him, “you killed that poor executioner andmade off with his sword. You know you did, andnow you are ashamed to own the truth.”

“May be, may be,” answered Martin vacuously;“so many things happen in the world that a foolman cannot remember them all. I want to go tosleep.”

“Martin,” said Foy, sitting down upona stool and dragging off his leather jerkin, “whatused you to do before you turned holy? You havenever told me all the story. Come now, speak up.I won’t tell Adrian.”

“Nothing worth mentioning, Master Foy.”

“Out with it, Martin.”

“Well, if you wish to know, I am the son ofa Friesland boor.”

“—­And an Englishwoman from Yarmouth:I know all that.”

“Yes,” repeated Martin, “an Englishwomanfrom Yarmouth. She was very strong, my mother;she could hold up a cart on her shoulders while myfather greased the wheels, that is for a bet; otherwiseshe used to make my father hold the cart up whileshe greased the wheels. Folk would cometo see her do the trick. When I grew up I heldthe cart and they both greased the wheels. Butat last they died of the plague, the pair of them,God rest their souls! So I inherited the farm——­”

“And—­” said Foy, fixing himwith his eye.

“And,” jerked out Martin in an unwillingfashion, “fell into bad habits.”

“Drink?” suggested the merciless Foy.

Martin sighed and hung his great head. He hada tender conscience.

“Then you took to prize-fighting,” wenton his tormentor; “you can’t deny it;look at your nose.”

“I did, master, for the Lord hadn’t touchedmy heart in those days, and,” he added, briskingup, “it wasn’t such a bad trade, for nobodyever beat me except a Brussels man once when I wasdrunk. He broke my nose, but afterwards, whenI was sober—­” and he stopped.

“You killed the Spanish boxer here in Leyden,”said Foy sternly.

“Yes,” echoed Martin, “I killedhim sure enough, but—­oh! it was a prettyfight, and he brought it on himself. He was afine man, that Spaniard, but the devil wouldn’tplay fair, so I just had to kill him. I hopethat they bear in mind up above that I had tokill him.”

“Tell me about it, Martin, for I was at TheHague at the time, and can’t remember.Of course I don’t approve of such things”—­andthe young rascal clasped his hands and looked pious—­“butas it is all done with, one may as well hear the storyof the fight. To spin it won’t make youmore wicked than you are.”

Then suddenly Martin the unreminiscent developed amarvellous memory, and with much wealth of detailset out the exact circumstances of that historic encounter.

“And after he had kicked me in the stomach,”he ended, “which, master, you will know he hadno right to do, I lost my temper and hit out withall my strength, having first feinted and knocked uphis guard with my left arm——­”

“And then,” said Foy, growing excited,for Martin really told the story very well, “whathappened?”

“Oh, his head went back between his shoulders,and when they picked him up, his neck was broken.I was sorry, but I couldn’t help it, the Lordknows I couldn’t help it; he shouldn’thave called me ’a dirty Frisian ox’ andkicked me in the stomach.”

“No, that was very wrong of him. But theyarrested you, didn’t they, Martin?”

“Yes, for the second time they condemned meto death as a brawler and a manslayer. You see,the other Friesland business came up against me, andthe magistrates here had money on the Spaniard.Then your dear father saved me. He was burgomasterof that year, and he paid the death fine for me—­alarge sum—­afterwards, too, he taught meto be sober and think of my soul. So you knowwhy Red Martin will serve him and his while thereis a drop of blood left in his worthless carcase.And now, Master Foy, I’m going to sleep, andGod grant that those dirty Spanish dogs mayn’thaunt me.”

“Don’t you fear for that, Martin,”said Foy as he took his departure, “absolvote for those Spaniards. Through your strengthGod smote them who were not ashamed to rob and insulta poor new widowed woman after helping to murder herhusband. Yes, Martin, you may enter that on theright side of the ledger—­for a change—­forthey won’t haunt you at night. I’mmore afraid lest the business should be traced hometo us, but I don’t think it likely since thestreet was quite empty.”

“Quite empty,” echoed Martin nodding hishead. “Nobody saw me except the two soldiersand Vrouw Jansen. They can’t tell, and I’msure that she won’t. Good-night, my youngmaster.”

CHAPTER X

ADRIAN GOES OUT HAWKING

In a house down a back street not very far from theLeyden prison, a man and a woman sat at breakfaston the morning following the burning of the Heer Jansenand his fellow martyr. These also we have metbefore, for they were none other than the estimableBlack Meg and her companion, named the Butcher.Time, which had left them both strong and active, hadnot, it must be admitted, improved their personal appearance.Black Meg, indeed, was much as she had always been,except that her hair was now grey and her features,which seemed to be covered with yellow parchment,had become sharp and haglike, though her dark eyesstill burned with their ancient fire. The man,Hague Simon, or the Butcher, scoundrel by nature andspy and thief by trade, one of the evil spawn of anage of violence and cruelty, boasted a face and formthat became his reputation well. His countenancewas villainous, very fat and flabby, with small, pig-likeeyes, and framed, as it were, in a fringe of sandy-colouredwhiskers, running from the throat to the temple, wherethey faded away into a great expanse of utterly baldhead. The figure beneath was heavy, pot-haunched,and supported upon a pair of bowed but sturdy legs.

But if they were no longer young, and such good looksas they ever possessed had vanished, the years hadbrought them certain compensations. Indeed, itwas a period in which spies and all such wretchesflourished, since, besides other pickings, by specialenactment a good proportion of the realized estatesof heretics was paid over to the informers as blood-money.Of course, however, humble tools like the Butcherand his wife did not get the largest joints of theheretic sheep, for whenever one was slaughtered, therewere always many honest middlemen of various degreeto be satisfied, from the judge down to the executioner,with others who never showed their faces.

Still, when the burnings and torturings were brisk,the amount totalled up very handsomely. Thus,as the pair sat at their meal this morning, they wereengaged in figuring out what they might expect to receivefrom the estate of the late Heer Jansen, or at leastBlack Meg was so employed with the help of a dealboard and a bit of chalk. At last she announcedthe result, which was satisfactory. Simon heldup his fat hands in admiration.

“Clever little dove,” he said, “youought to have been a lawyer’s wife with yourhead for figures. Ah! it grows near, it growsnear.”

“What grows near, you fool?” asked Megin her deep mannish voice.

“That farm with an inn attached of which I dream,standing in rich pasture land with a little wood behindit, and in the wood a church. Not too large;no, I am not ambitious; let us say a hundred acres,enough to keep thirty or forty cows, which you wouldmilk while I marketed the butter and the cheeses——­”

“And slit the throats of the guests,”interpolated Meg.

Simon looked shocked. “No, wife, you misjudgeme. It is a rough world, and we must take queercuts to fortune, but once I get there, respectabilityfor me and a seat in the village church, provided,of course, that it is orthodox. I know that youcome of the people, and your instincts are of thepeople, but I can never forget that my grandfatherwas a gentleman,” and Simon puffed himself outand looked at the ceiling.

“Indeed,” sneered Meg, “and whatwas your grandmother, or, for the matter of that,how do you know who was your grandfather? Countryhouse! The old Red Mill, where you hide goodsout there in the swamp, is likely to be your onlycountry house. Village church? Village gallowsmore likely. No, don’t you look nasty atme, for I won’t stand it, you dirty little liar.I have done things, I know; but I wouldn’t havegot my own aunt burned for an Anabaptist, which shewasn’t, in order to earn twenty florins, sothere.”

Simon turned purple with rage; that aunt story wasone which touched him on the raw. “Ugly——­”he began.

Instantly Meg’s hand shot out and grasped theneck of a bottle, whereon he changed his tune.

“The sex, the sex!” he murmured, turningaside to mop his bald head with a napkin; “well,it’s only their pretty way, they will have theirlittle joke. Hullo, there is someone knockingat the door.”

“And mind how you open it,” said Meg,becoming alert. “Remember we have plentyof enemies, and a pike blade comes through a smallcrack.”

“Can you live with the wise and remain a greenhorn?Trust me.” And placing his arm about hisspouse’s waist, Simon stood on tiptoe and kissedher gently on the cheek in token of reconciliation,for Meg had a nasty memory in quarrels. Thenhe skipped away towards the door as fast as his bandylegs would carry him.

The colloquy there was long and for the most partcarried on through the keyhole, but in the end theirvisitor was admitted, a beetle-browed brute of muchthe same stamp as his host.

“You are nice ones,” he said sulkily,“to be so suspicious about an old friend, especiallywhen he comes on a job.”

“Don’t be angry, dear Hans,” interruptedSimon in a pleading voice. “You know howmany bad characters are abroad in these rough times;why, for aught we could tell, you might have beenone of these desperate Lutherans, who stick at nothing.But about the business?”

“Lutherans, indeed,” snarled Hans; “well,if they are wise they’d stick at your fat stomach;but it is a Lutheran job that I have come from TheHague to talk about.”

“Ah!” said Meg, “who sent you?”

“A Spaniard named Ramiro, who has recently turnedup there, a humorous dog connected with the Inquisition,who seems to know everybody and whom nobody knows.However, his money is right enough, and no doubt hehas authority behind him. He says that you areold friends of his.”

“Ramiro? Ramiro?” repeated Meg reflectively,“that means Oarsman, doesn’t it, and soundslike an alias? Well, I’ve lots of acquaintancesin the galleys, and he may be one of them. Whatdoes he want, and what are the terms?”

Hans leant forward and whispered for a long while.The other two listened in silence, only nodding fromtime to time.

“It doesn’t seem much for the job,”said Simon when Hans had finished.

“Well, friend, it is easy and safe; a fat merchantand his wife and a young girl. Mind you, thereis no killing to be done if we can help it, and ifwe can’t help it the Holy Office will shieldus. Also it is only the letter which he thinksthat the young woman may carry that the noble Ramirowants. Doubtless it has to do with the sacredaffairs of the Church. Any valuables about themwe may keep as a perquisite over and above the pay.”

Simon hesitated, but Meg announced with decision,

“It is good enough; these merchant woman generallyhave jewels hidden in their stays.”

“My dear,” interrupted Simon.

“Don’t ‘my dear’ me,”said Meg fiercely. “I have made up my mind,so there’s an end. We meet by the Boshhuysenat five o’clock at the big oak in the copse,where we will settle the details.”

After this Simon said no more, for he had this virtue,so useful in domestic life—­he knew whento yield.

On this same morning Adrian rose late. The talkat the supper table on the previous night, especiallyFoy’s coarse, uneducated sarcasm, had ruffledhis temper, and when Adrian’s temper was ruffledhe generally found it necessary to sleep himself intogood humour. As the bookkeeper of the establishment,for his stepfather had never been able to induce himto take an active part in its work, which in his hearthe considered beneath him, Adrian should have beenin the office by nine o’clock. Not havingrisen before ten, however, nor eaten his breakfastuntil after eleven, this was clearly impossible.Then he remembered that here was a good chance offinishing a sonnet, of which the last lines were runningin his head. It chanced that Adrian was a bitof a poet, and, like most poets, he found quiet essentialto the art of composition. Somehow, when Foywas in the house, singing and talking, and that greatFrisian brute, Martin, was tramping to and fro, therewas never any quiet, for even when he could not hearthem, the sense of their presence exasperated hisnerves. So now was his opportunity, especiallyas his mother was out—­marketing, she said—­butin all probability engaged upon some wretched andrisky business connected with the people whom she calledmartyrs. Adrian determined to avail himself ofit and finish his sonnet.

This took some time. First, as all true artistsknow, the Muse must be summoned, and she will rarelyarrive under an hour’s appropriate and gloomycontemplation of things in general. Then, especiallyin the case of sonnets, rhymes, which are stubbornand remorseless things, must be found and arranged.The pivot and object of this particular poem was acertain notable Spanish beauty, Isabella d’Ovandaby name. She was the wife of a decrepit but exceedinglynoble Spaniard, who might almost have been her grandfather,and who had been sent as one of a commission appointedby King Philip II. to inquire into certain financialmatters connected with the Netherlands.

This grandee, who, as it happened, was a very industriousand conscientious person, among other cities, hadvisited Leyden in order to assess the value of theImperial dues and taxes. The task did not takehim long, because the burghers rudely and vehementlydeclared that under their ancient charter they werefree from any Imperial dues or taxes whatsoever, norcould the noble marquis’s arguments move themto a more rational view. Still, he argued fora week, and during that time his wife, the lovelyIsabella, dazzled the women of the town with her costumesand the men with her exceedingly attractive person.

Especially did she dazzle the romantic Adrian; hencethe poetry. On the whole the rhymes went prettywell, though there were difficulties, but with industryhe got round them. Finally the sonnet, a high-flownand very absurd composition, was completed.

By now it was time to eat; indeed, there are few thingsthat make a man hungrier than long-continued poeticalexercise, so Adrian ate. In the midst of themeal his mother returned, pale and anxious-faced, forthe poor woman had been engaged in making arrangementsfor the safety of the beggared widow of the martyredJansen, a pathetic and even a dangerous task.In his own way Adrian was fond of his mother, but beinga selfish puppy he took but little note of her caresor moods. Therefore, seizing the opportunityof an audience he insisted upon reading to her hissonnet, not once but several times.

“Very pretty, my son, very pretty,” murmuredLysbeth, through whose bewildered brain the stiltedand meaningless words buzzed like bees in an emptyhive, “though I am sure I cannot guess how youfind the heart in such times as these to write poetryto fine ladies whom you do not know.”

“Poetry, mother,” said Adrian sententiously,“is a great consoler; it lifts the mind fromthe contemplation of petty and sordid cares.”

“Petty and sordid cares!” repeated Lysbethwonderingly, then she added with a kind of cry:“Oh! Adrian, have you no heart that youcan watch a saint burn and come home to philosophiseabout his agonies? Will you never understand?If you could have seen that poor woman this morningwho only three months ago was a happy bride.”Then bursting into tears Lysbeth turned and fled fromthe room, for she remembered that what was the fateof the Vrouw Jansen to-day to-morrow might be her own.

This show of emotion quite upset Adrian whose nerveswere delicate, and who being honestly attached tohis mother did not like to see her weeping.

“Pest on the whole thing,” he thoughtto himself, “why can’t we go away andlive in some pleasant place where they haven’tgot any religion, unless it is the worship of Venus?Yes, a place of orange groves, and running streams,and pretty women with guitars, who like having sonnetsread to them, and——­”

At this moment the door opened and Martin’shuge and flaming poll appeared.

“The master wants to know if you are comingto the works, Heer Adrian, and if not will you beso good as to give me the key of the strong-box ashe needs the cash book.”

With a groan Adrian rose to go, then changed his mind.No, after that perfumed vision of green groves andlovely ladies it was impossible for him to face themalodorous and prosaic foundry.

“Tell them I can’t come,” he said,drawing the key from his pocket.

“Very good, Heer Adrian, why not?”

“Because I am writing.”

“Writing what?” queried Martin.

“A sonnet.”

“What’s a sonnet?” asked Martinblankly.

“Ill-educated clown,” murmured Adrian,then—­with a sudden inspiration, “I’llshow you what a sonnet is; I will read it to you.Come in and shut the door.” Martin obeyed,and was duly rewarded with the sonnet, of which heunderstood nothing at all except the name of the lady,Isabella d’Ovanda. But Martin was not withoutthe guile of the serpent.

“Beautiful,” he said, “beautiful!Read it again, master.”

Adrian did so with much delight, remembering the taleof how the music of Orpheus had charmed the very beasts.

“Ah!” said Martin, “that’sa love-letter, isn’t it, to that splendid, black-eyedmarchioness, whom I saw looking at you?”

“Well, not exactly,” said Adrian, highlypleased, although to tell the truth he could not recollectupon what occasion the fair Isabella had favouredhim with her kind glances. “Yet I supposethat you might call it so, an idealised love-letter,a letter in which ardent and distant yet tender admirationis wrapt with the veil of verse.”

“Quite so. Well, Master Adrian, just yousend it to her.”

“You don’t think that she might be offended?”queried Adrian doubtfully.

“Offended!” said Martin, “if sheis I know nothing of women” (as a matter offact he didn’t.) “No, she will be verypleased; she’ll take it away and read it byherself, and sleep with it under her pillow untilshe knows it by heart, and then I daresay she willask you to come and see her. Well, I must beoff, but thank you for reading me the beautiful poetryletter, Heer Adrian.”

“Really,” reflected Adrian, as the doorclosed behind him, “this is another instanceof the deceitfulness of appearances. I alwaysthought Martin a great, brutal fool, yet in his breast,uncultured as it is, the sacred spark still smoulders.”And then and there he made up his mind that he wouldread Martin a further selection of poems upon the firstopportunity.

If only Adrian could have been a witness to the scenewhich at that very moment was in progress at the works!Martin having delivered the key of the box, soughtout Foy, and proceeded to tell him the story.More, perfidious one, he handed over a rough draftof the sonnet which he had surreptitiously garneredfrom the floor, to Foy, who, clad in a leather apron,and seated on the edge of a casting, read it eagerly.

“I told him to send it,” went on Martin,“and, by St. Peter, I think he will, and thenif he doesn’t have old Don Diaz after him witha pistol in one hand and a stiletto in the other,my name isn’t Martin Roos.”

“Of course, of course,” gasped Foy, kickinghis legs into the air with delight, “why, theycall the old fellow ‘Singe jaloux.’Oh! it’s capital, and I only hope that he opensthe lady’s letters.”

Thus did Foy, the commonplace and practical, makea mock of the poetic efforts of the high-souled andsentimental Adrian.

Meanwhile Adrian, feeling that he required air afterhis literary labours, fetched his peregrine from itsperch—­for he was fond of hawking—­and,setting it on his wrist, started out to find a quarryon the marshes near the town.

Before he was halfway down the street he had forgottenall about the sonnet and the lovely Isabella.His was a curious temperament, and this sentimentality,born of vainness and idle hours, by no means expressedit all. That he was what we should nowadays calla prig we know, and also that he possessed his father’s,Montalvo’s, readiness of speech without hisfather’s sense of humour. In him, as Martinhad hinted, the strain of the sire predominated, forin all essentials Adrian was as Spanish in mind asin appearance.

For instance, the sudden and violent passions intowhich he was apt to fall if thwarted or overlookedwere purely Spanish; there seemed to be nothing ofthe patient, phlegmatic Netherlander about this sideof him. Indeed it was this temper of his perhapsmore than any other desire or tendency that made himso dangerous, for, whereas the impulses of his heartwere often good enough, they were always liable tobe perverted by some access of suddenly provoked rage.

From his birth up Adrian had mixed little with Spaniards,and every influence about him, especially that ofhis mother, the being whom he most loved on earth,had been anti-Spanish, yet were he an hidalgo freshfrom the Court at the Escurial, he could scarcely havebeen more Castilian. Thus he had been broughtup in what might be called a Republican atmosphere,yet he was without sympathy for the love of libertywhich animated the people of Holland. The sturdyindependence of the Netherlanders, their perpetualcriticism of kings and established rules, their vulgarand unheard-of assumption that the good things ofthe world were free to all honest and hard-workingcitizens, and not merely the birthright of blue blood,did not appeal to Adrian. Also from childhoodhe had been a member of the dissenting Church, oneof the New Religion. Yet, at heart, he rejectedthis faith with its humble professors and pastors,its simple, and sometimes squalid rites; its longand earnest prayers offered to the Almighty in thedamp of a cellar or the reek of a cowhouse.

Like thousands of his Spanish fellow-countrymen, hewas constitutionally unable to appreciate the factthat true religion and true faith are the naturalfruits of penitence and effort, and that individualrepentance and striving are the only sacrifices requiredof man.

For safety’s sake, like most politic Netherlanders,Adrian was called upon from time to time to attendworship in the Catholic churches. He did notfind the obligation irksome. In fact, the formsand rites of that stately ceremonial, the moving pictureof the Mass in those dim aisles, the pealing of themusic and the sweet voices of hidden choristers—­allthese things unsealed a fountain in his bosom and atwhiles moved him well nigh to tears. The systemappealed to him also, and he could understand thatin it were joy and comfort. For here was to befound forgiveness of sins, not far off in the heavens,but at hand upon the earth; forgiveness to all whobent the head and paid the fee. Here, ready madeby that prince of armourers, a Church that claimedto be directly inspired, was a harness of proof which,after the death he dreaded (for he was full of spiritualfears and superstitions), would suffice to turn theshafts of Satan from his poor shivering soul, howeversteeped in crime. Was not this a more serviceableand practical faith than that of these loud-voiced,rude-handed Lutherans among whom he lived; men whoelected to cast aside this armour and trust insteadto a buckler forged by their faith and prayers—­yes,and to give up their evil ways and subdue their owndesires that they might forge it better?

Such were the thoughts of Adrian’s secret heart,but as yet he had never acted on them, since, howevermuch he might wish to do so, he had not found thecourage to break away from the influence of his surroundings.His surroundings—­ah! how he hated them!How he hated them! For very shame’s sake,indeed, he could not live in complete idleness amongfolk who were always busy, therefore he acted as accountantin his stepfather’s business, keeping the booksof the foundry in a scanty and inefficient fashion,or writing letters to distant customers, for he wasa skilled clerk, to order the raw materials necessaryto the craft. But of this occupation he was weary,for he had the true Spanish dislike and contempt oftrade. In his heart he held that war was the onlyoccupation worthy of a man, successful war, of course,against foes worth plundering, such as Cortes andPizarro had waged upon the poor Indians of New Spain.

Adrian had read a chronicle of the adventures of theseheroes, and bitterly regretted that he had come intothe world too late to share them. The tale ofheathen foemen slaughtered by thousands, and of theincalculable golden treasures divided among their conquerors,fired his imagination—­especially the treasures.At times he would see them in his sleep, baskets fullof gems, heaps of barbaric gold and guerdon of fairwomen slaves, all given by heaven to the true soldierwhom it had charged with the sacred work of Christianisingunbelievers by means of massacre and the rack.

Oh! how deeply did he desire such wealth and the powerwhich it would bring with it; he who was dependentupon others that looked down upon him as a lazy dreamer,who had never a guilder to spare in his pouch, whohad nothing indeed but more debts than he cared toremember. But it never occurred to him to setto work and grow rich like his neighbours by honesttoil and commerce. No, that was the task of slaves,like these low Hollander fellows among whom his lotwas cast.

Such were the main characteristics of Adrian, surnamedvan Goorl; Adrian the superstitious but unspiritualdreamer, the vain Sybarite, the dull poet, the chopperof false logic, the weak and passionate self-seeker,whose best and deepest cravings, such as his love forhis mother and another love that shall be told of,were really little more than a reflection of his ownpride and lusts, or at least could be subordinatedto their fulfilment. Not that he was altogetherbad; somewhere in him there was a better part.Thus: he was capable of good purposes and ofbitter remorse; under certain circumstances even hemight become capable also of a certain spurious spiritualexaltation. But if this was to bloom in his heart,it must be in a prison strong enough to protect fromthe blows of temptation. Adrian tempted wouldalways be Adrian overcome. He was fashioned bynature to be the tool of others or of his own desires.

It may be asked what part had his mother in him; wherein his weak ignoble nature was the trace of her pureand noble character? It seems hard to find.Was this want to be accounted for by the circumstancesconnected with his birth, in which she had been sounwilling an agent? Had she given him somethingof her body but naught of that which was within herown control—­her spirit? Who can say?This at least is true, that from his mother’sstock he had derived nothing beyond a certain Dutchdoggedness of purpose which, when added to his otherqualities, might in some events make him formidable—­athing to fear and flee from.

Adrian reached the Witte Poort, and paused on thisside of the moat to reflect about things in general.Like most young men of his time and blood, as hasbeen said, he had military leanings, and was convincedthat, given the opportunity, he might become one ofthe foremost generals of his age. Now he wasengaged in imagining himself besieging Leyden at thehead of a great army, and in fancy disposing his forcesafter such fashion as would bring about its fall inthe shortest possible time. Little did he guessthat within some few years this very question wasto exercise the brain of Valdez and other great Spanishcaptains.

Whilst he was thus occupied suddenly a rude voicecalled,

“Wake up, Spaniard,” and a hard object—­itwas a green apple—­struck him on his flatcap nearly knocking out the feather. Adrian leapedround with an oath, to catch sight of two lads, loutsof about fifteen, projecting their tongues and jeeringat him from behind the angles of the gate-house.Now Adrian was not popular with the youth of Leyden,and he knew it well. So, thinking it wisest totake no notice of this affront, he was about to continueon his way when one of the youths, made bold by impunity,stepped from his corner and bowed before him tillthe ragged cap in his hand touched the dust, saying,in a mocking voice,

“Hans, why do you disturb the noble hidalgo?Cannot you see that the noble hidalgo is going fora walk in the country to look for his most high father,the honourable duke of the Golden Fleece, to whom heis taking a cockolly bird as a present?”

Adrian heard and winced at the sting of the insult,as a high-bred horse winces beneath the lash.Of a sudden rage boiled in his veins like a fountainof fire, and drawing the dagger from his girdle, herushed at the boys, dragging the hooded hawk, whichhad become dislodged from his wrist, fluttering throughthe air after him. At that moment, indeed, hewould have been capable of killing one or both of themif he could have caught them, but, fortunately forhimself and them, being prepared for an onslaught,they vanished this way and that up the narrow lanes.Presently he stopped, and, still shaking with wrath,replaced the hawk on his wrist and walked across thebridge.

“They shall pay for it,” he muttered.“Oh! I will not forget, I will not forget.”

Here it may be explained that of the story of hisbirth Adrian had heard something, but not all.He knew, for instance, that his father’s namewas Montalvo, that the marriage with his mother forsome reason was declared to be illegal, and that thisMontalvo had left the Netherlands under a cloud tofind his death, so he had been told, abroad. Morethan this Adrian did not know for certain, since everybodyshowed a singular reticence in speaking to him ofthe matter. Twice he had plucked up courage toquestion his mother on the subject, and on each occasionher face had turned cold and hard as stone, and sheanswered almost in the same words:

“Son, I beg you to be silent. When I amdead you will find all the story of your birth writtendown, but if you are wise you will not read.”

Once he had asked the same question of his stepfather,Dirk van Goorl, whereupon Dirk looked ill at easeand answered:

“Take my advice, lad, and be content to knowthat you are here and alive with friends to take careof you. Remember that those who dig in churchyardsfind bones.”

“Indeed,” replied Adrian haughtily; “atleast I trust that there is nothing against my mother’sreputation.”

At these words, to his surprise, Dirk suddenly turnedpale as a sheet and stepped towards him as thoughhe were about to fly at his throat.

“You dare to doubt your mother,” he began,“that angel out of Heaven—­”then ceased and added presently, “Go! Ibeg your pardon; I should have remembered that youat least are innocent, and it is but natural thatthe matter weighs upon your mind.”

So Adrian went, also that proverb about churchyardsand bones made such an impression on him that he didno more digging. In other words he ceased toask questions, trying to console his mind with theknowledge that, however his father might have behavedto his mother, at least he was a man of ancient rankand ancient blood, which blood was his to-day.The rest would be forgotten, although enough of itwas still remembered to permit of his being tauntedby those street louts, and when it was forgotten theblood, that precious blue blood of an hidalgo of Spain,must still remain his heritage.

CHAPTER XI

ADRIAN RESCUES BEAUTY IN DISTRESS

All that long evening Adrian wandered about the causewayswhich pierced the meadowlands and marshes, ponderingthese things and picturing himself as having attainedto the dignity of a grandee of Spain, perhaps even—­whocould tell—­to the proud rank of a Knightof the Golden Fleece entitled to stand covered inthe presence of his Sovereign. More than onesnipe and other bird such as he had come to hawk roseat his feet, but so preoccupied was he that they wereout of flight before he could unhood his falcon.At length, after he had passed the church of Weddinvliet,and, following the left bank of the Old Vliet, was

opposite to the wood named Boshhuyen after the half-ruinedcastle that stood in it, he caught sight of a heronwinging its homeward way to the heronry, and castoff his peregrine out of the hood. She saw thequarry at once and dashed towards it, whereon theheron, becoming aware of the approach of its enemy,began to make play, rising high into the air in narrowcircles. Swiftly the falcon climbed after it inwider rings till at length she hovered high aboveand stooped, but in vain. With a quick turn ofthe wings the heron avoided her, and before the falconcould find her pitch again, was far on its path towardsthe wood.

Once more the peregrine climbed and stooped with alike result. A third time she soared upwardsin great circles, and a third time rushed downwards,now striking the quarry full and binding to it.Adrian, who was following their flight as fast ashe could run, leaping some of the dykes in his pathand splashing through others, saw and paused to watchthe end. For a moment hawk and quarry hung inthe air two hundred feet above the tallest tree beneaththem, for at the instant of its taking the heron hadbegun to descend to the grove for refuge, a strugglingblack dot against the glow of sunset. Then, stillbound together, they rushed downward headlong, fortheir spread and fluttering wings did not serve tostay their fall, and vanished among the tree-tops.

“Now my good hawk will be killed in the boughs—­oh!what a fool was I to fly so near the wood,”thought Adrian to himself as again he started forward.

Pushing on at his best pace, soon he was wanderingabout among the trees as near to that spot where hehad seen the birds fall as he could guess it, callingto the falcon and searching for her with his eyes.But here, in the dense grove, the fading light grewfaint, so that at length he was obliged to abandonthe quest in despair, and turned to find his way tothe Leyden road. When within twenty paces of it,suddenly he came upon hawk and heron. The heronwas stone dead, and the brave falcon so injured thatit seemed hopeless to try to save her, for as he feared,they had crashed through the boughs of a tree in theirfall. Adrian looked at her in dismay, for heloved this bird, which was the best of its kind inthe city, having trained her himself from a nestling.Indeed there had always been a curious sympathy betweenhimself and this fierce creature of which he madea companion as another man might of a dog. Evennow he noted with a sort of pride that broken-wingedand shattered though she was, her talons remainedfixed in the back of the quarry, and her beak throughthe neck.

He stroked the falcon’s head, whereon the bird,recognising him, loosed her grip of the heron andtried to flutter to her accustomed perch upon hiswrist, only to fall to the ground, where she lay watchinghim with her bright eyes. Then, because therewas no help for it, although he choked with griefat the deed, Adrian struck her on the head with hisstaff until she died.

“Goodbye, friend,” he muttered; “atleast that is the best way to go hence, dying witha dead foe beneath,” and, picking up the peregrine,he smoothed her ruffled feathers and placed her tenderlyin his satchel.

Then it was, just as Adrian rose to his feet, standingbeneath the shadow of the big oak upon which the birdshad fallen, that coming from the road, which was separatedfrom him by a little belt of undergrowth, he heardthe sound of men’s voices growling and threatening,and with them a woman’s cry for help. Atany other time he would have hesitated and reconnoitred,or, perhaps, have retreated at once, for he knew wellthe dangers of mixing himself up in the quarrels ofwayfarers in those rough days. But the loss ofthe hawk had exasperated his nerves, making any excitementor adventure welcome to him. Therefore, withoutpausing to think, Adrian pushed forward through thebrushwood to find himself in the midst of a curiousscene.

Before him ran the grassy road or woodland lane.In the midst of it, sprawling on his back, for hehad been pulled from his horse, lay a stout burgher,whose pockets were being rifled by a heavy-browedfootpad, who from time to time, doubtless to keep himquiet, threatened his victim with a knife. Onthe pillion of the burgher’s thickset Flemishhorse, which was peacefully cropping at the grass,sat a middle-aged female, who seemed to be strickendumb with terror, while a few paces away a secondruffian and a tall, bony woman were engaged in dragginga girl from the back of a mule.

Acting on the impulse of the moment, Adrian shouted,

“Come on, friends, here are the thieves,”whereon the robber woman took to flight and the manwheeled round, as he turned snatching a naked knifefrom his girdle. But before he could lift it Adrian’sheavy staff crashed down upon the point of his shoulder,causing him to drop the dagger with a howl of pain.Again the staff rose and fell, this time upon hishead, staggering him and knocking off his cap, so thatthe light, such as it was, shone upon his villainousfat face, the fringe of sandy-coloured whisker runningfrom throat to temples, and the bald head above, whichAdrian knew at once for that of Hague Simon, or theButcher. Fortunately for him, however, the Butcherwas too surprised, or too much confused by the blowwhich he had received upon his head, to recognisehis assailant. Nor, having lost his knife, andbelieving doubtless that Adrian was only the firstof a troop of rescuers, did he seem inclined to continuethe combat, but, calling to his companion to followhim, he began to run after the woman with a swiftnessalmost incredible in a man of his build and weight,turning presently into the brushwood, where he andhis two fellow thieves vanished away.

Adrian dropped the point of his stick and looked roundhim, for the whole affair had been so sudden, andthe rout of the enemy so complete, that he was temptedto believe he must be dreaming. Not eighty secondsago he was hiding the dead falcon in his satchel, andnow behold! he was a gallant knight who, unarmed,except for a dagger, which he forgot to draw, hadconquered two sturdy knaves and a female accomplice,bristling with weapons, rescuing from their clutchesBeauty (for doubtless the maiden was beautiful), and,incidentally, her wealthy relatives. Just thenthe lady, who had been dragged from the mule to theground, where she still lay, struggled to her kneesand looked up, thereby causing the hood of her travellingcloak to fall back from her head.

Thus it was, softened and illuminated by the lastpale glow of this summer evening, that Adrian firstsaw the face of Elsa Brant, the woman upon whom, inthe name of love, he was destined to bring so muchsorrow.

The hero Adrian, overthrower of robbers, looked atthe kneeling Elsa, and knew that she was lovely, as,under the circumstances, was right and fitting, andthe rescued Elsa, gazing at the hero Adrian, admittedto herself that he was handsome, also that his appearanceon the scene had been opportune, not to say providential.

Elsa Brant, the only child of that Hendrik Brant,the friend and cousin of Dirk van Goorl, who was alreadyfigured in this history, was just nineteen. Hereyes, and her hair which curled, were brown, her complexionwas pale, suggesting delicacy of constitution, hermouth small, with a turn of humour about it, and herchin rather large and firm. She was of middleheight, if anything somewhat under it, with an exquisitelyrounded and graceful figure and perfect hands.Lacking the stateliness of a Spanish beauty, and thecoarse fulness of outline which has always been admiredin the Netherlands, Elsa was still without doubt abeautiful woman, though how much of her charm was owingto her bodily attractions, and how much to her vivaciousmien and to a certain stamp of spirituality that wasset upon her face in repose, and looked out of herclear large eyes when she was thoughtful, it wouldnot be easy to determine. At any rate, her charmswere sufficient to make a powerful impression uponAdrian, who, forgetting all about the Marchionessd’Ovanda, inspirer of sonnets, became enamouredof her then and there; partly for her own sake andpartly because it was the right kind of thing fora deliverer to do.

But it cannot be said, however deep her feelings ofgratitude, that Elsa became enamoured of Adrian.Undoubtedly, as she had recognised, he was handsome,and she much admired the readiness and force with whichhe had smitten that singularly loathsome-looking individualwho had dragged her from the mule. But as itchanced, standing where he did, the shadow of hisface lay on the grass beside her. It was a faintshadow, for the light faded, still it was there, and

it fascinated her, for seen thus the fine featuresbecame sinister and cruel, and their smile of courtesyand admiration was transformed into a most unpleasantsneer. A trivial accident of light, no doubt,and foolish enough that Elsa should notice it undersuch circumstances. But notice it she did, andwhat is more, so quickly are the minds of women turnedthis way or that, and so illogically do they drawa right conclusion from some pure freak of chance,it raised her prejudice against him.

“Oh! Senor,” said Elsa, claspingher hands, “how can I thank you enough?”

This speech was short and not original. Yet therewere two things about it that Adrian noted with satisfaction;first, that it was uttered in a soft and most attractivevoice, and secondly, that the speaker supposed himto be a Spaniard of noble birth.

“Do not thank me at all, gracious lady,”he replied, making his lowest bow. “Toput to flight two robber rogues and a woman was nogreat feat, although I had but this staff for weapon,”he added, perhaps with a view to impressing upon themaiden’s mind that her assailants had been armedwhile he, the deliverer, was not.

“Ah!” she answered, “I daresay thata brave knight like you thinks nothing of fightingseveral men at once, but when that wretch with thebig hands and the flat face caught hold of me I nearlydied of fright. At the best of times I am a dreadfulcoward, and—­no, I thank you, Senor, I canstand now and alone. See, here comes the Heervan Broekhoven under whose escort I am travelling,and look, he is bleeding. Oh! worthy friend,are you hurt?”

“Not much, Elsa,” gasped the Heer, forhe was still breathless with fright and exhaustion,“but that ruffian—­may the hangmanhave him—­gave me a dig in the shoulderwith his knife as he rose to run. However,”he added with satisfaction, “he got nothing fromme, for I am an old traveller, and he never thoughtto look in my hat.”

“I wonder why they attacked us,” saidElsa.

The Heer van Broekhoven rubbed his head thoughtfully.“To rob us, I suppose, for I heard the womansay, ’Here they are; look for the letter onthe girl, Butcher.’”

As he spoke Elsa’s face turned grave, and Adriansaw her glance at the animal she had been riding andslip her arm through its rein.

“Worthy sir,” went on Van Broekhoven,“tell us whom we have to thank.”

“I am Adrian, called Van Goorl,” Adrianreplied with dignity.

“Van Goorl!” said the Heer. “Well,this is strange; Providence could not have arrangedit better. Listen, wife,” he went on, addressingthe stout lady, who all this while had sat still uponthe horse, so alarmed and bewildered that she couldnot speak, “here is a son of Dirk van Goorl,to whom we are charged to deliver Elsa.”

“Indeed,” answered the good woman, recoveringherself somewhat, “I thought from the look ofhim that he was a Spanish nobleman. But whoeverhe is I am sure that we are all very much obliged tohim, and if he could show us the way out of this dreadfulwood, which doubtless is full of robbers, to the houseof our kinsfolk, the Broekhovens of Leyden, I shouldbe still more grateful.”

“Madam, you have only to accept my escort, andI assure you that you need fear no more robbers.Might I in turn ask this lady’s name?”

“Certainly, young sir, she is Elsa Brant, theonly child of Hendrik Brant, the famous goldsmithof The Hague, but doubtless now that you know hername you know all that also, for she must be some kindof cousin to you. Husband, help Elsa on to hermule.”

“Let that be my duty,” said Adrian, and,springing forward, he lifted Elsa to the saddle gracefullyenough. Then, taking her mule by the bridle,he walked onwards through the wood praying in his heartthat the Butcher and his companions would not findcourage to attack them again before they were outof its depths.

“Tell me, sir, are you Foy?” asked Elsain a puzzled voice.

“No,” answered Adrian, shortly, “Iam his brother.”

“Ah! that explains it. You see I was perplexed,for I remember Foy when I was quite little; a beautifulboy, with blue eyes and yellow hair, who was alwaysvery kind to me. Once he stopped at my father’shouse at The Hague with his father.”

“Indeed,” said Adrian, “I am gladto hear that Foy was ever beautiful. I can onlyremember that he was very stupid, for I used to tryto teach him. At any rate, I am afraid you willnot think him beautiful now—­that is, unlessyou admire young men who are almost as broad as theyare long.”

“Oh! Heer Adrian,” she answered,laughing, “I am afraid that fault can be foundwith most of us North Holland folk, and myself amongthe number. You see it is given to very few ofus to be tall and noble-looking like high-born Spaniards—­notthat I should wish to resemble any Spaniard, howeverlovely she might be,” Elsa added, with a slighthardening of her voice and face. “But,”she went on hurriedly, as though sorry that the remarkhad escaped her, “you, sir, and Foy are strangelyunlike to be brothers; is it not so?”

“We are half-brothers,” said Adrian lookingstraight before him; “we have the same motheronly; but please do not call me ‘sir,’call me ‘cousin.’”

“No, I cannot do that,” she replied gaily,“for Foy’s mother is no relation of mine.I think that I must call you ‘Sir Prince,’for, you see, you appeared at exactly the right time;just like the Prince in the fairy-tales, you know.”

Here was an opening not to be neglected by a youngman of Adrian’s stamp.

“Ah!” he said in a tender voice, and lookingup at the lady with his dark eyes, “that isa happy name indeed. I would ask no better lotthan to be your Prince, now and always charged to defendyou from every danger.” (Here, it may be explained,that, however exaggerated his language, Adrian honestlymeant what he said, seeing that already he was convincedthat to be the husband of the beautiful heiress ofone of the wealthiest men in the Netherlands wouldbe a very satisfactory walk in life for a young manin his position.)

“Oh! Sir Prince,” broke in Elsa hurriedly,for her cavalier’s ardour was somewhat embarrassing,“you are telling the story wrong; the tale Imean did not go on like that at all. Don’tyou remember? The hero rescued the lady and handedher over—­to—­to—­herfather.”

“Of whom I think he came to claim her afterwards,”replied Adrian with another languishing glance, anda smile of conscious vanity at the neatness of hisanswer. Their glances met, and suddenly Adrianbecame aware that Elsa’s face had undergonea complete change. The piquante, half-amusedsmile had passed out of it; it was strained and hardand the eyes were frightened.

“Oh! now I understand the shadow—­howstrange,” she exclaimed in a new voice.

“What is the matter? What is strange?”he asked.

“Oh!—­only that your face remindedme so much of a man of whom I am terrified. No,no, I am foolish, it is nothing, those footpads haveupset me. Praise be to God that we are out ofthat dreadful wood! Look, neighbour Broekhoven,here is Leyden before us. Are not those red roofspretty in the twilight, and how big the churches seem.See, too, there is water all round the walls; it mustbe a very strong town. I should think that eventhe Spaniards could not take it, and oh! I amsure that it would be a good thing if we might finda city which we were quite, quite certain the Spaniardscould never take—­all, all of us,”and she sighed heavily.

“If I were a Spanish general with a proper army,”began Adrian pompously, “I would take Leydeneasily enough. Only this afternoon I studiedits weak spots, and made a plan of attack which couldscarcely fail, seeing that the place would only bedefended by a mob of untrained, half-armed burghers.”

Again that curious look returned into Elsa’seyes.

“If you were a Spanish general,” she saidslowly. “How can you jest about such athing as the sacking of a town by Spaniards? Doyou know what it means? That is how they talk;I have heard them,” and she shuddered, thenwent on: “You are not a Spaniard, are you,sir, that you can speak like that?” And withoutwaiting for an answer Elsa urged her mule forward,leaving him a little behind.

Presently as they passed through the Witte Poort,he was at her side again and chatting to her, butalthough she replied courteously enough, he felt thatan invisible barrier had arisen between them.Yes, she had read his secret heart; it was as thoughshe had been a party to his thoughts when he stoodby the bridge this afternoon designing plans for thetaking of Leyden, and half wishing that he might sharein its capture. She mistrusted him, and was halfafraid of him, and Adrian knew that it was so.

Ten minutes’ ride through the quiet town, forin those days of terror and suspicion unless businesstook them abroad people did not frequent the streetsmuch after sundown, brought the party to the van Goorl’shouse in the Bree Straat. Here Adrian dismountedand tried to open the door, only to find that it waslocked and barred. This seemed to exasperatea temper already somewhat excited by the various eventsand experiences of the day, and more especially bythe change in Elsa’s manner; at any rate heused the knocker with unnecessary energy. Aftera while, with much turning of keys and drawing of bolts,the door was opened, revealing Dirk, his stepfather,standing in the passage, candle in hand, while behind,as though to be ready for any emergency, loomed thegreat stooping shape of Red Martin.

“Is that you, Adrian?” asked Dirk in avoice at once testy and relieved. “Thenwhy did you not come to the side entrance instead offorcing us to unbar here?”

“Because I bring you a guest,” repliedAdrian pointing to Elsa and her companions. “Itdid not occur to me that you would wish guests to besmuggled in by a back door as though—­asthough they were ministers of our New Religion.”

The bow had been drawn at a venture but the shaftwent home, for Dirk started and whispered: “Besilent, fool.” Then he added aloud, “Guest!What guest?”

“It is I, cousin Dirk, I, Elsa, Hendrik Brant’sdaughter,” she said, sliding from her mule.

“Elsa Brant!” ejaculated Dirk. “Why,how came you here?”

“I will tell you presently,” she answered;“I cannot talk in the street,” and shetouched her lips with her finger. “Theseare my friends, the van Broekhovens, under whose escortI have travelled from The Hague. They wish togo on to the house of their relations, the other Broekhovens,if some one will show them the way.”

Then followed greetings and brief explanations.After these the Broekhovens departed to the houseof their relatives, under the care of Martin, while,its saddle having been removed and carried into thehouse at Elsa’s express request, Adrian ledthe mule round to the stable.

When Dirk had kissed and welcomed his young cousinhe ushered her, still accompanied by the saddle, intothe room where his wife and Foy were at supper, andwith them the Pastor Arentz, that clergyman who hadpreached to them on the previous night. Herehe found Lysbeth, who had risen from the table anxiouslyawaiting his return. So dreadful were the timesthat a knocking on the door at an unaccustomed hourwas enough to throw those within into a paroxysm offear, especially if at the moment they chanced tobe harbouring a pastor of the New Faith, a crime punishablewith death. That sound might mean nothing morethan a visit from a neighbour, or it might be thetrump of doom to every soul within the house, signifyingthe approach of the familiars of the Inquisition andof a martyr’s crown. Therefore Lysbethuttered a sigh of joy when her husband appeared, followedonly by a girl.

“Wife,” he said, “here is our cousin,Elsa Brant, come to visit us from The Hague, thoughwhy I know not as yet. You remember Elsa, thelittle Elsa, with whom we used to play so many yearsago.”

“Yes, indeed,” answered Lysbeth, as sheput her arms about her and embraced her, saying, “welcome,child, though,” she added, glancing at her,“you should no longer be called child who havegrown into so fair a maid. But look, here isthe Pastor Arentz, of whom you may have heard, forhe is the friend of your father and of us all.”

“In truth, yes,” answered Elsa curtseying,a salute which Arentz acknowledged by saying gravely,

“Daughter, I greet you in the name of the Lord,who has brought you to this house safely, for whichgive thanks.”

“Truly, Pastor, I have need to do so since—­”and suddenly she stopped, for her eyes met those ofFoy, who was gazing at her with such wonder and admirationstamped upon his open face that Elsa coloured at thesight. Then, recovering herself, she held outher hand, saying, “Surely you are my cousinFoy; I should have known you again anywhere by yourhair and eyes.”

“I am glad,” he answered simply, for itflattered him to think that this beautiful young ladyremembered her old playmate, whom she had not seenfor at least eleven years, adding, “but I donot think I should have known you.”

“Why?” she asked, “have I changedso much?”

“Yes,” Foy answered bluntly, “youused to be a thin little girl with red arms, and nowyou are the most lovely maiden I ever saw.”

At this speech everybody laughed, including the Pastor,while Elsa, reddening still more, replied, “Cousin,I remember that you used to be rude, but nowyou have learned to flatter, which is worse. Nay,I beg of you, spare me,” for Foy showed signsof wishing to argue the point. Then turning fromhim she slipped off her cloak and sat down on the chairwhich Dirk had placed for her at the table, reflectingin her heart that she wished it had been Foy who rescuedher from the wood thieves, and not the more polishedAdrian.

Afterwards as the meal went on she told the tale oftheir adventure. Scarcely was it done when Adrianentered the room. The first thing he noticedwas that Elsa and Foy were seated side by side, engagedin animated talk, and the second, that there was nocover for him at the table.

“Have I your permission to sit down, mother?”he asked in a loud voice, for no one had seen himcome in.

“Certainly, son, why not?” answered Lysbeth,kindly. Adrian’s voice warned her thathis temper was ruffled.

“Because there is no place for me, mother, thatis all, though doubtless it is more worthily filledby the Rev. Pastor Arentz. Still, after a manhas been fighting for his life with armed thieves,well—­a bit of food and a place to eat itin would have been welcome.”

“Fighting for your life, son!” said Lysbethastonished. “Why, from what Elsa has justbeen telling us, I gathered that the rascals ran awayat the first blow which you struck with your staff.”

“Indeed, mother; well, doubtless if the ladysays that, it was so. I took no great note; atthe least they ran and she was saved, with the others;a small service not worth mentioning, still usefulin its way.”

“Oh! take my chair, Adrian,” said Foyrising, “and don’t make such a stir abouta couple of cowardly footpads and an old hag.You don’t want us to think you a hero becauseyou didn’t turn tail and leave Elsa and hercompanions in their hands, do you?”

“What you think, or do not think, is a matterof indifference to me,” replied Adrian, seatinghimself with an injured air.

“Whatever my cousin Foy may think, Heer Adrian,”broke in Elsa anxiously, “I am sure I thankGod who sent so brave a gentleman to help us.Yes, yes, I mean it, for it makes me sick to rememberwhat might have happened if you had not rushed atthose wicked men like—­like——­”

“Like David on the Philistines,” suggestedFoy.

“You should study your Bible, lad,” putin Arentz with a grave smile. “It was Samsonwho slew the Philistines; David conquered the giantGoliath, though it is true that he also was a Philistine.”

“Like Samson—­I mean David—­onGoliath,” continued Elsa confusedly. “Oh!please, cousin Foy, do not laugh; I believe that youwould have left me at the mercy of that dreadful manwith a flat face and the bald head, who was tryingto steal my father’s letter. By the way,cousin Dirk, I have not given it to you yet, but itis quite safe, sewn up in the lining of the saddle,and I was to tell you that you must read it by theold cypher.”

“Man with a flat face,” said Dirk anxiously,as he slit away at the stitches of the saddle to findthe letter; “tell me about him. What washe like, and what makes you think he wished to takethe paper from you?”

So Elsa described the appearance of the man and ofthe black-eyed hag, his companion, and repeated alsothe words that the Heer van Broekhoven had heard thewoman utter before the attack took place.

“That sounds like the spy, Hague Simon, himwhom they call the Butcher, and his wife, Black Meg,”said Dirk. “Adrian, you must have seen thesepeople, was it they?”

For a moment Adrian considered whether he should tellthe truth; then, for certain reasons of his own, decidedthat he would not. Black Meg, it may be explained,in the intervals of graver business was not averseto serving as an emissary of Venus. In short,she arranged assignations, and Adrian was fond ofassignations. Hence his reticence.

“How should I know?” he answered, aftera pause; “the place was gloomy, and I have onlyset eyes upon Hague Simon and his wife about twicein my life.”

“Softly, brother,” said Foy, “andstick to the truth, however gloomy the wood may havebeen. You know Black Meg pretty well at any rate,for I have often seen you—­” and hestopped suddenly, as though sorry that the words hadslipped from his tongue.

“Adrian, is this so?” asked Dirk in thesilence which followed.

“No, stepfather,” answered Adrian.

“You hear,” said Dirk addressing Foy.“In future, son, I trust that you will be morecareful with your words. It is no charge to bringlightly against a man that he has been seen in thefellowship of one of the most infamous wretches inLeyden, a creature whose hands are stained red withthe blood of innocent men and women, and who, as yourmother knows, once brought me near to the scaffold.”

Suddenly the laughing boyish look passed out of theface of Foy, and it grew stern.

“I am sorry for my words,” he said, “sinceBlack Meg does other things besides spying, and Adrianmay have had business of his own with her which isno affair of mine. But, as they are spoke, I can’teat them, so you must decide which of us is—­nottruthful.”

“Nay, Foy, nay,” interposed Arentz, “donot put it thus. Doubtless there is some mistake,and have I not told you before that you are over rashof tongue?”

“Yes, and a great many other things,”answered Foy, “every one of them true, for Iam a miserable sinner. Well, all right, thereis a mistake, and it is,” he added, with anair of radiant innocency that somehow was scarcelycalculated to deceive, “that I was merely pokinga stick into Adrian’s temper. I never sawhim talking to Black Meg. Now, are you satisfied?”

Then the storm broke, as Elsa, who had been watchingthe face of Adrian while he listened to Foy’sartless but somewhat fatuous explanation, saw thatit must break.

“There is a conspiracy against me,” saidAdrian, who had grown white with rage; “yes,everything has conspired against me to-day. Firstthe ragamuffins in the street make a mock of me, andthen my hawk is killed. Next it chances thatI rescue this lady and her companions from robbersin the wood. But, do I get any thanks for this?No, I come home to find that I am so much forgottenthat no place is even laid for me at table; more,to be jeered at for the humble services that I havedone. Lastly, I have the lie given to me, andwithout reproach, by my brother, who, were he notmy brother, should answer for it at the sword’spoint.”

“Oh! Adrian, Adrian,” broke in Foy,“don’t be a fool; stop before you saysomething you will be sorry for.”

“That isn’t all,” went on Adrian,taking no heed. “Whom do I find at thistable? The worthy Heer Arentz, a minister of theNew Religion. Well, I protest. I belongto the New Religion myself, having been brought upin that faith, but it must be well known that the presenceof a pastor here in our house exposes everybody tothe risk of death. If my stepfather and Foy chooseto take that risk, well and good, but I maintain thatthey have no right to lay its consequences upon mymother, whose eldest son I am, nor even upon myself.”

Now Dirk rose and tapped Adrian on the shoulder.“Young man,” he said coldly and with glitteringeyes, “listen to me. The risks which I andmy son, Foy, and my wife, your mother, take, we runfor conscience sake. You have nothing to do withthem, it is our affair. But since you have raisedthe question, if your faith is not strong enough tosupport you I acknowledge that I have no right tobring you into danger. Look you, Adrian, youare no son of mine; in you I have neither part norlot, yet I have cared for you and supported you sinceyou were born under very strange and unhappy circumstances.Yes, you have shared whatever I had to give with myown son, without preference or favour, and should haveshared it even after my death. And now, if theseare your opinions, I am tempted to say to you thatthe world is wide and that, instead of idling hereupon my bounty, you would do well to win your own waythrough it as far from Leyden as may please you.”

“You throw your benefits in my teeth, and reproachme with my birth,” broke in Adrian, who by nowwas almost raving with passion, “as though itwere a crime in me to have other blood running in myveins than that of Netherlander tradesfolk. Well,if so, it would seem that the crime was my mother’s,and not mine, who——­”

“Adrian, Adrian!” cried Foy, in warning,but the madman heeded not.

“Who,” he went on furiously, “wascontent to be the companion, for I understand thatshe was never really married to him, of some nobleSpaniard before she became the wife of a Leyden artisan.”

He ceased, and at this moment there broke from Lysbeth’slips a low wail of such bitter anguish that it chilledeven his mad rage to silence.

“Shame on thee, my son,” said the wail,“who art not ashamed to speak thus of the motherthat bore thee.”

“Ay,” echoed Dirk, in the stillness thatfollowed, “shame on thee! Once thou wastwarned, but now I warn no more.”

Then he stepped to the door, opened it, and called,“Martin, come hither.”

Presently, still in that heavy silence, which wasbroken only by the quick breath of Adrian pantinglike some wild beast in a net, was heard the soundof heavy feet shuffling down the passage. ThenMartin entered the room, and stood there gazing abouthim with his large blue eyes, that were like the eyesof a wondering child.

“Your pleasure, master,” he said at length.

“Martin Roos,” replied Dirk, waving backArentz who rose to speak, “take that young man,my stepson, the Heer Adrian, and lead him from myhouse—­without violence if possible.My order is that henceforth you are not to sufferhim to set foot within its threshold; see that it isnot disobeyed. Go, Adrian, to-morrow your possessionsshall be sent to you, and with them such money asshall suffice to start you in the world.”

Without comment or any expression of surprise, thehuge Martin shuffled forward towards Adrian, his handoutstretched as though to take him by the arm.

“What!” exclaimed Adrian, as Martin advanceddown the room, “you set your mastiff on me,do you? Then I will show you how a gentleman treatsdogs,” and suddenly, a naked dagger shining inhis hand, he leaped straight at the Frisian’sthroat. So quick and fierce was the onslaughtthat only one issue to it seemed possible. Elsagasped and closed her eyes, thinking when she openedthem to see that knife plunged to the hilt in Martin’sbreast, and Foy sprang forward. Yet in this twinklingof an eye the danger was done with, for by some movementtoo quick to follow, Martin had dealt his assailantsuch a blow upon the arm that the poniard, jarredfrom his grasp, flew flashing across the room to fallin Lysbeth’s lap. Another second and theiron grip had closed upon Adrian’s shoulder,and although he was strong and struggled furiously,yet he could not loose the hold of that single hand.

“Please cease fighting, Mynheer Adrian, forit is quite useless,” said Martin to his captivein a voice as calm as though nothing unusual had happened.Then he turned and walked with him towards the door.

On the threshold Martin stopped, and looking overhis shoulder said, “Master, I think that theHeer is dead, do you still wish me to put him intothe street?”

They crowded round and stared. It was true, Adrianseemed to be dead; at least his face was like thatof a corpse, while from the corner of his mouth bloodtrickled in a thin stream.

CHAPTER XII

THE SUMMONS

“Wretched man!” said Lysbeth wringingher hands, and with a shudder shaking the dagger fromher lap as though it had been a serpent, “youhave killed my son.”

“Your pardon, mistress,” replied Martinplacidly; “but that is not so. The masterordered me to remove the Heer Adrian, whereon the HeerAdrian very naturally tried to stab me. But I,having been accustomed to such things in my youth,”and he looked deprecatingly towards the Pastor Arentz,“struck the Heer Adrian upon the bone of hiselbow, causing the knife to jump from his hand, forhad I not done so I should have been dead and unableto execute the commands of my master. Then I tookthe Heer Adrian by the shoulder, gently as I might,and walked away with him, whereupon he died of rage,for which I am very sorry but not to blame.”

“You are right, man,” said Lysbeth, “itis you who are to blame, Dirk; yes, you have murderedmy son. Oh! never mind what he said, his temperwas always fierce, and who pays any heed to the talkof a man in a mad passion?”

“Why did you let your brother be thus treated,cousin Foy?” broke in Elsa quivering with indignation.“It was cowardly of you to stand still and seethat great red creature crush the life out of him whenyou know well that it was because of your taunts thathe lost his temper and said things that he did notmean, as I do myself sometimes. No, I will neverspeak to you again—­and only this afternoonhe saved me from the robbers!” and she burstinto weeping.

“Peace, peace! this is no time for angry words,”said the Pastor Arentz, pushing his way through thegroup of bewildered men and overwrought women.“He can scarcely be dead; let me look at him,I am something of a doctor,” and he knelt bythe senseless and bleeding Adrian to examine him.

“Take comfort, Vrouw van Goorl,” he saidpresently, “your son is not dead, for his heartbeats, nor has his friend Martin injured him in anyway by the exercise of his strength, but I think thatin his fury he has burst a blood-vessel, for he bleedsfast. My counsel is that he should be put tobed and his head cooled with cold water till the surgeoncan be fetched to treat him. Lift him in yourarms, Martin.”

So Martin carried Adrian, not to the street, but tohis bed, while Foy, glad of an excuse to escape theundeserved reproaches of Elsa and the painful sightof his mother’s grief, went to seek the physician.In due course he returned with him, and, to the greatrelief of all of them, the learned man announced that,notwithstanding the blood which he had lost, he didnot think that Adrian would die, though, at the best,he must keep his bed for some weeks, have skilfulnursing and be humoured in all things.

While his wife Lysbeth and Elsa were attending toAdrian, Dirk and his son, Foy, for the Pastor Arentzhad gone, sat upstairs talking in the sitting-room,that same balconied chamber in which once Dirk hadbeen refused while Montalvo hid behind the curtain.Dirk was much disturbed, for when his wrath had passedhe was a tender-hearted man, and his stepson’splight distressed him greatly. Now he was justifyinghimself to Foy, or, rather, to his own conscience.

“A man who could speak so of his own mother,was not fit to stop in the same house with her,”he said; “moreover, you heard his words aboutthe pastor. I tell you, son, I am afraid of thisAdrian.”

“Unless that bleeding from his mouth stops soonyou will not have cause to fear him much longer,”replied Foy sadly, “but if you want my opinionabout the business, father, why here it is—­Ithink that you have made too much of a small matter.Adrian is—­Adrian; he is not one of us, andhe should not be judged as though he were. Youcannot imagine me flying into a fury because the womenforgot to set my place at table, or trying to stabMartin and bursting a blood vessel because you toldhim to lead me out of the room. No, I shouldknow better, for what is the use of any ordinary manattempting to struggle against Martin? He mightas well try to argue with the Inquisition. Butthen I am I, and Adrian is Adrian.”

“But the words he used, son. Remember thewords.”

“Yes, and if I had spoken them they would havemeant a great deal, but in Adrian’s mouth Ithink no more of them than if they came from someangry woman. Why, he is always sulking, or takingoffence, or flying into rages over something or other,and when he is like that it all means—­justnothing except that he wants to use fine talk and showoff and play the Don over us. He did not reallymean to lie to me when he said that I had not seenhim talking to Black Meg, he only meant to contradict,or perhaps to hide something up. As a matter offact, if you want to know the truth, I believe thatthe old witch took notes for him to some young lady,and that Hague Simon supplied him with rats for hishawks.”

“Yes, Foy, that may be so, but how about histalk of the pastor? It makes me suspicious, son.You know the times we live in, and if he should gothat way—­remember it is in his blood—­thelives of every one of us are in his hand. Thefather tried to burn me once, and I do not wish thechild to finish the work.”

“Then when they come out of his hand, you areat liberty to cut off mine,” answered Foy hotly.“I have been brought up with Adrian, and I knowwhat he is; he is vain and pompous, and every timehe looks at you and me he thanks God that he was notmade like that. Also he has failings and vices,and he is lazy, being too fine a gentleman to worklike a common Flemish burgher, and all the rest ofit. But, father, he has a good heart, and ifany man outside this house were to tell me that Adrianis capable of playing the traitor and bringing hisown family to the scaffold, well, I would make himswallow his words, or try to, that is all. Asregards what he said about my mother’s firstmarriage”—­and Foy hung his head—­“ofcourse it is a subject on which I have no right totalk, but, father, speaking as one man to another—­heis sadly placed and innocent, whatever othersmay have been, and I don’t wonder that he feelssore about the story.”

As he spoke the door opened and Lysbeth entered.

“How goes it with Adrian, wife?” Dirkasked hastily.

“Better, husband, thank God, though the doctorstays with him for this night. He has lost muchblood, and at the best must lie long abed; above allnone must cross his mood or use him roughly,”and she looked at her husband with meaning.

“Peace, wife,” Dirk answered with irritation.“Foy here has just read me one lecture uponmy dealings with your son, and I am in no mood tolisten to another. I served the man as he deserved,neither less nor more, and if he chose to go mad andvomit blood, why it is no fault of mine. Youshould have brought him up to a soberer habit.”

“Adrian is not as other men are, and ought notto be measured by the same rule,” said Lysbeth,almost repeating Foy’s words.

“So I have been told before, wife, though I,who have but one standard of right and wrong, findthe saying hard. But so be it. Doubtlessthe rule for Adrian is that which should be used tomeasure angels—­or Spaniards, and not onesuited to us poor Hollanders who do our work, payour debts, and don’t draw knives on unarmed men!”

“Have you read the letter from your cousin Brant?”asked Lysbeth, changing the subject.

“No,” answered Dirk, “what withdaggers, swoonings, and scoldings it slipped my mind,”and drawing the paper from his tunic he cut the silkand broke the seals. “I had forgotten,”he went on, looking at the sheets of words interspersedwith meaningless figures; “it is in our privatecypher, as Elsa said, or at least most of it is.Get the key from my desk, son, and let us set to work,for our task is likely to be long.”

Foy obeyed, returning presently with an old Testamentof a very scarce edition. With the help of thisbook and an added vocabulary by slow degrees theydeciphered the long epistle, Foy writing it down sentenceby sentence as they learned their significance.When at length the task was finished, which was nottill well after midnight, Dirk read the translationaloud to Lysbeth and his son. It ran thus:

“Well-beloved cousin and old friend, you willbe astonished to see my dear child Elsa, who bringsyou this paper sewn in her saddle, where I trust nonewill seek it, and wonder why she comes to you withoutwarning. I will tell you.

“You know that here the axe and the stake arevery busy, for at The Hague the devil walks loose;yes, he is the master in this land. Well, althoughthe blow has not yet fallen on me, since for a whileI have bought off the informers, hour by hour thesword hangs over my head, nor can I escape it in theend. That I am suspected of the New Faith is notmy real crime. You can guess it. Cousin,they desire my wealth. Now I have sworn thatno Spaniard shall have this, no, not if I must sinkit in the sea to save it from them, since it has beenheaped up to another end. Yet they desire itsorely, and spies are about my path and about my bed.Worst among them all, and at the head of them, is acertain Ramiro, a one-eyed man, but lately come fromSpain, it is said as an agent of the Inquisition,whose manners are those of a person who was once agentleman, and who seems to know this country well.This fellow has approached me, offering if I willgive him three-parts of my wealth to secure my escapewith the rest, and I have told him that I will considerthe offer. For this reason only I have a littlerespite, since he desires that my money should gointo his pocket and not into that of the Government.But, by the help of God, neither of them shall touchit.

“See you, Dirk, the treasure is not here inthe house as they think. It is hidden, but ina spot where it cannot stay.

“Therefore, if you love me, and hold that Ihave been a good friend to you, send your son Foywith one other strong and trusted man—­yourFrisian servant, Martin, if possible—­onthe morrow after you receive this. When nightfalls he should have been in The Hague some hours,and have refreshed himself, but let him not come nearme or my house. Half an hour after sunset let

him, followed by his serving man, walk up and downthe right side of the Broad Street in The Hague, asthough seeking adventures, till a girl, also followedby a servant, pushes up against him as if on purpose,and whispers in his ear, ’Are you from Leyden,sweetheart?’ Then he must say ‘Yes,’and accompany her till he comes to a place where hewill learn what must be done and how to do it.Above all, he must follow no woman who may accosthim and does not repeat these words. The girlwho addresses him will be short, dark, pretty, andgaily dressed, with a red bow upon her left shoulder.But let him not be misled by look or dress unlessshe speaks the words.

“If he reaches England or Leyden safely withthe stuff let him hide it for the present, friend,till your heart tells you it is needed. I carenot where, nor do I wish to know, for if I knew, fleshand blood are weak, and I might give up the secretwhen they stretch me on the rack.

“Already you have my will sent to you threemonths ago, and enclosed in it a list of goods.Open it now and you will find that under it my possessionspass to you and your heirs absolutely as my executors,for such especial trusts and purposes as are set outtherein. Elsa has been ailing, and it is knownthat the leech has ordered her a change. Thereforeher journey to Leyden will excite no wonder, neither,or so I hope, will even Ramiro guess that I shouldenclose a letter such as this in so frail a casket.Still, there is danger, for spies are many, but havingno choice, and my need being urgent, I must take therisks. If the paper is seized they cannot readit, for they will never make out the cypher, since,even did they know of them, no copies of our bookscan be found in Holland. Moreover, were this writingall plain Dutch or Spanish, it tells nothing of thewhereabouts of the treasure, of its destination, orof the purpose to which it is dedicate. Lastly,should any Spaniard chance to find that wealth, itwill vanish, and, mayhap, he with it.”

“What can he mean by that?” interruptedFoy.

“I know not,” answered Dirk. “Mycousin Brant is not a person who speaks at random,so perhaps we have misinterpreted the passage.”Then he went on reading:

“Now I have done with the pelf, which must takeits chance. Only, I pray you—­I trustit to your honour and to your love of an old friendto bury it, burn it, cast it to the four winds ofheaven before you suffer a Spaniard to touch a gemor a piece of gold.

“I send to you to-day Elsa, my only child.You will know my reason. She will be safer withyou in Leyden than here at The Hague, since if theytake me they might take her also. The priestsand their tools do not spare the young, especiallyif their rights stand between them and money.Also she knows little of my desperate strait; she isignorant even of the contents of this letter, andI do not wish that she should share these troubles.I am a doomed man, and she loves me, poor child.One day she will hear that it is over, and that willbe sad for her, but it would be worse if she knewall from the beginning. When I bid her good-byeto-morrow, it will be for the last time—­Godgive me strength to bear the blow.

“You are her guardian, as you deal with her—­nay,I must be crazy with my troubles, for none other wouldthink it needful to remind Dirk van Goorl or his sonof their duty to the dead. Farewell, friend andcousin. God guard you and yours in these dreadfultimes with which it has pleased Him to visit us fora season, that through us perhaps this country andthe whole world may be redeemed from priestcraft andtyranny. Greet your honoured wife, Lysbeth, fromme; also your son Foy, who used to be a merry lad,and whom I hope to see again within a night or two,although it may be fated that we shall not meet.My blessing on him, especially if he prove faithfulin all these things. May the Almighty who guardsus give us a happy meeting in the hereafter which isat hand. Pray for me. Farewell, farewell.—­HendrikBrant.

“P.S. I beg the dame Lysbeth to see thatElsa wears woollen when the weather turns damp orcold, since her chest is somewhat delicate. Thiswas my wife’s last charge, and I pass it on toyou. As regards her marriage, should she live,I leave that to your judgment with this command only,that her inclination shall not be forced, beyond whatis right and proper. When I am dead, kiss herfor me, and tell her that I loved her beyond any creaturenow living on the earth, and that wherever I am fromday to day I wait to welcome her, as I shall wait towelcome you and yours, Dirk van Goorl. In casethese presents miscarry, I will send duplicates ofthem, also in mixed cypher, whenever chance may offer.”

Having finished reading the translation of this cypherdocument, Dirk bent his head while he folded it, notwishing that his face should be seen. Foy alsoturned aside to hide the tears which gathered in hiseyes, while Lysbeth wept openly.

“A sad letter and sad times!” said Dirkat length.

“Poor Elsa,” muttered Foy, then added,with a return of hopefulness, “perhaps he ismistaken, he may escape after all.”

Lysbeth shook her head as she answered,

“Hendrik Brant is not the man to write likethat if there was any hope for him, nor would he partwith his daughter unless he knew that the end mustbe near at hand.”

“Why, then, does he not fly?” asked Foy.

“Because the moment he stirred the Inquisitionwould pounce upon him, as a cat pounces upon a mousethat tries to run from its corner,” repliedhis father. “While the mouse sits stillthe cat sits also and purrs; when it moves——­”

There was a silence in which Dirk, having fetchedthe will of Hendrik Brant from a safe hiding place,where it had lain since it reached his hands somemonths before, opened the seals and read it aloud.

It proved to be a very short document, under the termsof which Dirk van Goorl and his heirs inherited allthe property, real and personal, of Hendrik Brant,upon trust, (1) to make such ample provision for hisdaughter Elsa as might be needful or expedient; (2)to apply the remainder of the money “for thedefence of our country, the freedom of religious Faith,and the destruction of the Spaniards in such fashionand at such time or times as God should reveal to them,which,” added the will, “assuredly Hewill do.”

Enclosed in this document was an inventory of theproperty that constituted the treasure. At thehead came an almost endless list of jewels, all ofthem carefully scheduled. These were the firstthree items:

“Item: The necklace of great pearls thatI exchanged with the Emperor Charles when he tooka love for sapphires, enclosed in a watertight copperbox.

“Item: A coronet and stomacher of rubiesmounted in my own gold work, the best that ever Idid, which three queens have coveted, and none wasrich enough to buy.

“Item: The great emerald that my fatherleft me, the biggest known, having magic signs ofancients engraved upon the back of it, and enclosedin a chased case of gold.”

Then came other long lists of precious stones, toonumerous to mention, but of less individual value,and after them this entry:

“Item: Four casks filled with gold coin(I know not the exact weight or number).”

At the bottom of this schedule was written, “Avery great treasure, the greatest of all the Netherlands,a fruit of three generations of honest trading andsaving, converted by me for the most part into jewels,that it may be easier to move. This is the prayerof me, Hendrik Brant, who owns it for his life; thatthis gold may prove the earthly doom of any Spaniardwho tries to steal it, and as I write it comes intomy mind that God will grant this my petition.Amen. Amen. Amen! So say I, HendrikBrant, who stand at the Gate of Death.”

All of this inventory Dirk read aloud, and when hehad finished Lysbeth gasped with amazement.

“Surely,” she said, “this littlecousin of ours is richer than many princes. Yes,with such a dowry princes would be glad to take herin marriage.”

“The fortune is large enough,” answeredDirk. “But, oh! what a burden has HendrikBrant laid upon our backs, for under this will thewealth is left, not straight to the lawful heiress,Elsa, but to me and my heirs on the trusts started,and they are heavy. Look you, wife, the Spaniardsknow of this vast hoard, and the priests know of it,and no stone on earth or hell will they leave unturnedto win that money. I say that, for his own sake,my cousin Hendrik would have done better to acceptthe offer of the Spanish thief Ramiro and give himthree-fourths and escape to England with the rest.But that is not his nature, who was ever stubborn,and who would die ten times over rather than enrichthe men he hates. Moreover, he, who is no miser,has saved this fortune that the bulk of it may bespent for his country in the hour of her need, andalas! of that need we are made the judges, since heis called away. Wife, I foresee that these gemsand gold will breed bloodshed and misery to all ourhouse. But the trust is laid upon us and it mustbe borne. Foy, to-morrow at dawn you and Martinwill start for The Hague to carry out the commandof your cousin Brant.”

“Why should my son’s life be risked onthis mad errand?” asked Lysbeth.

“Because it is a duty, mother,” answeredFoy cheerfully, although he tried to look depressed.He was young and enterprising; moreover, the adventurepromised to be full of novelty.

In spite of himself Dirk smiled and bade him summonMartin.

A minute later Foy was in the great man’s denand kicking at his prostrate form. “Wakeup, you snoring bull,” he said, “awake!”

Martin sat up, his red beard showing like a fire inthe shine of the taper. “What is it now,Master Foy?” he asked yawning. “Arethey after us about those two dead soldiers?”

“No, you sleepy lump, it’s treasure.”

“I don’t care about treasure,” repliedMartin, indifferently.

“It’s Spaniards.”

“That sounds better,” said Martin, shuttinghis mouth. “Tell me about it, Master Foy,while I pull on my jerkin.”

So Foy told him as much as he could in two minutes.

“Yes, it sounds well,” commented Martin,critically. “If I know anything of thoseSpaniards, we shan’t get back to Leyden withoutsomething happening. But I don’t like thatbit about the women; as likely as not they will spoileverything.”

Then he accompanied Foy to the upper room, and therereceived his instructions from Dirk with a solemnand unmoved countenance.

“Are you listening?” asked Dirk, sharply.“Do you understand?”

“I think so, master,” replied Martin.“Hear;” and he repeated sentence by sentenceevery word that had fallen from Dirk’s lips,for when he chose to use it Martin’s memorywas good. “One or two questions, master,”he said. “This stuff must be brought throughat all hazards?”

“At all hazards?” answered Dirk.

“And if we cannot bring it through, it mustbe hidden in the best way possible?”

“Yes.”

“And if people should try to interfere withus, I understand that we must fight?”

“Of course.”

“And if in the fighting we chance to kill anybodyI shall not be reproached and called a murderer bythe pastor or others?”

“I think not,” replied Dirk.

“And if anything should happen to my young masterhere, his blood will not be laid upon my head?”

Lysbeth groaned. Then she stood up and spoke.

“Martin, why do you ask such foolish questions?Your peril my son must share, and if harm should cometo him as may chance, we shall know well that it isno fault of yours. You are not a coward or a traitor,Martin.”

“Well, I think not, mistress, at least not often;but you see here are two duties: the first, toget this money through, the second, to protect theHeer Foy. I wish to know which of these is themore important.”

It was Dirk who answered.

“You go to carry out the wishes of my cousinBrant; they must be attended to before anything else.”

“Very good,” replied Martin; “youquite understand, Heer Foy?”

“Oh! perfectly,” replied that young man,grinning.

“Then go to bed for an hour or two, as you mayhave to keep awake to-morrow night; I will call youat dawn. Your servant, master and mistress, Ihope to report myself to you within sixty hours, butif I do not come within eighty, or let us say a hundred,it may be well to make inquiries,” and he shuffledback to his den.

Youth sleeps well whatever may be behind or beforeit, and it was not until Martin had called to himthrice next morning that Foy opened his eyes in thegrey light, and, remembering, sprang from his bed.

“There’s no hurry,” said Martin,“but it will be as well to get out of Leydenbefore many people are about.”

As he spoke Lysbeth entered the room fully dressed,for she had not slept that night, carrying in herhand a little leathern bag.

“How is Adrian, mother?” asked Foy, asshe stooped down to kiss him.

“He sleeps, and the doctor, who is still withhim, says that he does well,” she answered.“But see here, Foy, you are about to start uponyour first adventure, and this is my present to you—­thisand my blessing.” Then she untied the neckof the bag and poured from it something that lay uponthe table in a shining heap no larger than Martin’sfist. Foy took hold of the thing and held it up,whereon the little heap stretched itself out marvellously,till it was as large indeed as the body garment ofa man.

“Steel shirt!” exclaimed Martin, noddinghis head in approval, and adding, “good wearfor those who mix with Spaniards.”

“Yes,” said Lysbeth, “my fatherbrought this from the East on one of his voyages.I remember he told me that he paid for it its weightin gold and silver, and that even then it was soldto him only by the special favour of the king of thatcountry. The shirt, they said, was ancient, andof such work as cannot now be made. It had beenworn from father to son in one family for three hundredyears, but no man that wore it ever died by body-cutor thrust, since sword or dagger cannot pierce thatsteel. At least, son, this is the story, and,strangely enough, when I lost all the rest of my heritage—­”and she sighed, “this shirt was left to me,for it lay in its bag in the old oak chest, and nonenoticed it or thought it worth the taking. Somake the most of it, Foy; it is all that remains ofyour grandfather’s fortune, since this houseis now your father’s.”

Beyond kissing his mother in thanks, Foy made no answer;he was too much engaged in examining the wonders ofthe shirt, which as a worker in metals he could wellappreciate. But Martin said again:

“Better than money, much better than money.God knew that and made them leave the mail.”

“I never saw the like of it,” broke inFoy; “look, it runs together like quicksilverand is light as leather. See, too, it has stoodsword and dagger stroke before to-day,” andholding it in a sunbeam they perceived in many directionsfaint lines and spots upon the links caused in pastyears by the cutting edge of swords and the pointsof daggers. Yet never a one of those links wassevered or broken.

“I pray that it may stand them again if yourbody be inside of it,” said Lysbeth. “Yet,son, remember always that there is One who can guardyou better than any human mail however perfect,”and she left the room.

Then Foy drew on the coat over his woollen jersey,and it fitted him well, though not so well as in afteryears, when he had grown thicker. Indeed, whenhis linen shirt and his doublet were over it none couldhave guessed that he was clothed in armour of proof.

“It isn’t fair, Martin,” he said,“that I should be wrapped in steel and you innothing.”

Martin smiled. “Do you take me for a fool,master,” he said, “who have seen somefighting in my day, private and public? Look here,”and, opening his leathern jerkin, he showed that hewas clothed beneath in a strange garment of thickbut supple hide.

“Bullskin,” said Martin, “tannedas we know how up in Friesland. Not as good asyours, but will turn most cuts or arrows. I satup last night making one for you, it was almost finishedbefore, but the steel is cooler and better for thosewho can afford it. Come, let us go and eat; weshould be at the gates at eight when they open.”

CHAPTER XIII

MOTHER’S GIFTS ARE GOOD GIFTS

At a few minutes to eight that morning a small crowdof people had gathered in front of the Witte Poortat Leyden waiting for the gate to be opened.They were of all sorts, but country folk for the mostpart, returning to their villages, leading mules anddonkeys slung with empty panniers, and shouting greetingsthrough the bars of the gate to acquaintances wholed in other mules laden with vegetables and provisions.Among these stood some priests, saturnine and silent,bent, doubtless, upon dark business of their own.A squad of Spanish soldiers waited also, the insolenceof the master in their eyes; they were marching tosome neighbouring city. There, too, appeared Foyvan Goorl and Red Martin, who led a pack mule; Foydressed in the grey jerkin of a merchant, but armedwith a sword and mounted on a good mare; Martin ridinga Flemish gelding that nowadays would only have beenthought fit for the plough, since no lighter-bonedbeast could carry his weight. Among these moveda dapper little man, with sandy whiskers and sly face,asking their business and destination of the varioustravellers, and under pretence of guarding againstthe smuggling of forbidden goods, taking count uponhis tablets of their merchandise and baggage.

Presently he came to Foy.

“Name?” he said, shortly, although heknew him well enough.

“Foy van Goorl and Martin, his father’sservant, travelling to The Hague with specimens ofbrassware, consigned to the correspondents of ourfirm,” answered Foy, indifferently.

“You are very glib,” sneered the sandy-whiskeredman; “what is the mule laden with? It maybe Bibles for all I know.”

“Nothing half so valuable, master,” repliedFoy; “it is a church chandelier in pieces.”

“Unpack it and show me the pieces,” saidthe officer.

Foy flushed with anger and set his teeth, but Martin,administering to him a warning nudge in the ribs,submitted with prompt obedience.

It was a long business, for each arm of the chandelierhad been carefully wrapped in hay bands, and the officialwould not pass them until every one was undone, afterwhich they must be done up again. While the pairof them were engaged upon this tedious and unnecessarytask, two fresh travellers arrived at the gate, a long,bony person, clothed in a priest-like garb with ahood that hid the head, and a fierce, dissolute-lookingindividual of military appearance and armed to theteeth. Catching sight of young van Goorl and hisservant, the long person, who seemed to ride veryawkwardly with legs thrust forward, whispered somethingto the soldier man, and they passed on without questionthrough the gate.

When Foy and Martin followed them twenty minutes later,they were out of sight, for the pair were well mountedand rode hard.

“Did you recognise them?” asked Martinso soon as they were clear of the crowd.

“No,” said Foy; “who are they?”

“The papist witch, Black Meg, dressed like aman, and the fellow who came here from The Hague yesterday,whither they are going to report that the Heer Adrianrouted them, and that the Broekhovens with the JufvrouwElsa got through unsearched.”

“What does it all mean, Martin?”

“It means, master, that we shall have a warmwelcome yonder; it means that some one guesses weknow about this treasure, and that we shan’tget the stuff away without trouble.”

“Will they waylay us?”

Martin shrugged his shoulders as he answered, “Itis always well to be ready, but I think not.Coming back they may waylay us, not going. Ourlives are of little use without the money; also theycannot be had for the asking.”

Martin was right, for travelling slowly they reachedthe city without molestation, and, riding to the houseof Dirk’s correspondent, put up their horses;ate, rested, delivered the sample chandelier, andgenerally transacted the business which appeared tobe the object of their journey. In the courseof conversation they learned from their host thatthings were going very ill here at The Hague for allwho were supposed to favour the New Religion.Tortures, burnings, abductions, and murders were ofdaily occurrence, nor were any brought to judgmentfor these crimes. Indeed, soldiers, spies, andgovernment agents were quartered on the citizens,doing what they would, and none dared to lift a handagainst them. Hendrik Brant, they heard also,was still at large and carrying on business as usualin his shop, though rumour said that he was a markedman whose time would be short.

Foy announced that they would stay the night, anda little after sunset called to Martin to accompanyhim, as he wished to walk in the Broad Street to seethe sights of the town.

“Be careful, Mynheer Foy,” said theirhost in warning, “for there are many strangecharacters about, men and women. Oh! yes, thismere is full of pike, and fresh bait is snapped upsharply.”

“We will be wary,” replied Foy, with thecheerful air of a young man eager for excitement.“Hague pike don’t like Leyden perch, youknow; they stick in their throats.”

“I hope so, I hope so,” said the host,“still I pray you be careful. You willremember where to find the horses if you want them;they are fed and I will keep them saddled. Yourarrival here is known, and for some reason this houseis being watched.”

Foy nodded and they started out; Foy going first,and Red Martin, staring round him like a bewilderedbumpkin, following at his heel, with his great sword,which was called Silence, girt about his middle, andhidden as much as possible beneath his jerkin.

“I wish you wouldn’t look so big, Martin,”Foy whispered over his shoulder; “everybodyis staring at you and that red beard of yours, whichglows like a kitchen fire.”

“I can’t help it, master,” saidMartin, “my back aches with stooping as it is,and, as for the beard, well, God made it so.”

“At least you might dye it,” answeredFoy; “if it were black you would be less likea beacon on a church tower.”

“Another day, master; it is a long businessdyeing a beard like mine; I think it would be quickerto cut it off.” Then he stopped, for theywere in the Broad Street.

Here they found many people moving to and fro, butalthough the company were so numerous it was difficultto distinguish them, for no moon shone, and the placewas lighted by lanterns set up on poles at long distancesfrom each other. Foy could see, however, thatthey were for the most part folk of bad character,disreputable women, soldiers of the garrison, half-drunksailors from every country, and gliding in and outamong them all, priests and other observers of events.Before they had been long in the crowd a man stumbledagainst Foy rudely, at the same time telling him toget out of the path. But although his blood leaptat the insult and his hand went to his sword hilt,Foy took no notice, for he understood at once thatit was sought to involve him in a quarrel. Nexta woman accosted him, a gaily-dressed woman, but shehad no bow upon her shoulder, so Foy merely shookhis head and smiled. For the rest of that walk,however, he was aware that this woman was watchinghim, and with her a man whose figure he could notdistinguish, for he was wrapped in a black cloak.

Thrice did Foy, followed by Martin, thus promenadethe right side of the Broad Street, till he was heartilyweary of the game indeed, and began to wonder if hiscousin Brant’s plans had not miscarried.

As he turned for the fourth time his doubts were answered,for he found himself face to face with a small womanwho wore upon her shoulder a large red bow, and wasfollowed by another woman, a buxom person dressedin a peasant’s cap. The lady with the redbow, making pretence to stumble, precipitated herselfwith an affected scream right into his arms, and ashe caught her, whispered, “Are you from Leyden,sweetheart?” “Yes.” “Thentreat me as I treat you, and follow always where Ilead. First make pretence to be rid of me.”

As she finished whispering Foy heard a warning stampfrom Martin, followed by the footsteps of the pairwho he knew were watching them, which he could distinguisheasily, for here at the end of the street there werefewer people. So he began to act as best he could—­itwas not very well, but his awkwardness gave him acertain air of sincerity.

“No, no,” he said, “why should Ipay for your supper? Come, be going, my goodgirl, and leave me and my servant to see the town inpeace.”

“Oh! Mynheer, let me be your guide, I begyou,” answered she of the red bow clasping herhands and looking up into his face. Just thenhe heard the first woman who had accosted him speakingto her companion in a loud voice.

“Look,” she said, “Red Bow is tryingher best. Ah! my dear, do you think that you’llget a supper out of a holy Leyden ranter, or a skinoff an eel for the asking?”

“Oh! he isn’t such a selfish fish as helooks,” answered Red Bow over her shoulder,while her eyes told Foy that it was his turn to play.

So he played to the best of his ability, with theresult that ten minutes later any for whom the sighthad interest might have observed a yellow-haired younggallant and a black-haired young woman walking downthe Broad Street with their arms affectionately disposedaround each other’s middles. Followingthem was a huge and lumbering serving man with a beardlike fire, who, in a loyal effort to imitate the actionsof his master, had hooked a great limb about the neckof Red Bow’s stout little attendant, and heldher thus in a chancery which, if flattering, musthave been uncomfortable. As Martin explained tothe poor woman afterwards, it was no fault of his,since in order to reach her waist he must have carriedher under his arm.

Foy and his companion chatted merrily enough, if ina somewhat jerky fashion, but Martin attempted notalk. Only as he proceeded he was heard to mutterbetween his teeth, “Lucky the Pastor Arentz can’tsee us now. He would never understand, he isso one-sided.” So at least Foy declaredsubsequently in Leyden.

Presently, at a hint from his lady, Foy turned downa side street, unobserved, as he thought, till heheard a mocking voice calling after them, “Good-night,Red Bow, hope you will have a fine supper with yourLeyden shopboy.”

“Quick,” whispered Red Bow, and they turnedanother corner, then another, and another. Nowthey walked down narrow streets, ill-kept and unsavoury,with sharp pitched roofs, gabled and overhanging somuch that here and there they seemed almost to meet,leaving but a ribbon of star-specked sky winding abovetheir heads. Evidently it was a low quarter ofthe town and a malodourous quarter, for the canals,spanned by picturesque and high-arched bridges, wereeverywhere, and at this summer season the water inthem was low, rotten, and almost stirless.

At length Red Bow halted and knocked upon a smallrecessed door, which instantly was opened by a manwho bore no light.

“Come in,” he whispered, and all fourof them passed into a darksome passage. “Quick,quick!” said the man, “I hear footsteps.”

Foy heard them also echoing down the empty street,and as the door closed it seemed to him that theystopped in the deep shadow of the houses. Then,holding each other by the hand, they crept along blackpassages and down stairs till at length they saw lightshining through the crevices of an ill-fitting door.It opened mysteriously at their approach, and whenthey had all entered, shut behind them.

Foy uttered a sigh of relief for he was weary of thislong flight, and looked round him to discover thatthey were in a large windowless cellar, well furnishedafter a fashion by oak benches and a table set outwith cold meats and flagons of wine. At the footof this table stood a middle-aged man, prematurelygrey, and with a face worn as though by constant care.

“Welcome, Foy van Goorl,” said the manin a gentle voice. “Many years have passedsince last we met; still I should have known you anywhere,though I think you would not have known me.”

Foy looked at him and shook his head.

“I thought so,” went on the man with asmile. “Well, I am Hendrik Brant, yourcousin, once the burgomaster of The Hague and its richestcitizen, but to-day a hunted rat who must receivehis guests in secret cellars. Tell me now, didmy daughter, Elsa, reach your good father’s housein safety, and is she well?”

So Foy told him all that story.

“As I thought, as I thought,” said Hendrik.“Ramiro knew of her journey and guessed thatshe might carry some letter. Oh!” he wenton, shaking his fist in a kind of frenzy, and addressingthe two women who had played the parts of Red Bowand her servant, “who among you is the traitor?Can it be that you, whom my bounty has fed, betrayme? Nay, girls, do not weep, I know that it isnot so, and yet, in this city, the very walls haveears, yes, even this deep vault gives up its secrets.Well, if only I can save my fortune from those wolves,what do I care? Then they may take my carcaseand tear it. At least, my daughter is safe—­fora while, and now I have but one desire left on earth—­torob them of my wealth also.”

Then he turned to the girl decked out in the gay clothes,who, now that the chase was over, sat upon a benchwith her face hidden in her hand, and said, “Tellme your story, Gretchen,” whereon she liftedher head and repeated all that happened.

“They press us hard,” muttered Brant,“but, friends, we will beat them yet. Eatnow, and drink while you may.”

So they sat down and ate and drank while Hendrik watchedthem, and the man who had led them to the vault listenedwithout the door.

When they had finished, Brant bade the two women,Red Bow and the other, leave the cellar and send inthe sentry, replacing him as guards. He entered,a hard-faced, grizzled man, and, taking a seat at thetable, began to fill himself with food and wine.

“Hearken, my cousin Foy,” said Brant presently,“this is the plan. A league away, nearto the mouth of the great canal, lie certain boats,a score or over of them, laden with trading goods andtimber, in the charge of honest men who know nothingof their cargo, but who have orders to fire them ifthey should be boarded. Among these boats is onecalled the Swallow, small, but the swifteston this coast, and handy in a sea. Her cargois salt, and beneath it eight kegs of powder, andbetween the powder and the salt certain barrels, whichbarrels are filled with treasure. Now, presently,if you have the heart for it—­and if youhave not, say so, and I will go myself—­thisman here, Hans, under cover of the darkness, willrow you down to the boat Swallow. Thenyou must board her, and at the first break of dawnhoist her sail and stand out to sea, and away withher where the wind drives, tying the skiff behind.Like enough you will find foes waiting for you atthe mouth of the canal, or elsewhere. Then I cangive you only one counsel—­get out withthe Swallow if you can, and if you cannot,escape in the skiff or by swimming, but before youleave her fire the slow-matches that are ready atthe bow and the stern, and let the powder do its workand blow my wealth to the waters and the winds.Will you do it? Think, think well before youanswer.”

“Did we not come from Leyden to be at your command,cousin?” said Foy smiling. Then he added,“But why do you not accompany us on this adventure?You are in danger here, and even if we get clear withthe treasure, what use is money without life?”

“To me none, any way,” answered Brant;“but you do not understand. I live in themidst of spies, I am watched day and night; althoughI came here disguised and secretly, it is probablethat even my presence in this house is known.More, there is an order out that if I attempt to leavethe town by land or water, I am to be seized, whereonmy house will be searched instantly, and it will befound that my bullion is gone. Think, lad, howgreat is this wealth, and you will understand whythe crows are hungry. It is talked of throughoutthe Netherlands, it has been reported to the Kingin Spain, and I learn that orders have come from himconcerning its seizure. But there is another bandwho would get hold of it first, Ramiro and his crew,and that is why I have been left safe so long, becausethe thieves strive one against the other and watcheach other. Most of all, however, they watch meand everything that is mine. For though theydo not believe that I should send the treasure awayand stay behind, yet they are not sure.”

“You think that they will pursue us, then?”asked Foy.

“For certain. Messengers arrived from Leydento announce your coming two hours before you set footin the town, and it will be wonderful indeed if youleave it without a band of cut-throats at your heels.Be not deceived, lad, this business is no light one.”

“You say the little boat sails fast, master?”queried Martin.

“She sails fast, but perhaps others are as swift.Moreover, it may happen that you will find the mouthof the canal blocked by the guardship, which was sentthere a week ago with orders to search every craftthat passes from stem to stern. Or—­youmay slip past her.”

“My master and I are not afraid of a few blows,”said Martin, “and we are ready to take our riskslike brave men; still, Mynheer Brant, this seems tome a hazardous business, and one in which your moneymay well get itself lost. Now, I ask you, wouldit not be better to take this treasure out of theboat where you have hidden it, and bury it, and conveyit away by land?”

Brant shook his head. “I have thought ofthat,” he said, “as I have thought ofeverything, but it cannot now be done; also there isno time to make fresh plans.”

“Why?” asked Foy.

“Because day and night men are watching theboats which are known to belong to me, although theyare registered in other names, and only this eveningan order was signed that they must be searched withinan hour of dawn. My information is good, as itshould be since I pay for it dearly.”

“Then,” said Foy, “there is nothingmore to be said. We will try to get to the boatand try to get her away; and if we can get her awaywe will try to hide the treasure, and if we can’twe will try to blow her up as you direct and try toescape ourselves. Or—­” and heshrugged his shoulders.

Martin said nothing, only he shook his great red head,nor did the silent pilot at the table speak at all.

Hendrik Brant looked at them, and his pale, carewornface began to work. “Have I the right?”he muttered to himself, and for an instant or twobent his head as though in prayer. When he liftedit again his mind seemed to be made up.

“Foy van Goorl,” he said, “listento me, and tell your father, my cousin and executor,what I say, since I have no time to write it; tellhim word for word. You are wondering why I donot let this pelf take its chance without riskingthe lives of men to save it. It is because somethingin my heart pushes me to another path. It maybe imagination, but I am a man standing on the edgeof the grave, and to such I have known it given tosee the future. I think that you will win throughwith the treasure, Foy, and that it will be the meansof bringing some wicked ones to their doom. Yes,and more, much more, but what it is I cannot altogethersee. Yet I am quite certain that thousands andtens of thousands of our folk will live to bless thegold of Hendrik Brant, and that is why I work so hardto save it from the Spaniards. Also that is whyI ask you to risk your lives to-night; not for thewealth’s sake, for wealth is dross, but forwhat the wealth will buy in days to come.”

He paused a while, then went on: “I thinkalso, cousin, that being, they tell me, unaffianced,you will learn to love, and not in vain, that dearchild of mine, whom I leave in your father’skeeping and in yours. More, since time is shortand we shall never meet again, I say to you plainly,that the thought is pleasing to me, young cousin Foy,for I have a good report of you and like your bloodand looks. Remember always, however dark maybe your sky, that before he passed to doom HendrikBrant had this vision concerning you and the daughterwhom he loves, and whom you will learn to love asdo all who know her. Remember also that pricelessthings are not lightly won, and do not woo her forher fortune, since, I tell you, this belongs not toher but to our people and our cause, and when thehour comes, for them it must be used.”

Foy listened, wondering, but he made no answer, forhe knew not what to say. Yet now, on the edgeof his first great adventure, these words were comfortableto him who had found already that Elsa’s eyeswere bright. Brant next turned towards Martin,but that worthy shook his red head and stepped backa pace.

“Thank you kindly, master,” he said, “butI will do without the prophecies, which, good or ill,are things that fasten upon a man’s mind.Once an astrologer cast my nativity, and foretold thatI should be drowned before I was twenty-five.I wasn’t, but, my faith! the miles which I havewalked round to bridges on account of that astrologer.”

Brant smiled. “I have no foresight concerningyou, good friend, except that I judge your arm willbe always strong in battle; that you will love yourmasters well, and use your might to avenge the causeof God’s slaughtered saints upon their murderers.”

Martin nodded his head vigorously, and fumbled atthe handle of the sword Silence, while Brant wenton:

“Friend, you have entered on a dangerous quarrelon behalf of me and mine, and if you live throughit you will have earned high pay.”

Then he went to the table, and, taking writing materials,he wrote as follows: “To the Heer Dirkvan Goorl and his heirs, the executors of my will,and the holders of my fortune, which is to be usedas God shall show them. This is to certify thatin payment of this night’s work Martin, calledthe Red, the servant of the said Dirk van Goorl, orthose heirs whom he may appoint, is entitled to a sumof five thousand florins, and I constitute such suma first charge upon my estate, to whatever purposethey may put it in their discretion.” Thisdocument he dated, signed, and caused the pilot Hansto sign also as a witness. Then he gave it toMartin, who thanked him by touching his forehead,remarking at the same time—­

“After all, fighting is not a bad trade if youonly stick to it long enough. Five thousand florins!I never thought to earn so much.”

“You haven’t got it yet,” interruptedFoy. “And now, what are you going to dowith that paper?”

Martin reflected. “Coat?” he said,“no, a man takes off his coat if it is hot,and it might be left behind. Boots?—­no,that would wear it out, especially if they got wet.Jersey?—­sewn next the skin, no, same reason.Ah! I have it,” and, drawing out the greatsword Silence, he took the point of his knife andbegan to turn a little silver screw in the hilt, oneof many with which the handle of walrus ivory was fastenedto its steel core. The screw came out, and hetouched a spring, whereon one quarter of the ivorycasing fell away, revealing a considerable hollowin the hilt, for, although Martin grasped it with onehand, the sword was made to be held by two.

“What is that hole for?” asked Foy.

“The executioner’s drug,” repliedMartin, “which makes a man happy while he doeshis business with him, that is, if he can pay the fee.He offered his dose to me, I remember, before—­”Here Martin stopped, and, having rolled up the parchment,hid it in the hollow.

“You might lose your sword,” suggestedFoy.

“Yes, master, when I lose my life and exchangethe hope of florins for a golden crown,” repliedMartin with a grin. “Till then I do notintend to part with Silence.”

Meanwhile Hendrik Brant had been whispering to thequiet man at the table, who now rose and said:

“Foster-brother, do not trouble about me; Itake my chance and I do not wish to survive you.My wife is burnt, one of my girls out there is marriedto a man who knows how to protect them both, also thedowries you gave them are far away and safe.Do not trouble about me who have but one desire—­tosnatch the great treasure from the maw of the Spaniardthat in a day to come it may bring doom upon the Spaniard.”Then he relapsed into a silence, which spread overthe whole company.

“It is time to be stirring,” said Brantpresently. “Hans, you will lead the way.I must bide here a while before I go abroad and showmyself.”

The pilot nodded. “Ready?” he asked,addressing Foy and Martin. Then he went to thedoor and whistled, whereon Red Bow with her pretendedservant entered the vault. He spoke a word ortwo to them and kissed them each upon the brow.Next he went to Hendrik Brant, and throwing his armsabout him, embraced him with far more passion thanhe had shown towards his own daughters.

“Farewell, foster-brother,” he said, “tillwe meet again here or hereafter—­it matterslittle which. Have no fear, we will get the stuffthrough to England if may be, or send it to hell withsome Spaniards to seek it there. Now, comrades,come on and stick close to me, and if any try to stopus cut them down. When we reach the boat do youtake the oars and row while I steer her. Thegirls come with us to the canal, arm-in-arm with thetwo of you. If anything happens to me either ofthem can steer you to the skiff called Swallow,but if naught happens we will put them ashore at thenext wharf. Come,” and he led the way fromthe cellar.

At the threshold Foy turned to look at Hendrik Brant.He was standing by the table, the light shining fullupon his pale face and grizzled head, about whichit seemed to cast a halo. Indeed, at that moment,wrapped in his long, dark cloak, his lips moving inprayer, and his arms uplifted to bless them as theywent, he might well have been, not a man, but somevision of a saint come back to earth. The doorclosed and Foy never saw him again, for ere long theInquisition seized him and a while afterwards he diedbeneath their cruel hands. One of the chargesagainst him was, that more than twenty years before,he had been seen reading the Bible at Leyden by BlackMeg, who appeared and gave the evidence. Butthey did not discover where his treasure was hiddenaway. To win an easier death, indeed, he madethem a long confession that took them a still longerjourney, but of the truth of the matter he knew nothing,and therefore could tell them nothing.

Now this scene, so strange and pathetic, ended atlast, the five of them were in the darkness of thestreet. Here once more Foy and Red Bow clungto each other, and once more the arm of Martin wasabout the neck of her who seemed to be the serving-maid,while ahead, as though he were paid to show the way,went the pilot. Soon footsteps were heard, forfolk were after them. They turned once, theyturned twice, they reached the bank of a canal, andHans, followed by Red Bow and her sister, descendedsome steps and climbed into a boat which lay thereready. Next came Martin, and, last of all, Foy.As he set foot upon the first step, a figure shotout of the gloom towards him, a knife gleamed in theair and a blow took him between the shoulders thatsent him stumbling headlong, for he was balanced uponthe edge of the step.

But Martin had heard and seen. He swung roundand struck out with the sword Silence. The assassinwas far from him, still the tip of the long steelreached the outstretched murderous hand, and from itfell a broken knife, while he who held it sped onwith a screech of pain. Martin darted back andseized the knife, then he leapt into the boat and pushedoff. At the bottom of it lay Foy, who had fallenstraight into the arms of Red Bow, dragging her downwith him.

“Are you hurt, master?” asked Martin.

“Not a bit,” replied Foy, “but Iam afraid the lady is. She went undermost.”

“Mother’s gifts are good gifts!”muttered Martin as he pulled him and the girl, whosebreath had been knocked out of her, up to a seat.“You ought to have an eight-inch hole throughyou, but that knife broke upon the shirt. Lookhere,” and he threw the handle of the daggeron to his knees and snatched at the sculls.

Foy examined it in the faint light, and there, stillhooked above the guard, was a single severed finger,a long and skinny finger, to which the point of thesword Silence had played surgeon, and on it a goldring. “This may be useful,” thoughtFoy, as he slipped handle and finger into the pocketof his cloak.

Then they all took oars and rowed till presently theydrew near a wharf.

“Now, daughters, make ready,” said Hans,and the girls stood up. As they touched the wharfRed Bow bent down and kissed Foy.

“The rest were in play, this is in earnest,”she said, “and for luck. Good-night, companion,and think of me sometimes.”

“Good-night, companion,” answered Foy,returning the kiss. Then she leapt ashore.They never met again.

“You know what to do, girls,” said Hans;“do it, and in three days you should be safein England, where, perhaps, I may meet you, thoughdo not count on that. Whatever happens, keephonest, and remember me till we come together again,here or hereafter, but, most of all, remember yourmother and your benefactor Hendrik Brant. Farewell.”

“Farewell, father,” they answered witha sob, and the boat drifted off down the dark canal,leaving the two of them alone upon the wharf.Afterwards Foy discovered that it was the short sisterwho walked with Martin that was married. Gallantlittle Red Bow married also, but later. Her husbandwas a cloth merchant in London, and her grandson becameLord Mayor of that city.

And now, having played their part in it, these twobrave girls are out of the story.

CHAPTER XIV

SWORD SILENCE RECEIVES THE SECRET

For half an hour or more they glided down the canalunmolested and in silence. Now it ran into abroader waterway along which they slid towards thesea, keeping as much as possible under the shadow ofone bank, for although the night was moonless a faintgrey light lay upon the surface of the stream.At length Foy became aware that they were bumpingagainst the sides of a long line of barges and riverboats laden with timber and other goods. To oneof these—­it was the fourth—­thepilot Hans made fast, tying their row-boat to her stern.Then he climbed to the deck, whispering to them tofollow.

As they scrambled on board, two grey figures aroseand Foy saw the flash of steel. Then Hans whistledlike a plover, and, dropping their swords they cameto him and fell into talk. Presently Hans leftthem, and, returning to Foy and Martin, said:

“Listen: we must lie here a while, forthe wind is against us, and it would be too dangerousfor us to try to row or pole so big a boat down tothe sea and across the bar in the darkness, for mostlikely we should set her fast upon a shoal. Beforedawn it will turn, and, if I read the sky aright,blow hard off land.”

“What have the bargemen to say?” askedFoy.

“Only that for these four days they have beenlying here forbidden to move, and that their craftare to be searched to-morrow by a party of soldiers,and the cargo taken out of them piecemeal.”

“So,” said Foy, “well, I hope thatby then what they seek will be far away. Nowshow us this ship.”

Then Hans took them down the hatchway, for the littlevessel was decked, being in shape and size not unlikea modern Norfolk herring boat, though somewhat moreslightly built. Then having lit a lantern, heshowed them the cargo. On the top were bags ofsalt. Dragging one or two of these aside, Hansuncovered the heads of five barrels, each of them markedwith the initial B in white paint.

“That is what men will die for before to-morrownight,” he said.

“The treasure?” asked Foy.

He nodded. “These five, none of the others.”Then still lower down he pointed out other barrels,eight of them, filled with the best gunpowder, andshowed them too where the slow matches ran to the littlecabin, the cook’s galley, the tiller and theprow, by means of any one of which it could be fired.After this and such inspection of the ropes and sailsas the light would allow, they sat in the cabin waitingtill the wind should change, while the two watchingmen unmoored the vessel and made her sails ready forhoisting. An hour passed, and still the breezeblew from the sea, but in uncertain chopping gusts.Then it fell altogether.

“Pray God it comes soon,” said Martin,“for the owner of that finger in your pocketwill have laid the hounds on to our slot long ago,and, look! the east grows red.”

The silent, hard-faced Hans leant forward and staredup the darkling water, his hand behind his ear.

“I hear them,” he said presently.

“Who?” asked Foy.

“The Spaniards and the wind—­both,”he answered. “Come, up with the mainsailand pole her out to midstream.”

So the three of them took hold of the tackle and ranaft with it, while the rings and booms creaked andrattled as the great canvas climbed the mast.Presently it was set, and after it the jib. Then,assisted by the two watchmen thrusting from anotherof the boats, they pushed the Swallow fromher place in the line out into mid-stream. Butall this made noise and took time, and now men appearedupon the bank, calling to know who dared to move theboats without leave. As no one gave them anyanswer, they fired a shot, and presently a beacon beganto burn upon a neighbouring mound.

“Bad business,” said Hans, shrugging hisshoulders. “They are warning the Governmentship at the harbour mouth. Duck, masters, duck;here comes the wind,” and he sprang to the tilleras the boom swung over and the little vessel beganto gather way.

“Yes,” said Martin, “and here withit come the Spaniards.”

Foy looked. Through the grey mist that was growinglighter every moment, for the dawn was breaking, hecaught sight of a long boat with her canvas spreadwhich was sweeping round the bend of the stream towardsthem and not much more than a quarter of a mile away.

“They had had to pole down stream in the dark,and that is why they have been so long in coming,”said Hans over his shoulder.

“Well, they are here now at any rate,”answered Foy, “and plenty of them,” headded, as a shout from a score of throats told themthat they were discovered.

But now the Swallow had begun to fly, makingthe water hiss upon either side of her bows.

“How far is it to the sea?” asked Foy.

“About three miles,” Hans called backfrom the tiller. “With this wind we shouldbe there in fifteen minutes. Master,” headded presently, “bid your man light the firein the galley.”

“What for,” asked Foy, “to cookbreakfast?”

The pilot shrugged his shoulders and muttered, “Yes,if we live to eat it.” But Foy saw thathe was glancing at the slow-match by his side, andunderstood.

Ten minutes passed, and they had swept round the lastbend and were in the stretch of open water which randown to the sea. By now the light was strong,and in it they saw that the signal fire had not beenlit in vain. At the mouth of the cutting, justwhere the bar began, the channel was narrowed in withearth to a width of not more than fifty paces, andon one bank of it stood a foot armed with culverins.Out of the little harbour of this fort a large openboat was being poled, and in it a dozen or fifteensoldiers were hastily arming themselves.

“What now?” cried Martin. “Theyare going to stop the mouth of the channel.”

The hard-featured Hans set his teeth and made no answer.Only he looked backward at his pursuers and onwardat those who barred the way. Presently he calledaloud:

“Under hatches, both of you. They are goingto fire from the fort,” and he flung himselfupon his back, steering with his uplifted arms.

Foy and Martin tumbled down the hatchway, for theycould do no good on deck. Only Foy kept one eyeabove its level.

“Look out!” he said, and ducked.

As he spoke there was a puff of white smoke from thefort, followed by the scream of a shot which passedahead of them. Then came another puff of smoke,and a hole appeared in their brown sail. Afterthis the fort did not fire again, for the gunnersfound no time to load their pieces, only some soldierswho were armed with arquebuses began to shoot as theboat swept past within a few yards of them. Heedlessof their bullets, Hans the pilot rose to his feetagain, for such work as was before him could not bedone by a man lying on his back. By now the largeopen boat from the fort was within two hundred yardsof them, and, driven by the gathering pale, the Swallowrushed towards it with the speed of a dart. Foyand Martin crawled from the hatchway and lay down nearthe steersman under the shelter of the little bulwarks,watching the enemy’s boat, which was in midstreamjust where the channel was narrowest, and on the hitherside of the broken water of the bar.

“See,” said Foy, “they are throwingout anchors fore and aft. Is there room to gopast them?”

“No,” answered Hans, “the wateris too shallow under the bank, and they know it.Bring me a burning brand.”

Foy crept forward, and returned with the fire.

“Now light the slow-match, master.”

Foy opened his blue eyes and a cold shiver went downhis back. Then he set his teeth and obeyed.Martin looked at Hans, muttering,

“Good for a young one!”

Hans nodded and said, “Have no fear. Tillthat match burns to the level of the deck we are safe.Now, mates, hold fast. I can’t go past thatboat, so I am going through her. We may sink onthe other side, though I am sure that the fire willreach the powder first. In that case you canswim for it if you like, but I shall go with the Swallow.”

“I will think about it when the time comes.Oh! that cursed astrologer,” growled Martin,looking back at the pursuing ship, which was not morethan seven or eight hundred yards away.

Meanwhile the officer in command of the boat, whowas armed with a musket, was shouting to them to pulldown their sail and surrender; indeed, not until theywere within fifty yards of him did he seem to understandtheir desperate purpose. Then some one in theboat called out: “The devils are goingto sink us,” and there was a rush to bow andstern to get up the anchors. Only the officerstood firm, screaming at them like a madman.It was too late; a strong gust of wind caught theSwallow, causing her to heel over and sweepdown on the boat like a swooping falcon.

Hans stood and shifted the tiller ever so little,calculating all things with his eye. Foy watchedthe boat towards which they sprang like a thing alive,and Martin, lying at his side, watched the burningmatch.

Suddenly the Spanish officer, when their prow wasnot more than twenty paces from him, ceased to shout,and lifting his piece fired. Martin, lookingupwards with his left eye, thought that he saw Hansflinch, but the pilot made no sound. Only hedid something to the tiller, putting all his strengthon to it, and it seemed to the pair of them as thoughthe Swallow was for an instant checked in herflight—­certainly her prow appeared to liftitself from the water. Suddenly there was a soundof something snapping—­a sound that couldbe heard even through the yell of terror from thesoldiers in the boat. It was the bowsprit whichhad gone, leaving the jib flying loose like a greatpennon.

Then came the crash. Foy shut his eyes for amoment, hanging on with both hands till the scrapingand the trembling were done with. Now he openedagain, and the first thing he saw was the body of theSpanish officer hanging from the jagged stump of thebowsprit. He looked behind. The boat hadvanished, but in the water were to be seen the headsof three or four men swimming. As for themselvesthey seemed to be clear and unhurt, except for theloss of their bowsprit; indeed, the little vesselwas riding over the seas on the bar like any swan.Hans glanced at the slow-match which was smoulderingaway perilously near to the deck, whereon Martin stampedupon it, saying:

“If we sink now it will be in deep water, sothere is no need to fly up before we go down.”

“Go and see if she leaks,” said Hans.

They went and searched the forehold but could notfind that the Swallow had taken any harm worthnoting. Indeed, her massive oaken prow, withthe weight of the gale-driven ship behind it, had crashedthrough the frail sides of the open Spanish boat likea knife through an egg.

“That was good steering,” said Foy toHans, when they returned, “and nothing seemsto be amiss.”

Hans nodded. “I hit him neatly,”he muttered. “Look. He’s gone.”As he spoke the Swallow gave a sharp pitch,and the corpse of the Spaniard fell with a heavy splashinto the sea.

“I am glad it has sunk,” said Foy; “andnow let’s have some breakfast, for I am starving.Shall I bring you some, friend Hans?”

“No, master, I want to sleep.”

Something in the tone of the man’s voice causedFoy to scrutinise his face. His lips were turningblue. He glanced at his hands. Althoughthey still grasped the tiller tightly, these also wereturning blue, as though with cold; moreover, bloodwas dropping on the deck.

“You are hit,” he said. “Martin,Martin, Hans is hit!”

“Yes,” replied the man, “he hitme and I hit him, and perhaps presently we shall betalking it over together. No, don’t trouble,it is through the body and mortal. Well, I expectednothing less, so I can’t complain. Now,listen, while my strength holds. Can you lay acourse for Harwich in England?”

Martin and Foy shook their heads. Like most Hollandersthey were good sailormen, but they only knew theirown coasts.

“Then you had best not try it,” said Hans,“for there is a gale brewing, and you will bedriven on the Goodwin Sands, or somewhere down thatshore, and drowned and the treasure lost. Runup to the Haarlem Mere, comrades. You can hugthe land with this small boat, while that big devilafter you,” and he nodded towards the pursuingvessel, which by now was crossing the bar, “muststand further out beyond the shoals. Then slipup through the small gut—­the ruined farmsteadmarks it—­and so into the mere. Youknow Mother Martha, the mad woman who is nicknamedthe Mare? She will be watching at the mouth ofit; she always is. Moreover, I caused her tobe warned that we might pass her way, and if you hoistthe white flag with a red cross—­it liesin the locker—­or, after nightfall, hangout four lamps upon your starboard side, she willcome aboard to pilot you, for she knows this boat well.To her also you can tell your business without fear,for she will help you, and be as secret as the dead.Then bury the treasure, or sink it, or blow it up,or do what you can, but, in the name of God, to whomI go, I charge you do not let it fall into the handsof Ramiro and his Spanish rats who are at your heels.”

As Hans spoke he sank down upon the deck. Foyran to support him, but he pushed him aside with afeeble hand. “Let me be,” he whispered.“I wish to pray. I have set you a course.Follow it to the end.”

Then Martin took the tiller while Foy watched Hans.In ten minutes he was dead.

Now they were running northwards with a fierce windabeam of them, and the larger Spanish ship behind,but standing further out to sea to avoid the banks.Half an hour later the wind, which was gathering toa gale, shifted several points to the north, so thatthey must beat up against it under reefed canvas.Still they held on without accident, Foy attendingto the sail and Martin steering. The Swallowwas a good sea boat, and if their progress was slowso was that of their pursuer, which dogged them continually,sometimes a mile away and sometimes less. Atlength, towards evening, they caught sight of a ruinedhouse that marked the channel of the little gut, oneof the outlets of the Haarlem Mere.

“The sea runs high upon the bar and it is ebbtide,” said Foy.

“Even so we must try it, master,” answeredMartin. “Perhaps she will scrape through,”and he put the Swallow about and ran for themouth of the gut.

Here the waves were mountainous and much water cameaboard. Moreover, three times they bumped uponthe bar, till at length, to their joy, they foundthemselves in the calm stream of the gut, and, by shiftingthe sail, were able to draw it up, though very slowly.

“At least we have got a start of them,”said Foy, “for they can never get across untilthe tide rises.”

“We shall need it all,” answered Martin;“so now hoist the white flag and let us eatwhile we may.”

While they ate the sun sank, and the wind blew sothat scarcely could they make a knot an hour, shiftthe sail as they might. Then, as there was nosign of Mother Martha, or any other pilot, they hungout the four lamps upon the starboard side, and, witha flapping sail, drifted on gradually, till at lengththey reached the mouth of the great mere, an infinitewaste of waters—­deep in some places, shallowin others, and spotted everywhere with islets.Now the wind turned against them altogether, and,the darkness closing in, they were forced to dropanchor, fearing lest otherwise they should go ashore.One comfort they had, however: as yet nothingcould be seen of their pursuers.

Then, for the first time, their spirits failed thema little, and they stood together near the stern wonderingwhat they should do. It was while they restedthus that suddenly a figure appeared before them asthough it had risen from the deck of the ship.No sound of oars or footsteps had reached their ears,yet there, outlined against the dim sky, was the figure.

“I think that friend Hans has come to life again,”said Martin with a slight quaver in his voice, forMartin was terribly afraid of ghosts.

“And I think that a Spaniard has found us,”said Foy, drawing his knife.

Then a hoarse voice spoke, saying, “Who areyou that signal for a pilot on my waters?”

“The question is—­who are you?”answered Foy, “and be so good as to tell usquickly.”

“I am the pilot,” said the voice, “andthis boat by the rig of her and her signals shouldbe the Swallow of The Hague, but why must Icrawl aboard of her across the corpse of a dead man?”

“Come into the cabin, pilot, and we will tellyou,” said Foy.

“Very well, Mynheer.” So Foy ledthe way to the cabin, but Martin stopped behind awhile.

“We have found our guide, so what is the useof the lamps?” he said to himself as he extinguishedthem all, except one which he brought with him intothe cabin. Foy was waiting for him by the doorand they entered the place together. At the endof it the light of the lamp showed them a strangefigure clad in skins so shapeless and sack-like thatit was impossible to say whether the form beneathwere male or female. The figure was bareheaded,and about the brow locks of grizzled hair hung intufts. The face, in which were set a pair of wanderinggrey eyes, was deep cut, tanned brown by exposure,scarred, and very ugly, with withered lips and projectingteeth.

“Good even to you, Dirk van Goorl’s son,and to you, Red Martin. I am Mother Martha, shewhom the Spaniards call the Mare and the Lake-witch.”

“Little need to tell us that, mother,”said Foy, “although it is true that many yearshave gone by since I set eyes on you.”

Martha smiled grimly as she answered, “Yes,many years. Well, what have you fat Leyden burghersto do with a poor old night-hag, except of coursein times of trouble? Not that I blame you, forit is not well that you, or your parents either, shouldbe known to traffic with such as I. Now, what is yourbusiness with me, for the signals show that you havebusiness, and why does the corpse of Hendrik Brant’sfoster-brother lie there in the stern?”

“Because, to be plain, we have Hendrik Brant’streasure on board, mother, and for the rest look yonder—­”and he pointed to what his eye had just caught sightof two or three miles away, a faint light, too lowand too red for a star, that could only come from alantern hung at the masthead of a ship.

Martha nodded. “Spaniards after you, polingthrough the gut against the wind. Come on, thereis no time to lose. Bring your boat round, andwe will tow the Swallow to where she will liesafe to-night.”

Five minutes later they were all three of them rowingthe oar boat in which they had escaped from The Haguetowards some unknown point in the darkness, slowlydragging after them the little ship Swallow.As they went, Foy told Martha all the story of theirmission and escape.

“I have heard of this treasure before,”she said, “all the Netherlands has heard ofBrant’s hoard. Also dead Hans there letme know that perhaps it might come this way, for insuch matters he thought that I could be trusted,”and she smiled grimly. “And now what wouldyou do?”

“Fulfil our orders,” said Foy. “Hideit if we can; if not, destroy it.”

“Better the first than the last,” interruptedMartin. “Hide the treasure, say I, anddestroy the Spaniards, if Mother Martha here can thinkof a plan.”

“We might sink the ship,” suggested Foy.

“And leave her mast for a beacon,” addedMartin sarcastically.

“Or put the stuff into the boat and sink that.”

“And never find it again in this great sea,”objected Martin.

All this while Martha steered the boat as calmly asthough it were daylight. They had left the openwater, and were passing slowly in and out among islets,yet she never seemed to be doubtful or to hesitate.At length they felt the Swallow behind themtake the mud gently, whereon Martha led the way aboardof her and threw out the anchor, saying that herewas her berth for the night.

“Now,” she said, “bring up thisgold and lay it in the boat, for if you would saveit there is much to do before dawn.”

So Foy and Martin went down while Martha, hangingover the hatchway, held the lighted lamp above them,since they dared not take it near the powder.Moving the bags of salt, soon they came to the fivebarrels of treasure marked B, and, strong though theywere, it was no easy task for the pair of them bythe help of a pulley to sling them over the ship’sside into the boat. At last it was done, and theplace of the barrels having been filled with saltbags, they took two iron spades which were providedfor such a task as this, and started, Martha steeringas before. For an hour or more they rowed inand out among endless islands, at the dim shores ofwhich Martha stared as they passed, till at lengthshe motioned to them to ship their oars, and they touchedground.

Leaping from the boat she made it fast and vanishedamong the reeds to reconnoitre. Presently shereturned again, saying that this was the place.Then began the heavy labour of rolling the casks oftreasure for thirty yards or more along otter pathsthat pierced the dense growth of reeds.

Now, having first carefully cut out reed sods in aplace chosen by Martha, Foy and Martin set to theirtask of digging a great hole by the light of the stars.Hard indeed they toiled at it, yet had it not beenfor the softness of the marshy soil, they could nothave got done while the night lasted, for the gravethat would contain those barrels must be both wideand deep. After three feet of earth had been removed,they came to the level of the lake, and for the restof the time worked in water, throwing up shovelfulsof mud. Still at last it was done, and the fivebarrels standing side by side in the water were coveredup with soil and roughly planted over with the reedturf.

“Let us be going,” said Martha. “Thereis no time to lose.” So they straightenedtheir backs and wiped the sweat from their brows.

“There is earth lying about, which may tellits story,” said Martin.

“Yes,” she replied, “if any seeit within the next ten days, after which in this dampplace the mosses will have hidden it.”

“Well, we have done our best,” said Foy,as he washed his mud-stained boots in the water, “andnow the stuff must take its chance.”

Then once more they entered the boat and rowed awaysomewhat wearily, Martha steering them.

On they went and on, till Foy, tired out, nearly fellasleep at his oar. Suddenly Martha tapped himon the shoulder. He looked up and there, nottwo hundred yards away, its tapering mast showing dimlyagainst the sky, was the vessel that had pursued themfrom The Hague, a single lantern burning on its stern.Martha looked and grunted; then she leant forwardand whispered to them imperiously.

“It is madness,” gasped Martin.

“Do as I bid you,” she hissed, and theylet the boat drift with the wind till it came to alittle island within thirty yards of the anchoredvessel, an island with a willow tree growing upon itsshore. “Hold to the twigs of the tree,”she muttered, “and wait till I come again.”Not knowing what else to do, they obeyed.

Then Martha rose and they saw that she had slippedoff her garment of skins, and stood before them, agaunt white figure armed with a gleaming knife.Next she put the knife to her mouth, and, nipping itbetween her teeth, slid into the water silently asa diving bird. A minute passed, not more, andthey saw that something was climbing up the cable ofthe ship.

“What is she going to do?” whispered Foy.

“God in Heaven knows,” answered Martin,“but if she does not come back good-bye to HeerBrant’s treasure, for she alone can find it again.”

They waited, holding their breaths, till presentlya curious choking sound floated to them, and the lanternon the ship vanished. Two minutes later a handwith a knife in it appeared over the gunwale of theboat, followed by a grey head. Martin put outhis great arm and lifted, and, lo! the white formslid down between them like a big salmon turned outof a net.

“Put about and row,” it gasped, and theyobeyed while the Mare clothed herself again in herskin garment.

“What have you done?” asked Foy.

“Something,” she replied with a fiercechuckle. “I have stabbed the watchman—­hethought I was a ghost, and was too frightened to callout. I have cut the cable, and I think that Ihave fired the ship. Ah! look! but row—­rowround the corner of the island.”

They gave way, and as they turned the bank of reedsglanced behind them, to see a tall tongue of fireshooting up the cordage of the ship, and to hear ababel of frightened and angry voices.

Ten minutes later they were on board the Swallow,and from her deck watching the fierce flare of theburning Spanish vessel nearly a mile away. Herethey ate and drank, for they needed food badly.

“What shall we do now?” asked Foy whenthey had finished.

“Nothing at present,” answered Martha,“but give me pen and paper.”

They found them, and having shrouded the little windowof the cabin, she sat at the table and very slowlybut with much skill drew a plan, or rather a picture,of this portion of the Haarlem Mere. In that planwere marked many islands according to their naturalshapes, twenty of them perhaps, and upon one of theseshe set a cross.

“Take it and hide it,” said Martha, whenit was finished, “so that if I die you may knowwhere to dig for Brant’s gold. With thisin your hand you cannot fail to find it, for I drawwell. Remember that it lies thirty paces duesouth of the only spot where it is easy to land uponthat island.”

“What shall I do with this picture which isworth so much?” said Foy helplessly, “forin truth I fear to keep the thing.”

“Give it to me, master,” said Martin;“the secret of the treasure may as well liewith the legacy that is charged on it.”Then once more he unscrewed the handle of the swordSilence, and having folded up the paper and wrappedit round with a piece of linen, he thrust it away intothe hollow hilt.

“Now that sword is worth more than some peoplemight think,” Martin said as he restored itto the scabbard, “but I hope that those who cometo seek its secret may have to travel up its blade.Well, when shall we be moving?”

“Listen,” said Martha. “Wouldyou two men dare a great deed upon those Spaniards?Their ship is burnt, but there are a score or overof them, and they have two large boats. Now atthe dawn they will see the mast of this vessel andattack it in the boats thinking to find the treasure.Well, if as they win aboard we can manage to fire thematches——­”

“There may be fewer Spaniards left to plagueus,” suggested Foy.

“And believing it to be blown up no one willtrouble about that money further,” added Martin.“Oh! the plan is good, but dangerous. Come,let us talk it over.”

The dawn broke in a flood of yellow light on the surfaceof the Haarlem Mere. Presently from the directionof the Spanish vessel, which was still burning sullenly,came a sound of beating oars. Now the three watchersin the Swallow saw two boatloads of armed men,one of them with a small sail set, swooping down towardsthem. When they were within a hundred yards Marthamuttered, “It is time,” and Foy ran hitherand thither with a candle firing the slow-matches;also to make sure he cast the candle among a few handfulsof oil-soaked shreds of canvas that lay ready at thebottom of the hatchway. Then with the others,without the Spaniards being able to see them, he slippedover the side of the little vessel into the shallowwater that was clothed with tall reeds, and wadedthrough it to the island.

Once on firm land, they ran a hundred yards or sotill they reached a clump of swamp willows, and tookshelter behind them. Indeed, Foy did more, forhe climbed the trunk of one of the willows high enoughto see over the reeds to the ship Swallow andthe lake beyond. By this time the Spaniards werealongside the Swallow, for he could hear theircaptain hailing him who leant over the taffrail, andcommanding all on board to surrender under pain ofbeing put to death. But from the man in the sterncame no answer, which was scarcely strange, seeingthat it was the dead pilot, Hans, to whom they talkedin the misty dawn, whose body Martin had lashed thusto deceive them. So they fired at the pilot, whotook no notice, and then began to clamber on boardthe ship. Presently all the men were out of thefirst boat—­that with the sail set on it—­excepttwo, the steersman and the captain, whom, from hisdress and demeanour, Foy took to be the one-eyed Spaniard,Ramiro, although of this he was too far off to makesure. It was certain, however, that this mandid not mean to board the Swallow, for of asudden he put his boat about, and the wind catchingthe sail soon drew him clear of her.

“That fellow is cunning,” said Foy toMartin and Martha below, “and I was a fool tolight the tarred canvas, for he has seen the smokedrawing up the hatchway.”

“And having had enough fire for one night, thinksthat he will leave his mates to quench it,”added Martin.

“The second boat is coming alongside,”went on Foy, “and surely the mine should spring.”

“Scarcely time yet,” answered Martin,“the matches were set for six minutes.”

Then followed a silence in which the three of themwatched and listened with beating hearts. Init they heard a voice call out that the steersmanwas dead, and the answering voice of the officer inthe boat, whom Foy had been right in supposing tobe Ramiro, warning them to beware of treachery.Now suddenly arose a shout of “A mine! a mine!”for they had found one of the lighted fuses.

“They are running for their boat,” saidFoy, “and the captain is sailing farther off.Heavens! how they scream.”

As the words passed his lips a tongue of flame shotto the very skies. The island seemed to rock,a fierce rush of air struck Foy and shook him fromthe tree. Then came a dreadful, thunderous sound,and lo! the sky was darkened with fragments of wreck,limbs of men, a grey cloud of salt and torn shredsof sail and cargo, which fell here, there, and everywhereabout and beyond them.

In five seconds it was over, and the three of them,shaken but unhurt, were clinging to each other onthe ground. Then as the dark pall of smoke driftedsouthward Foy scrambled up his tree again. Butnow there was little to be seen, for the Swallowhad vanished utterly, and for many yards round whereshe lay the wreckage-strewn water was black as inkwith the stirred mud. The Spaniards had gone also,nothing of them was left, save the two men and theboat which rode unhurt at a distance. Foy staredat them. The steersman was seated and wringinghis hands, while the captain, on whose armour therays of the rising sun now shone brightly, held tothe mast like one stunned, and gazed at the placewhere, a minute before, had been a ship and a troopof living men. Presently he seemed to recoverhimself, for he issued an order, whereon the boat’shead went about, and she began to glide away.

“Now we had best try to catch him,” saidMartha, who, by standing up, could see this also.

“Nay, let him be,” answered Foy, “wehave sent enough men to their account,” andhe shuddered.

“As you will, master,” grumbled Martin,“but I tell you it is not wise. That manis too clever to be allowed to live, else he wouldhave accompanied the others on board and perishedwith them.”

“Oh! I am sick,” replied Foy.“The wind from that powder has shaken me.Settle it as you will with Mother Martha and leaveme in peace.”

So Martin turned to speak with Martha, but she wasnot there. Chuckling to herself in the madnessof her hate and the glory of this great revenge, shehad slipped away, knife in hand, to discover whetherperchance any of the powder-blasted Spaniards stilllived. Fortunately for them they did not, theshock had killed them all, even those who at the firstalarm had thrown themselves into the water. Atlength Martin found her clapping her hands and crooningabove a dead body, so shattered that no one couldtell to what manner of man it had belonged, and ledher away.

But although she was keen enough for the chase, bynow it was too late, for, travelling before the strongwind, Ramiro and his boat had vanished.

CHAPTER XV

SENOR RAMIRO

If Foy van Goorl, by some magic, could have seen whatwas passing in the mind of that fugitive in the boatas he sailed swiftly away from the scene of deathand ruin, bitterly indeed would he have cursed hisfolly and inexperience which led him to disregardthe advice of Red Martin.

Let us look at this man as he goes gnawing his handin rage and disappointment. There is somethingfamiliar about his face and bearing, still gallantenough in a fashion, yet the most observant would findit difficult to recognise in the Senor Ramiro the handsomeand courtly Count Juan de Montalvo of over twentyyears before. A long spell of the galleys changesthe hardiest man, and by ill luck Montalvo, or Ramiro,to call him by his new name, had been forced to servenearly his full time. He would have escaped earlierindeed, had he not been foolish enough to join ina mutiny, which was discovered and suppressed.It was in the course of this savage struggle for freedomthat he lost his eye, knocked out with a belayingpin by an officer whom he had just stabbed. Theinnocent officer died and the rascal Ramiro died, butwithout his good looks.

To a person of gentle birth, however great a scoundrelhe might be, the galleys, which represented penalservitude in the sixteenth century, were a very roughschool. Indeed for the most part the man who wentinto them blameless became bad, and the man who wentinto them bad became worse, for, as the proverb says,those who have dwelt in hell always smell of brimstone.Who can imagine the awfulness of it—­thechains, the arduous and continual labour, the whipof the quarter-masters, the company of thieves andoutcast ruffians, all dreadful in its squalid sameness?

Well, his strength and constitution, coupled witha sort of grim philosophy, brought him through, andat length Ramiro found himself a free man, middle-agedindeed, but intelligent and still strong, the worldonce more before him. Yet what a world! Hiswife, believing him dead, or perhaps wishing to believeit, had remarried and gone with her husband to NewSpain, taking his children with her, and his friends,such of them as lived, turned their backs upon him.But although he had been an unlucky man, for withhim wickedness had not prospered, he still had resourceand courage.

The Count Montalvo was a penniless outlaw, a bywordand a scorn, and so the Count Montalvo—­died,and was buried publicly in the church of his nativevillage. Strangely enough, however, about thesame time the Senor Ramiro appeared in another partof Spain, where with success he practised as a notaryand man of affairs. Some years went by thus, tillat length, having realised a considerable sum of moneyby the help of an ingenious fraud, of which the detailsare superfluous, an inspiration took him and he sailedfor the Netherlands.

In those dreadful days, in order to further the endsof religious persecution and of legalised theft, informerswere rewarded with a portion of the goods of heretics.Ramiro’s idea—­a great one in itsway—­was to organise this informing business,and, by interesting a number of confederates who practicallywere shareholders in the venture, to sweep into hisnet more fortunes, or shares of fortunes, than a single

individual, however industrious, could hope to secure.As he had expected, soon he found plenty of worthycompanions, and the company was floated. Fora while, with the help of local agencies and spies,such as Black Meg and the Butcher, with whom, forgettingpast injuries, he had secretly renewed his acquaintance,it did very well, the dividends being large and regular.In such times handsome sums were realised, withoutrisk, out of the properties of unfortunates who werebrought to the stake, and still more was secured bya splendid system of blackmail extracted from thosewho wished to avoid execution, and who, when theyhad been sucked dry, could either be burnt or let go,as might prove most convenient.

Also there were other methods of making money—­byan intelligent method of robbery, by contracts tocollect fines and taxes and so forth. Thus thingswent well, and, at length, after many years of sufferingand poverty, the Senor Ramiro, that experienced manof affairs, began to grow rich, until, indeed, drivenforward by a natural but unwise ambition, a faultinherent to daring minds, he entered upon a dangerouspath.

The wealth of Hendrik Brant, the goldsmith, was amatter of common report, and glorious would be thefortune of him who could secure its reversion.This Ramiro wished to win; indeed, there was no ostensiblereason why he should not do so, since Brant was undoubtedlya heretic, and, therefore, legitimate game for anyhonourable servant of the Church and King. Yetthere were lions in the path, two large and formidablelions, or rather a lion and the ghost of a lion, forone was material and the other spiritual. Thematerial lion was that the Government, or in otherwords, his august kingship Philip, desired the goldsmith’sthousands for himself, and was therefore likely tobe irritated by an interloper. The spirituallion was that Brant was connected with Lysbeth vanGoorl, once known as Lysbeth de Montalvo, a lady whohad brought her reputed husband no luck. Oftenand often during dreary hours of reflection beneathtropic suns, for which the profession of galley-slavegave great leisure, the Senor Ramiro remembered thatvery energetic curse which his new affianced wifehad bestowed upon him, a curse in which she prayedthat through her he might live in heavy labour, thatthrough her and hers he might be haunted by fears andmisfortunes, and at the last die in misery. Lookingback upon the past it would certainly seem that therehad been virtue in this curse, for already throughLysbeth and his dealings with her, he had sufferedthe last degradation and the toil, which could notbe called light, of nearly fourteen years of dailyoccupation in the galleys.

Well, he was clear of them, and thenceforward, thecurse having exhausted itself for the time being,he had prospered—­at any rate to a moderateextent. But if once more he began to interferewith Lysbeth van Goorl and her relatives, might itnot re-assert its power? That was one question.Was it worth while to take his risk on the chance ofsecuring Brant’s fortune? That was another.Brant, it was true, was only a cousin of Lysbeth’shusband, but when once you meddled with a member ofthe family, it was impossible to know how soon othermembers would become mixed up in the affair.

The end may be guessed. The treasure was at handand enormous, whereas the wrath of a Heavenly or anearthly king was problematical and far away.So greed, outstripping caution and superstitious fear,won the race, and Ramiro threw himself into the adventurewith a resource and energy which in their way weresplendid.

Now, as always, he was a man who hated violence forits own sake. It was no wish of his that theworthy Heer Brant should be unnecessarily burnt ortortured. Therefore through his intermediaries,as Brant had narrated in his letter, he approachedhim with a proposal which, under the circumstances,was liberal enough—­that Brant should handover two-thirds of his fortune to him and his confederates,on condition that he was assisted to escape with theremaining third. To his disgust, however, thisobstinate Dutchman refused to buy his safety at theprice of a single stiver. Indeed, he answeredwith rude energy that now as always he was in thehands of God, and if it pleased God that his lifeshould be sacrificed and his great wealth divided amongstthieves, well, it must be so, but he, at least, wouldbe no party to the arrangement.

The details of the plots and counter-plots, the attackof the Ramiro company, the defences of Brant, theinternecine struggles between the members of the companyand the agents of the Government, if set out at length,would fill a considerable book. Of these we alreadyknow something, and the rest may be divined.

In the course of the affair Ramiro had made but onemistake, and that sprang from what he was wont toconsider the weakness of his nature. Needlessto say, it was that he had winked at the escape ofBrant’s daughter, Elsa. It may have beensuperstition that prompted him, or it may have beenpity, or perhaps it was a certain oath of mercy whichhe had taken in an hour of need; at any rate, he wascontent that the girl should not share the doom whichovershadowed her father. He did not think itat all likely that she would take with her any documentsof importance, and the treasure, of course, she couldnot take; still, to provide against accidents he arrangedfor her to be searched upon the road.

As we know this search was a failure, and when onthe morrow Black Meg arrived to make report and towarn him that Dirk van Goorl’s son and his greatserving-man, whose strength was known throughout theNetherlands, were on their road to The Hague, he wassure that after all the girl had carried with hersome paper or message.

By this time the whereabouts of Brant’s treasurehad been practically solved. It was believedto lie in the string of vessels, although it was notknown that one of these was laden with powder as wellas gold. The plan of the Government agents wasto search the vessels as they passed out to sea andseize the treasure as contraband, which would savemuch legal trouble, since under the law or the edictswealth might not be shipped abroad by heretics.The plan of Ramiro and his friends was to facilitatethe escape of the treasure to the open sea, where theyproposed to swoop down upon it and convey it to morepeaceful shores.

When Foy and his party started down the canal in theboat Ramiro knew that his opportunity had come, andat once unmoored the big ship and followed. Theattempted stabbing of Foy was not done by his orders,as he wished the party to go unmolested and to bekept in sight. That was a piece of private maliceon the part of Black Meg, for it was she who was dressedas a man. On various occasions in Leyden Foy hadmade remarks upon Meg’s character which sheresented, and about her personal appearance, whichshe resented much more, and this was an attempt topay off old scores that in the issue cost her a finger,a good knife, and a gold ring which had associationsconnected with her youth.

At first everything had gone well. By one ofthe most daring and masterly manoeuvres that Ramirohad ever seen in his long and varied experience uponthe seas, the little Swallow, with her crewof three men, had run the gauntlet of the fort whichwas warned and waiting for her; had sunk and sailedthrough the big Government boat and her crew of lubberlysoldiers, many of whom, he was glad to reflect, weredrowned; had crushed the officer, against whom hehad a personal grudge, like an egg-shell, and wonthrough to the open sea. There he thought he wassure of her, for he took it for granted that she wouldrun for the Norfolk coast, and knew that in the galeof wind which was blowing his larger and well-mannedvessel could pull her down. But then the ill-luck—­thatancient ill-luck which always dogged him when he beganto interfere with the affairs of Lysbeth and her relatives—­declareditself.

Instead of attempting to cross the North Sea the littleSwallow hugged the coast, where, for variousnautical reasons connected with the wind, the water,and the build of their respective ships, she had thelegs of him. Next he lost her in the gut, andafter that we know what happened. There was nodisguising it; it was a most dreadful fiasco.To have one’s vessel boarded, the expensivevessel in which so large a proportion of the gainsof his honourable company had been invested, not onlyboarded, but fired, and the watchman stabbed by asingle naked devil of unknown sex or character wasbad enough. And then the end of it!

To have found the gold-laden ship, to have been gulledinto attacking her, and—­and—­oh!he could scarcely bear to think of it! There wasbut one consolation. Although too late to savethe others, even through the mist he had seen thatwisp of smoke rising from the hold; yes, he, the experienced,had smelt a rat, and, warned by some half-divine intuition,had kept his distance with the result that he was stillalive.

But the others! Those gallant comrades in adventure,where were they? Well, to be frank, he did notgreatly care. There was another question of moremoment. Where was the treasure? Now thathis brain had cleared after the shock and turmoilit was evident to him that Foy van Goorl, Red Martin,and the white devil who had boarded his ship, wouldnot have destroyed so much wealth if they could helpit, and still less would they have destroyed themselves.Therefore, to pursue the matter to a logical conclusion,it seemed probable that they had spent the night insinking or burying the money, and preparing the prettytrap into which he had walked. So the secretwas in their hands, and as they were still alive verypossibly means could be found to induce them to revealits hiding-place. There was still hope; indeed,now that he came to weigh things, they were not sobad.

To begin with, almost all the shareholders in theaffair had perished by the stern decree of Providence,and he was the natural heir of their interests.In other words, the treasure, if it was recovered,was henceforth his property. Further, when theycame to hear the story, the Government would set downBrant’s fortune as hopelessly lost, so thatthe galling competition from which he had sufferedso much was at an end.

Under these circumstances what was to be done?Very soon, as he sailed away over the lake in thesweet air of the morning, the Senor Ramiro found ananswer to the question.

The treasure had left The Hague, he must leave TheHague. The secret of its disposal was at Leyden,henceforth he must live at Leyden. Why not?He knew Leyden well. It was a pleasant place,but, of course, he might be recognised there; though,after so long, this was scarcely probable, for wasnot the Count de Montalvo notoriously dead and buried?Time and accident had changed him; moreover, he couldbring art to the assistance of nature. In Leyden,too, he had confederates—­Black Meg to wit,for one; also he had funds, for was he not the treasurerof the company that this very morning had achievedso remarkable and unsought-for an ascension?

There was only one thing against the scheme.In Leyden lived Lysbeth van Goorl and her husband,and with them a certain young man whose parentagehe could guess. More, her son Foy knew the hiding-placeof Brant’s hoard, and from him or his servantMartin that secret must be won. So once againhe was destined to match himself against Lysbeth—­thewronged, the dreaded, the victorious Lysbeth, whosevoice of denunciation still rang in his ear, whoseeyes of fire still scorched his soul, the woman whomhe feared above everything on earth. He foughther once for money, and, although he won the money,it had done him little good, for in the end she worstedhim. Now, if he went to Leyden, he must fighther again for money, and what would be the issue ofthat war? Was it worth while to take the risk?Would not history repeat itself? If he hurt her,would she not crush him? But the treasure, thatmighty treasure, which could give him so much, and,above all, could restore to him the rank and stationhe had forfeited, and which he coveted more than anythingin life. For, low as he had fallen, Montalvocould not forget that he had been born a gentleman.

He would take his chance; he would go to Leyden.Had he weighed the matter in the gloom of night, oreven in a dull and stormy hour, perhaps—­nayprobably—­he would have decided otherwise.But this morning the sun shone brightly, the windmade a merry music in the reeds; on the rippling surfaceof the lake the marsh-birds sang, and from the shorecame a cheerful lowing of kine. In such surroundingshis fears and superstitions vanished. He wasmaster of himself, and he knew that all depended uponhimself, the rest was dream and nonsense. Behindhim lay the buried gold; before him rose the towersof Leyden, where he could find its key. A God!that haunting legend of a God of vengeance, in whichpriests and others affected to believe? Now thathe came to think of it, what rubbish was here, foras any agent of the Inquisition knew well, the vengeancealways fell upon those who trusted in this same God;a hundred torture dens, a thousand smoking fires borewitness to the fact. And if there was a God,why, recognising his personal merits, only this morningHe had selected him out of many to live on and be theinheritor of the wealth of Hendrik Brant. Yes,he would go to Leyden and fight the battle out.

At the entry of the gut the Senor Ramiro landed fromhis boat. At first he had thought of killinghis companion, so that he might remain the sole survivorof the catastrophe, but on reflection he abandonedthis idea, as the man was a faithful creature of hisown who might be useful. So he bade him returnto The Hague to tell the story of the destructionof the ship Swallow with the treasure, her attackersand her crew, whoever they might have been. Hewas to add, moreover, that so far as he knew the CaptainRamiro had perished also, as he, the steersman, wasleft alone in charge of the boat when the vessel blewup. Then he was to come to Leyden, bringing withhim certain goods and papers belonging to him, Ramiro.

This plan seemed to have advantages. No one wouldcontinue to hunt for the treasure. No one excepthimself and perhaps Black Meg would know that Foyvan Goorl and Martin had been on board the Swallowand escaped; indeed as yet he was not quite sure ofit himself. For the rest he could either liehidden, or if it proved desirable, announce that hestill lived. Even if his messenger should provefaithless and tell the truth, it would not greatlymatter, seeing that he knew nothing which could beof service to anybody.

And so the steersman sailed away, while Ramiro, filledwith memories, reflections, and hopes, walked quietlythrough the Morsch Poort into the good city of Leyden.

That evening, but not until dark had fallen, two othertravellers entered Leyden, namely, Foy and Martin.Passing unobserved through the quiet streets, theyreached the side door of the house in the Bree Straat.It was opened by a serving-woman, who told Foy thathis mother was in Adrian’s room, also that Adrianwas very much better. So thither, followed moreslowly by Martin, went Foy, running upstairs threesteps at a time, for had he not a great story to tell!

The interior of the room as he entered it made anattractive picture which even in his hurry caughtFoy’s eye and fixed itself so firmly in hismind that he never forgot its details. To beginwith, the place was beautifully furnished, for hisbrother had a really good taste in tapestry, pictures,and other such adornments. Adrian himself layupon a richly carved oak bed, pale from loss of blood,but otherwise little the worse. Seated by theside of the bed, looking wonderfully sweet in thelamplight, which cast shadows from the curling hairabout her brows on to the delicate face beneath, wasElsa Brant. She had been reading to Adrian froma book of Spanish chivalry such as his romantic soulloved, and he, resting on his elbow in the snowy bed,was contemplating her beauty with his languishingblack eyes. Yet, although he only saw her fora moment before she heard his entry and looked up,it was obvious to Foy that Elsa remained quite unconsciousof the handsome Adrian’s admiration, indeed,that her mind wandered far away from the magnificentadventures and highly coloured love scenes of whichshe was reading in her sweet, low voice. Norwas he mistaken, for, in fact, the poor child wasthinking of her father.

At the further end of the room, talking together earnestlyin the deep and curtained window-place, stood hismother and his father. Clearly they were as muchpreoccupied as the younger couple, and it was notdifficult for Foy to guess that fears for his own safetyupon his perilous errand were what concerned themmost, and behind them other unnumbered fears.For the dwellers in the Netherlands in those daysmust walk from year to year through a valley of shadowsso grim that our imagination can scarcely picturethem.

“Sixty hours and he is not back,” Lysbethwas saying.

“Martin said we were not to trouble ourselvesbefore they had been gone for a hundred,” answeredDirk consolingly.

Just then Foy, surveying them from the shadowed doorway,stepped forward, saying in his jovial voice:

“Sixty hours to the very minute.”

Lysbeth uttered a little scream of joy and ran forward.Elsa let the book fall on to the floor and rose todo the same, then remembered and stood still, whileDirk remained where he was till the women had donetheir greetings, betraying his delight only by a quickrubbing of his hands. Adrian alone did not lookparticularly pleased, not, however, because he retainedany special grudge against his brother for his sharein the fracas of a few nights before, since, when oncehis furious gusts of temper had passed, he was nomalevolently minded man. Indeed he was glad thatFoy had come back safe from his dangerous adventure,only he wished that he would not blunder into thebedroom and interrupt his delightful occupation oflistening, while the beautiful Elsa read him romanceand poetry.

Since Foy was gone upon his mission, Adrian had beentreated with the consideration which he felt to behis due. Even his stepfather had taken the opportunityto mumble some words of regret for what had happened,and to express a hope that nothing more would be saidabout the matter, while his mother was sympatheticand Elsa most charming and attentive. Now, ashe knew well, all this would be changed. Foy,the exuberant, unrefined, plain-spoken, nerve-shakingFoy, would become the centre of attention, and overwhelmthem with long stories of very dull exploits, whileMartin, that brutal bull of a man who was only fitto draw a cart, would stand behind and play the partof chorus, saying “Ja” and “Neen”at proper intervals. Well, he supposed that hemust put up with it, but oh! what a weariness it was.

Another minute, and Foy was wringing him by the hand,saying in his loud voice, “How are you, oldfellow? You look as well as possible, what areyou lying in this bed for and being fed with pap bythe women?”

“For the love of Heaven, Foy,” interruptedAdrian, “stop crushing my fingers and shakingme as though I were a rat. You mean it kindly,I know, but—­” and Adrian droppedback upon the pillow, coughed and looked hectic andinteresting.

Then both the women fell upon Foy, upbraiding himfor his roughness, begging him to remember that ifhe were not careful he might kill his brother, whosearteries were understood to be in a most precariouscondition, till the poor man covered his ears withhis hands and waited till he saw their lips stop moving.

“I apologise,” he said. “Iwon’t touch him, I won’t speak loud nearhim. Adrian, do you hear?”

“Who could help it?” moaned the prostrateAdrian.

“Cousin Foy,” interrupted Elsa, claspingher hands and looking up into his face with her bigbrown eyes, “forgive me, but I can wait no longer.Tell me, did you see or hear anything of my fatheryonder at The Hague?”

“Yes, cousin, I saw him,” answered Foypresently.

“And how was he—­oh! and all the restof them?”

“He was well.”

“And free and in no danger?”

“And free, but I cannot say in no danger.We are all of us in danger nowadays, cousin,”replied Foy in the same quiet voice.

“Oh! thank God for that,” said Elsa.

“Little enough to thank God for,” mutteredMartin, who had entered the room and was standingbehind Foy looking like a giant at a show. Elsahad turned her face away, so Foy struck backwards withall his force, hitting Martin in the pit of the stomachwith the point of his elbow. Martin doubled himselfup, recoiled a step and took the hint.

“Well, son, what news?” said Dirk, speakingfor the first time.

“News!” answered Foy, escaping joyfullyfrom this treacherous ground. “Oh! lotsof it. Look here,” and plunging his handsinto his pockets he produced first the half of thebroken dagger and secondly a long skinny finger ofunwholesome hue with a gold ring on it.

“Bah!” said Adrian. “Take thathorrid thing away.”

“Oh! I beg your pardon,” answeredFoy, shuffling the finger back into his pocket, “youdon’t mind the dagger, do you? No?Well, then, mother, that mail shirt of yours is thebest that was ever made; this knife broke on it likea carrot, though, by the way, it’s uncommonlysticky wear when you haven’t changed it forthree days, and I shall be glad enough to get it off.”

“Evidently Foy has a story to tell,” saidAdrian wearily, “and the sooner he rids hismind of it the sooner he will be able to wash.I suggest, Foy, that you should begin at the beginning.”

So Foy began at the beginning, and his tale provedsufficiently moving to interest even the soul-wornAdrian. Some portions of it he softened down,and some of it he suppressed for the sake of Elsa—­notvery successfully, indeed, for Foy was no diplomatist,and her quick imagination filled the gaps. Anotherpart—­that which concerned her future andhis own—­of necessity he omitted altogether.He told them very briefly, however, of the flightfrom The Hague, of the sinking of the Government boat,of the run through the gale to the Haarlem Mere withthe dead pilot on board and the Spanish ship behind,and of the secret midnight burying of the treasure.

“Where did you bury it?” asked Adrian.

“I have not the slightest idea,” saidFoy. “I believe there are about three hundredislets in that part of the Mere, and all I know isthat we dug a hole in one of them and stuck it in.However,” he went on in a burst of confidence,“we made a map of the place, that is—­”Here he broke off with a howl of pain, for an accidenthad happened.

While this narrative was proceeding, Martin, who wasstanding by him saying “Ja” and “Neen”at intervals, as Adrian foresaw he would, had unbuckledthe great sword Silence, and in an abstracted mannerwas amusing himself by throwing it towards the ceilinghilt downwards, and as it fell catching it in hishand. Now, most unaccountably, he looked theother way and missed his catch, with the result thatthe handle of the heavy weapon fell exactly upon Foy’sleft foot and then clattered to the ground.

“You awkward beast!” roared Foy, “youhave crushed my toes,” and he hopped towardsa chair upon one leg.

“Your pardon, master,” said Martin.“I know it was careless; my mother always toldme that I was careless, but so was my father beforeme.”

Adrian, overcome by the fearful crash, closed hiseyes and sighed.

“Look,” said Lysbeth in a fury, “heis fainting; I knew that would be the end of all yournoise. If you are not careful we shall have himbreaking another vessel. Go out of the room, allof you. You can finish telling the story downstairs,”and she drove them before her as a farmer’swife drives fowls.

“Martin,” said Foy on the stairs, wherethey found themselves together for a minute, for atthe first signs of the storm Dirk had preceded them,“why did you drop that accursed great sword ofyours upon my foot?”

“Master,” counted Martin imperturbably,“why did you hit me in the pit of the stomachwith your elbow?”

“To keep your tongue quiet.”

“And what is the name of my sword?”

“Silence.”

“Well, then, I dropped the sword ‘Silence’for the same reason. I hope it hasn’t hurtyou much, but if it did I can’t help it.”

Foy wheeled round. “What do you mean, Martin?”

“I mean,” answered the great man withenergy, “that you have no right to tell whatbecame of that paper which Mother Martha gave us.”

“Why not? I have faith in my brother.”

“Very likely, master, but that isn’t thepoint. We carry a great secret, and this secretis a trust, a dangerous trust; it would be wrong tolay its burden upon the shoulders of other folk.What people don’t know they can’t tell,master.”

Foy still stared at him, half in question, half inanger, but Martin made no further reply in words.Only he went through certain curious motions, motionsas of a man winding slowly and laboriously at somethinglike a pump wheel. Foy’s lips turned pale.

“The rack?” he whispered. Martinnodded, and answered beneath his breath,

“They may all of them be on it yet. Youlet the man in the boat escape, and that man was theSpanish spy, Ramiro; I am sure of it. If theydon’t know they can’t tell, and thoughwe know we shan’t tell; we shall die first,master.”

Now Foy trembled and leaned against the wall.“What would betray us?” he asked.

“Who knows, master? A woman’s torment,a man’s—­” and he put a strangemeaning into his voice, “a man’s—­jealousy,or pride, or vengeance. Oh! bridle your tongueand trust no one, no, not your father or mother, orsweetheart, or—­” and again that strangemeaning came into Martin’s voice, “orbrother.”

“Or you?” queried Foy, looking up.

“I am not sure. Yes, I think you may trustme, though there is no knowing how the rack mightchange a man’s mind.”

“If all this be so,” said Foy, with aflush of sudden passion, “I have said too muchalready.”

“A great deal too much, master. If I couldhave managed it I should have dropped the sword Silenceon your toe long before. But I couldn’t,for the Heer Adrian was watching me, and I had towait till he closed his eyes, which he did to hearthe better without seeming to listen.”

“You are unjust to Adrian, Martin, as you alwayshave been, and I am angry with you. Say, whatis to be done now?”

“Now, master,” replied Martin cheerfully,“you must forget the teaching of the PastorArentz, and tell a lie. You must take up yourtale where you left it off, and say that we made amap of the hiding-place, but that—­I—­beinga fool—­managed to drop it while we werelighting the fuses, so that it was blown away withthe ship. I will tell the same story.”

“Am I to say this to my father and mother?”

“Certainly, and they will quite understand whyyou say it. My mistress was getting uneasy already,and that was why she drove us from the room.You will tell them that the treasure is buried butthat the secret of its hiding-place was lost.”

“Even so, Martin, it is not lost; Mother Marthaknows it, and they all will guess that she does knowit.”

“Why, master, as it happened you were in sucha hurry to get on with your story that I think youforgot to mention that she was present at the buryingof the barrels. Her name was coming when I droppedthe sword upon your foot.”

“But she boarded and fired the Spanish ship—­sothe man Ramiro and his companion would probably haveseen her.”

“I doubt, master, that the only person who sawher was he whose gizzard she split, and he will tellno tales. Probably they think it was you or Iwho did that deed. But if she was seen, or ifthey know that she has the secret, then let them getit from Mother Martha. Oh! mares can gallop andducks can dive and snakes can hide in the grass.When they can catch the wind and make it give up itssecrets, when they can charm from sword Silence thetale of the blood which it has drunk throughout thegenerations, when they can call back the dead saintsfrom heaven and stretch them anew within the torture-pit,then and not before, they will win knowledge of thehoard’s hiding-place from the lips of the witchof Haarlem Meer. Oh! master, fear not for her,the grave is not so safe.”

“Why did you not caution me before, Martin?”

“Because, master,” answered Martin stolidly,“I did not think that you would be such a fool.But I forgot that you are young—­yes, I forgetthat you are young and good, too good for the dayswe live in. It is my fault. On my head beit.”

CHAPTER XVI

THE MASTER

In the sitting-room, speaking more slowly and withgreater caution, Foy continued the story of theiradventures. When he came to the tale of how theship Swallow was blown up with all the Spanishboarders, Elsa clasped her hands, saying, “Horrible!Horrible! Think of the poor creatures hurledthus into eternity.”

“And think of the business they were on,”broke in Dirk grimly, adding, “May God forgiveme who cannot feel grieved to hear of the death ofSpanish cut-throats. It was well managed, Foy,excellently well managed. But go on.”

“I think that is about all,” said Foyshortly, “except that two of the Spaniards gotaway in a boat, one of whom is believed to be the headspy and captain, Ramiro.”

“But, son, up in Adrian’s chamber justnow you said something about having made a map ofthe hiding-place of the gold. Where is it, forit should be put in safety?”

“Yes, I know I did,” answered Foy, “butdidn’t I tell you?” he went on awkwardly.“Martin managed to drop the thing in the cabinof the Swallow while we were lighting the fuses,so it was blown up with the ship, and there is nowno record of where the stuff was buried.”

“Come, come, son,” said Dirk. “Martha,who knows every island on the great lake, must rememberthe spot.”

“Oh! no, she doesn’t,” answeredFoy. “The truth is that she didn’tcome with us when we buried the barrels. Shestopped to watch the Spanish ship, and just told usto land on the first island we came to and dig a hole,which we did, making a map of the place before we left,the same that Martin dropped.”

All this clumsy falsehood Foy uttered with a woodenface and in a voice which would not have convinceda three-year-old infant, priding himself the whileupon his extraordinary cleverness.

“Martin,” asked Dirk, suspiciously, “isthis true?”

“Absolutely true, master,” replied Martin;“it is wonderful how well he remembers.”

“Son,” said Dirk, turning white with suppressedanger, “you have always been a good lad, andnow you have shown yourself a brave one, but I prayGod that I may not be forced to add that you are false-tongued.Do you not see that this looks black? The treasurewhich you have hidden is the greatest in all the Netherlands.Will not folk say, it is not wonderful that you shouldhave forgotten its secret until—­it suitsyou to remember?”

Foy took a step forward, his face crimson with indignation,but the heavy hand of Martin fell upon his shoulderand dragged him back as though he were but a littlechild.

“I think, Master Foy,” he said, fixinghis eyes upon Lysbeth, “that your lady motherwishes to say something.”

“You are right, Martin; I do. Do you notthink, husband, that in these days of ours a man mighthave other reasons for hiding the truth than a desireto enrich himself by theft?”

“What do you mean, wife?” asked Dirk.“Foy here says that he has buried this greathoard with Martin, but that he and Martin do not knowwhere they buried it, and have lost the map they made.Whatever may be the exact wording of the will, thathoard belongs to my cousin here, subject to certaintrusts which have not yet arisen, and may never arise,and I am her guardian while Hendrik Brant lives andhis executor when he dies. Therefore, legally,it belongs to me also. By what right, then, domy son and my servant hide the truth from me, if,indeed, they are hiding the truth? Say what youhave to say straight out, for I am a plain man andcannot read riddles.”

“Then I will say it, husband, though it is butmy guess, for I have had no words with Foy or Martin,and if I am wrong they can correct me. I knowtheir faces, and I think with you that they are notspeaking the truth. I think that they do notwish us to know it—­not that they may keepthe secret of this treasure for themselves, but becausesuch a secret might well bring those who know of itto the torment and the stake. Is it not so, myson?”

“Mother,” answered Foy, almost in a whisper,“it is so. The paper is not lost, but donot seek to learn its hiding-place, for there are wolveswho would tear your bodies limb from limb to get theknowledge out of you; yes, even Elsa’s, evenElsa’s. If the trial must come let it fallon me and Martin, who are fitter to bear it. Oh!father, surely you know that, whatever we may be,neither of us is a thief.”

Dirk advanced to his son, and kissed him on the forehead.

“My son,” he said, “pardon me, andyou, Red Martin, pardon me also. I spoke in myhaste. I spoke as a fool, who, at my age, shouldhave known better. But, oh! I tell you thatI wish that this cursed treasure, these cases of preciousgems and these kegs of hoarded gold, had been shiveredto the winds of heaven with the timbers of the shipSwallow. For, mark you, Ramiro has escaped,and with him another man, and they will know wellthat having the night to hide it, you did not destroythose jewels with the ship. They will track youdown, these Spanish sleuthhounds, filled with thelust of blood and gold, and it will be well if thelives of every one of us do not pay the price of thesecret of the burying-place of the wealth of HendrikBrant.”

He ceased, pale and trembling, and a silence fellupon the room and all in it, a sad and heavy silence,for in his voice they caught the note of prophecy.Martin broke it.

“It may be so, master,” he said; “but,your pardon, you should have thought of that beforeyou undertook this duty. There was no call uponyou to send the Heer Foy and myself to The Hague tobring away this trash, but you did it as would anyother honest man. Well, now it is done, and wemust take our chance, but I say this—­ifyou are wise, my masters, yes, and you ladies also,before you leave this room you will swear upon theBible, every one of you, never to whisper the wordtreasure, never to think of it except to believe thatit is gone—­lost beneath the waters of theHaarlemer Meer. Never to whisper it, no, mistress,not even to the Heer Adrian, your son who lies sickabed upstairs.”

“You have learnt wisdom somewhere of late years,Martin, since you stopped drinking and fighting,”said Dirk drily, “and for my part before GodI swear it.”

“And so do I.” “And I.”“And I.” “And I,” echoedthe others, Martin, who spoke last, adding, “Yes,I swear that I will never speak of it; no, noteven to my young master, Adrian, who lies sick abedupstairs.”

Adrian made a good, though not a very quick recovery.He had lost a great deal of blood, but the vesselclosed without further complications, so that it remainedonly to renew his strength by rest and ample food.For ten days or so after the return of Foy and Martin,he was kept in bed and nursed by the women of the house.Elsa’s share in this treatment was to read tohim from the Spanish romances which he admired.Very soon, however, he found that he admired Elsa herselfeven more than the romances, and would ask her toshut the book that he might talk to her. So longas his conversation was about himself, his dreams,plans and ambitions, she fell into it readily enough;but when he began to turn it upon herself,and to lard it with compliment and amorous innuendo,then she demurred, and fled to the romances for refuge.

Handsome as he might be, Adrian had no attractionsfor Elsa. About him there was something too exaggeratedfor her taste; moreover he was Spanish, Spanish inhis beauty, Spanish in the cast of his mind, and allSpaniards were hateful to her. Deep down in herheart also lay a second reason for this repugnance;the man reminded her of another man who for monthshad been a nightmare to her soul, the Hague spy, Ramiro.This Ramiro she had observed closely. Thoughshe had not seen him very often his terrible reputationwas familiar to her. She knew also, for her fatherhad told her as much, that it was he who was drawingthe nets about him at The Hague, and who plotted dayand night to rob him of his wealth.

At first sight there was no great resemblance betweenthe pair. How could there be indeed between aman on the wrong side of middle age, one-eyed, grizzled,battered, and bearing about with him an atmosphereof iniquity, and a young gentleman, handsome, distinguished,and wayward, but assuredly no criminal? Yet thelikeness existed. She had seen it first whenAdrian was pointing out to her how, were he a general,he would dispose his forces for the capture of Leyden,and from that moment her nature rose in arms againsthim. Also it came out in other ways, in littletricks of voice and pomposities of manner which Elsacaught at unexpected moments, perhaps, as she toldherself, because she had trained her mind to seekthese similarities. Yet all the while she knewthat the fancy was ridiculous, for what could thesetwo men have in common with each other?

In those days, however, Elsa did not think much ofAdrian, or of anybody except her beloved father, whoseonly child she was, and whom she adored with all thepassion of her heart. She knew the terrible dangerin which he stood, and guessed that she had been sentaway that she should not share his perils. Nowshe had but one desire and one prayer—­thathe might escape in safety, and that she might returnto him again. Once only a message came from him,sent through a woman she had never seen, the wifeof a fisherman, who delivered it by word of mouth.This was the message:

“Give my love and blessing to my daughter Elsa,and tell her that so far I am unharmed. To Foyvan Goorl say, I have heard the news. Well done,thou good and faithful servant! Let him rememberwhat I told him, and be sure that he will not strivein vain, and that he shall not lack for his rewardhere or hereafter.”

That was all. Tidings reached them that the destructionof so many men by the blowing up of the Swallow,and by her sinking of the Government boat as she escaped,had caused much excitement and fury among the Spaniards.But, as those who had been blown up were free-lances,and as the boat was sunk while the Swallowwas flying from them, nothing had been done in thematter. Indeed, nothing could be done, for itwas not known who manned the Swallow, and,as Ramiro had foreseen, her crew were supposed tohave been destroyed with her in the Haarlemer Meer.

Then, after a while, came other news that filled Elsa’sheart with a wild hope, for it was reported that HendrikBrant had disappeared, and was believed to have escapedfrom The Hague. Nothing more was heard of him,however, which is scarcely strange, for the doomedman had gone down the path of rich heretics into thesilent vaults of the Inquisition. The net hadclosed at last, and through the net fell the sword.

But if Elsa thought seldom of Adrian, except in gustsof spasmodic dislike, Adrian thought of Elsa, andlittle besides. So earnestly did he lash hisromantic temperament, and so deeply did her beautyand charm appeal to him, that very soon he was trulyin love with her. Nor did the fact that, as hebelieved, she was, potentially, the greatest heiressin the Netherlands, cool Adrian’s amorous devotion.What could suit him better in his condition, thanto marry this rich and lovely lady?

So Adrian made up his mind that he would marry her,for, in his vanity, it never occurred to him thatshe might object. Indeed, the only thought thatgave him trouble was the difficulty of reducing herwealth into possession. Foy and Martin had buriedit somewhere in the Haarlemer Meer. But theysaid, for this he had ascertained by repeated inquiries,although the information was given grudgingly enough,that the map of the hiding-place had been destroyedin the explosion on the Swallow. Adriandid not believe this story for a moment. He wasconvinced that they were keeping the truth from him,and as the prospective master of that treasure heresented this reticence bitterly. Still, it hadto be overcome, and so soon as he was engaged to Elsahe intended to speak very clearly upon this point.Meanwhile, the first thing was to find a suitableopportunity to make his declaration in due form, whichdone he would be prepared to deal with Foy and Martin.

Towards evening it was Elsa’s custom to walkabroad. As at that hour Foy left the foundry,naturally he accompanied her in these walks, Martinfollowing at a little distance in case he should bewanted. Soon those excursions became delightfulto both of them. To Elsa, especially, it waspleasant to escape from the hot house into the coolevening air, and still more pleasant to exchange thelaboured tendernesses and highly coloured complimentsof Adrian for the cheerful honesty of Foy’sconversation.

Foy admired his cousin as much as did his half-brother,but his attitude towards her was very different.He never said sweet things; he never gazed up intoher eyes and sighed, although once or twice, perhapsby accident, he did squeeze her hand. His demeanourtowards her was that of a friend and relative, andthe subject of their talk for the most part was thepossibility of her father’s deliverance fromthe dangers which surrounded him, and other mattersof the sort.

The time came at last when Adrian was allowed to leavehis room, and as it chanced it fell to Elsa’slot to attend him on this first journey downstairs.In a Dutch home of the period and of the class of theVan Goorl’s, all the women-folk of whateverdegree were expected to take a share in the householdwork. At present Elsa’s share was to nurseto Adrian, who showed so much temper at every attemptwhich was made to replace her by any other woman,that, in face of the doctor’s instructions,Lysbeth did not dare to cross his whim.

It was with no small delight, therefore, that Elsahailed the prospect of release, for the young manwith his grandiose bearing and amorous sighs weariedher almost beyond endurance. Adrian was not equallypleased; indeed he had feigned symptoms which causedhim to remain in bed an extra week, merely in orderthat he might keep her near him. But now theinevitable hour had come, and Adrian felt that it wasincumbent upon him to lift the veil and let Elsa seesome of the secret of his soul. He had preparedfor the event; indeed the tedium of his confinementhad been much relieved by the composition of loftyand heart-stirring addresses, in which he, the noblecavalier, laid his precious self and fortune at thefeet of this undistinguished, but rich and attractivemaid.

Yet now when the moment was with him, and when Elsagave him her hand to lead him from the room, behold!all these beautiful imaginings had vanished, and hisknees shook with no fancied weakness. SomehowElsa did not look as a girl ought to look who wasabout to be proposed to; she was too cold and dignified,too utterly unconscious of anything unusual.It was disconcerting—­but—­it mustbe done.

By a superb effort Adrian recovered himself and openedwith one of the fine speeches, not the best by anymeans, but the only specimen which he could remember.

“Without,” he began, “the free airwaits to be pressed by my cramped wings, but althoughmy heart bounds wild as that of any haggard hawk, Itell you, fairest Elsa, that in yonder gilded cage,”and he pointed to the bed, “I——­”

“Heaven above us! Heer Adrian,” brokein Elsa in alarm, “are you—­are you—­gettinggiddy?”

“She does not understand. Poor child, howshould she?” he murmured in a stage aside.Then he started again. “Yes, most adorable,best beloved, I am giddy, giddy with gratitude tothose fair hands, giddy with worship of those lovelyeyes——­”

Now Elsa, unable to contain her merriment any longer,burst out laughing, but seeing that her adorer’sface was beginning to look as it did in the dining-roombefore he broke the blood vessel, she checked herself,and said:

“Oh! Heer Adrian, don’t waste allthis fine poetry upon me. I am too stupid tounderstand it.”

“Poetry!” he exclaimed, becoming suddenlynatural, “it isn’t poetry.”

“Then what is it?” she asked, and nextmoment could have bitten her tongue out.

“It is—­it is—­love!”and he sank upon his knees before her, where, shecould not but notice, he looked very handsome in thesubdued light of the room, with his upturned faceblanched by sickness, and his southern glowing eyes.“Elsa, I love you and no other, and unless youreturn that love my heart will break and I shall die.”

Now, under ordinary circumstances, Elsa would havebeen quite competent to deal with the situation, butthe fear of over-agitating Adrian complicated it greatly.About the reality of his feelings at the moment, atany rate, it seemed impossible to be mistaken, forthe man was shaking like a leaf. Still, she mustmake an end of these advances.

“Rise, Heer Adrian,” she said gently,holding out her hand to help him to his feet.

He obeyed, and glancing at her face, saw that it wasvery calm and cold as winter ice.

“Listen, Heer Adrian,” she said.“You mean this kindly, and doubtless many amaid would be flattered by your words, but I must tellyou that I am in no mood for love-making.”

“Because of another man?” he queried,and suddenly becoming theatrical again, added, “Speakon, let me hear the worst; I will not quail.”

“There is no need to,” replied Elsa inthe same quiet voice, “because there is no otherman. I have never yet thought of marriage, I haveno wish that way, and if I had, I should forget itnow when from hour to hour I do not know where mydear father may be, or what fate awaits him.He is my only lover, Heer Adrian,” and as Elsaspoke her soft brown eyes filled with tears.

“Ah!” said Adrian, “would that Imight fly to save him from all dangers, as I rescuedyou, lady, from the bandits of the wood.”

“I would you might,” she replied, smilingsadly at the double meaning of the words, “but,hark, your mother is calling us. I know, HeerAdrian,” she added gently, “that you willunderstand and respect my dreadful anxiety, and willnot trouble me again with poetry and love-talk, forif you do I shall be—­angry.”

“Lady,” he answered, “your wishesare my law, and until these clouds have rolled fromthe blue heaven of your life I will be as silent asthe watching moon. And, by the way,” headded rather nervously, “perhaps you will besilent also—­about our talk, I mean, as wedo not want that buffoon, Foy, thrusting his street-boyfun at us.”

Elsa bowed her head. She was inclined to resentthe “we” and other things in this speech,but, above all, she did not wish to prolong this foolishand tiresome interview, so, without more words, shetook her admirer by the hand and guided him down thestairs.

It was but three days after this ridiculous scene,on a certain afternoon, when Adrian had been out forthe second time, that the evil tidings came.Dirk had heard them in the town, and returned homewell-nigh weeping. Elsa saw his face and knewat once.

“Oh! is he dead?” she gasped.

He nodded, for he dared not trust himself to speak.

“How? Where?”

“In the Poort prison at The Hague.”

“How do you know?”

“I have seen a man who helped to bury him.”

She looked up as though to ask for further details,but Dirk turned away muttering, “He is dead,he is dead, let be.”

Then she understood, nor did she ever seek to knowany more. Whatever he had suffered, at leastnow he was with the God he worshipped, and with thewife he lost. Only the poor orphan, comfortedby Lysbeth, crept from the chamber, and for a weekwas seen no more. When she appeared again sheseemed to be herself in all things, only she neversmiled and was very indifferent to what took placeabout her. Thus she remained for many days.

Although this demeanour on Elsa’s part was understoodand received with sympathy and more by the rest ofthe household, Adrian soon began to find it irksomeand even ridiculous. So colossal was this youngman’s vanity that he was unable quite to understandhow a girl could be so wrapped up in the memoriesof a murdered father, that no place was left in hermind for the tendernesses of a present adorer.After all, this father, what was he? A middle-agedand, doubtless, quite uninteresting burgher, who couldlay claim to but one distinction, that of great wealth,most of which had been amassed by his ancestors.

Now a rich man alive has points of interest, but arich man dead is only interesting to his heirs.Also, this Brant was one of these narrow-minded, fanatical,New Religion fellows who were so wearisome to menof intellect and refinement. True, he, Adrian,was himself of that community, for circumstances haddriven him into the herd, but oh! he found them adreary set. Their bald doctrines of individualeffort, of personal striving to win a personal redemption,did not appeal to him; moreover, they generally endedat the stake. Now about the pomp and circumstanceof the Mother Church there was something attractive.Of course, as a matter of prejudice he attended itsceremonials from time to time and found them comfortableand satisfying. Comfortable also were the dogmasof forgiveness to be obtained by an act of penitentialconfession, and the sense of a great supporting forcewhose whole weight was at the disposal of the humblestbeliever.

In short, there was nothing picturesque about theexcellent departed Hendrik, nothing that could justifythe young woman in wrapping herself up in grief forhim to the entire exclusion of a person who waspicturesque and ready, at the first opportunity, towrap himself up in her.

After long brooding, assisted by a close study ofthe romances of the period, Adrian convinced himselfthat in all this there was something unnatural, thatthe girl must be under a species of spell which inher own interest ought to be broken through.But how? That was the question. Try as hewould he could do nothing. Therefore, like othersin a difficulty, he determined to seek the assistanceof an expert, namely, Black Meg, who, among her otheroccupations, for a certain fee payable in advance,was ready to give advice as a specialist in affairsof the heart.

To Black Meg accordingly he went, disguised, secretlyand by night, for he loved mystery, and in truth itwas hardly safe that he should visit her by the lightof day. Seated in a shadowed chamber he pouredout his artless tale to the pythoness, of course concealingall names. He might have spared himself thistrouble, as he was an old client of Meg’s, afact that no disguise could keep from her. Beforehe opened his lips she knew perfectly what was thename of his inamorata and indeed all the circumstancesconnected with the pair of them.

The wise woman listened in patience, and when he haddone, shook her head, saying that the case was toohard for her. She proposed, however, to consulta Master more learned than herself, who, by great goodfortune, was at that moment in Leyden, frequentingher house in fact, and begged that Adrian would returnat the same hour on the morrow.

Now, as it chanced, oddly enough Black Meg had beencommissioned by the said Master to bring about a meetingbetween himself and this very young man.

Adrian returned accordingly, and was informed thatthe Master, after consulting the stars and other sourcesof divination, had become so deeply interested inthe affair that, for pure love of the thing and notfor any temporal purpose of gain, he was in attendanceto advise in person. Adrian was overjoyed, andprayed that he might be introduced. Presentlya noble-looking form entered the room, wrapped in along cloak. Adrian bowed, and the form, aftercontemplating him earnestly—­very earnestly,if he had known the truth—­acknowledgedthe salute with dignity. Adrian cleared his throatand began to speak, whereon the sage stopped him.

“Explanations are needless, young man,”he said, in a measured and melodious voice, “formy studies of the matter have already informed meof more than you can tell. Let me see; your nameis Adrian van Goorl—­no, called Van Goorl;the lady you desire to win is Elsa Brant, the daughterof Hendrik Brant, a heretic and well-known goldsmith,who was recently executed at The Hague. She isa girl of much beauty, but one unnaturally insensibleto the influence of love, and who does not at presentrecognise your worth. There are, also, unlessI am mistaken, other important circumstances connectedwith the case.

“This lady is a great heiress, but her fortuneis at present missing; it is, I have reason to believe,hidden in the Haarlemer Meer. She is surroundedwith influences that are inimical to you, all of which,however, can be overcome if you will place yourselfunreservedly in my hands, for, young man, I acceptno half-confidences, nor do I ask for any fee.When the fortune is recovered and the maiden is yourhappy wife, then we will talk of payment for servicesrendered, and not before.”

“Wonderful, wonderful!” gasped Adrian;“most learned senor, every word you say is true.”

“Yes, friend Adrian, and I have not told youall the truth. For instance—­but, no,this is not the time to speak. The question is,do you accept my terms?”

“What terms, senor?”

“The old terms, without which no wonder canbe worked—­faith, absolute faith.”

Adrian hesitated a little. Absolute faith seemeda large present to give a complete stranger at a firstinterview.

“I read your thought and I respect it,”went on the sage, who, to tell truth, was afraid hehad ventured a little too far. “There isno hurry; these affairs cannot be concluded in a day.”

Adrian admitted that they could not, but intimatedthat he would be glad of a little practical and immediateassistance. The sage buried his face in his handsand thought.

“The first thing to do,” he said presently,“is to induce a favourable disposition of themaiden’s mind towards yourself, and this, I think,can best be brought about—­though the methodis one which I do not often use—­by meansof a love philtre carefully compounded to suit thecircumstances of the case. If you will come hereto-morrow at dusk, the lady of this house—­aworthy woman, though rough of speech and no true adept—­willhand it to you.”

“It isn’t poisonous?” suggestedAdrian doubtfully.

“Fool, do I deal in poisons? It will poisonthe girl’s heart in your favour, that is all.”

“And how is it to be administered?” askedAdrian.

“In the water or the wine she drinks, and afterwardsyou must speak to her again as soon as possible.Now that is settled,” he went on airily, “so,young friend, good-bye.”

“Are you sure that there is no fee?” hesitatedAdrian.

“No, indeed,” answered the sage, “atany rate until all is accomplished. Ah!”and he sighed, “did you but know what a delightit is to a weary and world-worn traveller to helpforward the bright ambitions of youth, to assist thepure and soaring soul to find the mate destined toit by heaven—­ehem!—­you wouldn’ttalk of fees. Besides, I will be frank; fromthe moment that I entered this room and saw you, Irecognised in you a kindred nature, one which undermy guidance is capable of great things, of thingsgreater than I care to tell. Ah! what a visiondo I see. You, the husband of the beautiful Elsaand master of her great wealth, and I at your sideguiding you with my wisdom and experience—­thenwhat might not be achieved? Dreams, doubtlessdreams, though how often have my dreams been prophetic!Still, forget them, and at least, young man, we willbe friends,” and he stretched out his hand.

“With all my heart,” answered Adrian,taking those cool, agile-looking fingers. “Foryears I have sought someone on whom I could rely, someonewho would understand me as I feel you do.”

“Yes, yes,” sighed the sage, “Ido indeed understand you.”

“To think,” he said to himself after thedoor had closed behind the delighted and flatteredAdrian, “to think that I can be the father ofsuch a fool as that. Well, it bears out my theoriesabout cross-breeding, and, after all, in this casea good-looking, gullible fool will be much more usefulto me than a young man of sense. Let me see;the price of the office is paid and I shall have myappointment duly sealed as the new Governor of theGevangenhuis by next week at furthest, so I may aswell begin to collect evidence against my worthy successor,Dirk van Goorl, his adventurous son Foy, and that red-headedruffian, Martin. Once I have them in the Gevangenhuisit will go hard if I can’t squeeze the secretof old Brant’s money out of one of the threeof them. The women wouldn’t know, they wouldn’thave told the women, besides I don’t want tomeddle with them, indeed nothing would persuade meto that”—­and he shivered as thoughat some wretched recollection. “But theremust be evidence; there is such noise about these executionsand questionings that they won’t allow any moreof them in Leyden without decent evidence; even Alvaand the Blood Council are getting a bit frightened.Well, who can furnish better testimony than that jackass,my worthy son, Adrian? Probably, however, he hasa conscience somewhere, so it may be as well not tolet him know that when he thinks himself engaged inconversation he is really in the witness box.Let me see, we must take the old fellow, Dirk, onthe ground of heresy, and the youngster and the servingman on a charge of murdering the king’s soldiersand assisting the escape of heretics with their goods.Murder sounds bad, and, especially in the case ofa young man, excites less sympathy than common heresy.”

Then he went to the door, calling, “Meg, hostessmine, Meg.”

He might have saved himself the trouble, however,since, on opening it suddenly, that lady fell almostinto his arms.

“What!” he said, “listening, oh,fie! and all for nothing. But there, ladies willbe curious and”—­this to himself—­“Imust be more careful. Lucky I didn’t talkaloud.”

Then he called her in, and having inspected the chambernarrowly, proceeded to make certain arrangements.

CHAPTER XVII

BETROTHED

At nightfall on the morrow Adrian returned as appointed,and was admitted into the same room, where he foundBlack Meg, who greeted him openly by name and handedto him a tiny phial containing a fluid clear as water.This, however, was scarcely to be wondered at, seeingthat it was water and nothing else.

“Will it really work upon her heart?”asked Adrian, eyeing the stuff.

“Ay,” answered the hag, “that’sa wondrous medicine, and those who drink it go crazedwith love for the giver. It is compounded accordingto the Master’s own receipt, from very costlytasteless herbs that grow only in the deserts of Arabia.”

Adrian understood, and fumbled in his pocket.Meg stretched out her hand to receive the honorarium.It was a long, skinny hand, with long, skinny fingers,but there was this peculiarity about it, that one ofthese fingers chanced to be missing. She sawhis eyes fixed upon the gap, and rushed into an explanation.

“I have met with an accident,” Meg explained.“In cutting up a pig the chopper caught thisfinger and severed it.”

“Did you wear a ring on it?” asked Adrian.

“Yes,” she replied, with sombre fury.

“How very strange!” ejaculated Adrian.

“Why?”

“Because I have seen a finger, a woman’slong finger with a gold ring on it, that might havecome off your hand. I suppose the pork-butcherpicked it up for a keepsake.”

“May be, Heer Adrian, but where is it now?”

“Oh! it is, or was, in a bottle of spirits tiedby a thread to the cork.”

Meg’s evil face contorted itself. “Getme that bottle,” she said hoarsely. “Lookyou, Heer Adrian, I am doing much for you, do thisfor me.”

“What do you want it for?”

“To give it Christian burial,” she repliedsourly. “It is not fitting or lucky thata person’s finger should stand about in a bottlelike a caul or a lizard. Get it, I say get it—­Iask no question where—­or, young man, youwill have little help in your love affairs from me.”

“Do you wish the dagger hilt also?” heasked mischievously.

She looked at him out of the corners of her blackeyes. This Adrian knew too much.

“I want the finger and the ring on it whichI lost in chopping up the pig.”

“Perhaps, mother, you would like the pig, too.Are you not making a mistake? Weren’t youtrying to cut his throat, and didn’t he biteoff the finger?”

“If I want the pig, I’ll search his stye.You bring that bottle, or——­”

She did not finish her sentence, for the door opened,and through it came the sage.

“Quarrelling,” he said in a tone of reproof.“What about? Let me guess,” and hepassed his hand over his shadowed brow. “Ah!I see, there is a finger in it, a finger of fate?No, not that,” and, moved by a fresh inspiration,he grasped Meg’s hand, and added, “NowI have it. Bring it back, friend Adrian, bringit back; a dead finger is most unlucky to all saveits owner. As a favour to me.”

“Very well,” said Adrian.

“My gifts grow,” mused the master.“I have a vision of this honest hand and ofa great sword—­but, there, it is not worthwhile, too small a matter. Leave us, mother.It shall be returned, my word on it. Yes, goldring and all. And now, young friend, let us talk.You have the philtre? Well, I can promise youthat it is a good one, it would almost bring Galateafrom her marble. Pygmalion must have known thatsecret. But tell me something of your life, yourdaily thoughts and daily deeds, for when I give myfriendship I love to live in the life of my friends.”

Thus encouraged, Adrian told him a great deal, somuch, indeed, that the Senor Ramiro, nodding in theshadow of his hood, began to wonder whether the spybehind the cupboard door, expert as he was, could possiblymake his pen keep pace with these outpourings.Oh! it was a dreary task, but he kept to it, and byputting in a sentence here and there artfully turnedthe conversation to matters of faith.

“No need to fence with me,” he said presently.“I know how you have been brought up, how throughno fault of your own you have wandered out of thewarm bosom of the true Church to sit at the clay feetof the conventicle. You doubt it? Well,let me look again, let me look. Yes, only lastweek you were seated in a whitewashed room overhangingthe market-place. I see it all—­anugly little man with a harsh voice is preaching, preachingwhat I think blasphemy. Baskets—­baskets?What have baskets to do with him?”

“I believe he used to make them,” interruptedAdrian, taking the bait.

“That may be it, or perhaps he will be buriedin one; at any rate he is strangely mixed up withbaskets. Well, there are others with you, a middle-aged,heavy-faced man, is he not Dirk van Goorl, your stepfather?And—­wait—­a young fellow withrather a pleasant face, also a relation. I seehis name, but I can’t spell it. F—­F—­o—­i,faith in the French tongue, odd name for a heretic.”

“F-o-y—­Foy,” interrupted Adrianagain.

“Indeed! Strange that I should have mistakenthe last letter, but in the spirit sight and hearingthese things chance: then there is a great manwith a red beard.”

“No, Master, you’re wrong,” saidAdrian with emphasis; “Martin was not there;he stopped behind to watch the house.”

“Are you sure?” asked the seer doubtfully.“I look and I seem to see him,” and hestared blankly at the wall.

“So you might see him often enough, but notat last week’s meeting.”

It is needless to follow the conversation further.The seer, by aid of a ball of crystal that he producedfrom the folds of his cloak, described his spiritvisions, and the pupil corrected them from his intimateknowledge of the facts, until the Senor Ramiro andhis confederates in the cupboard had enough evidence,as evidence was understood in those days, to burnDirk, Foy, and Martin three times over, and, if itshould suit him, Adrian also. Then for that nightthey parted.

Next evening Adrian was back again with the fingerin the bottle, which Meg grabbed as a pike snatchesat a frog, and further fascinating conversation ensued.Indeed, Adrian found this well of mystic lore temperedwith shrewd advice upon love affairs and other worldlymatters, and with flattery of his own person and gifts,singularly attractive.

Several times did he return thus, for as it chancedElsa had been unwell and kept her room, so that hediscovered no opportunity of administering the magicphiltre that was to cause her heart to burn with lovefor him.

At length, when even the patient Ramiro was almostworn out by the young gentleman’s lengthy visits,the luck changed. Elsa appeared one day at dinner,and with great adroitness Adrian, quite unseen of anyone,contrived to empty the phial into her goblet of water,which, as he rejoiced to see, she drank to the lastdrop.

But no opportunity such as he sought ensued, for Elsa,overcome, doubtless, by an unwonted rush of emotion,retired to battle it in her own chamber. Sinceit was impossible to follow and propose to her there,Adrian, possessing his soul in such patience as hecould command, sat in the sitting-room to await herreturn, for he knew that it was not her habit to goout until five o’clock. As it happened,however, Elsa had other arrangements for the afternoon,since she had promised to accompany Lysbeth upon severalvisits to the wives of neighbours, and then to meether cousin Foy at the factory and walk with him inthe meadows beyond the town.

So while Adrian, lost in dreams, waited in the sitting-roomElsa and Lysbeth left the house by the side door.

They had paid three of their visits when their pathchanced to lead them past the old town prison whichwas called the Gevangenhuis. This place formedone of the gateways of the city, for it was built inthe walls and opened on to the moat, water surroundingit on all sides. In front of its massive door,that was guarded by two soldiers, a small crowd hadgathered on the drawbridge and in the street beyond,apparently in expectation of somebody or something.Lysbeth looked at the three-storied frowning buildingand shuddered, for it was here that heretics wereput upon their trial, and here, too, many of them weredone to death after the dreadful fashion of the day.

“Hasten,” she said to Elsa, as she pushedthrough the crowd, “for doubtless some horrorpasses here.”

“Have no fear,” answered an elderly andgood-natured woman who overheard her, “we areonly waiting to hear the new governor of the prisonread his deed of appointment.”

As she spoke the doors were thrown open and a man—­hewas a well-known executioner named Baptiste—­cameout carrying a sword in one hand and a bunch of keyson a salver in the other. After him followed thegovernor gallantly dressed and escorted by a companyof soldiers and the officials of the prison.Drawing a scroll from beneath his cloak he began toread it rapidly and in an almost inaudible voice.

It was his commission as governor of the prison signedby Alva himself, and set out in full his powers, whichwere considerable, his responsibilities which weresmall, and other matters, excepting only the sum ofmoney that he had paid for the office, that, givencertain conditions, was, as a matter of fact, soldto the highest bidder. As may be guessed, thispost of governor of a gaol in one of the large Netherlandcities was lucrative enough to those who did not objectto such a fashion of growing rich. So lucrativewas it, indeed, that the salary supposed to attachto the office was never paid; at least its occupantwas expected to help himself to it out of hereticalpockets.

As he finished reading through the paper the new governorlooked up, to see, perhaps, what impression he hadproduced upon his audience. Now Elsa saw hisface for the first time and gripped Lysbeth’sarm.

“It is Ramiro,” she whispered, “Ramirothe spy, the man who dogged my father at The Hague.”

As well might she have spoken to a statue. Indeed,of a sudden Lysbeth seemed to be smitten into stone,for there she stood staring with a blanched and meaninglessface at the face of the man opposite to her.Well might she stare, for she also knew him. Acrossthe gulf of years, one-eyed, bearded, withered, scarredas he was by suffering, passion and evil thoughts,she knew him, for there before her stood one whom shedeemed dead, the wretch whom she had believed to beher husband, Juan de Montalvo. Some magnetismdrew his gaze to her; out of all the faces of thatcrowd it was hers that leapt to his eye. He trembledand grew white; he turned away, and swiftly was goneback into the hell of the Gevangenhuis. Likea demon he had come out of it to survey the humanworld beyond, and search for victims there; like ademon he went back into his own place. So atleast it seemed to Lysbeth.

“Come, come,” she muttered and, drawingthe girl with her, passed out of the crowd.

Elsa began to talk in a strained voice that from timeto time broke into a sob.

“That is the man,” she said. “Hehounded down my father; it was his wealth he wanted,but my father swore that he would die before he shouldwin it, and he is dead—­dead in the Inquisition,and that man is his murderer.”

Lysbeth made no answer, never a word she uttered,till presently they halted at a mean and humble door.Then she spoke for the first time in cold and constrainedaccents.

“I am going in here to visit the Vrouw Jansen;you have heard of her, the wife of him whom they burned.She sent to me to say that she is sick, I know notof what, but there is smallpox about; I have heardof four cases of it in the city, so, cousin, it iswisest that you should not enter here. Give methe basket with the food and wine. Look, yonderis the factory, quite close at hand, and there youwill find Foy. Oh! never mind Ramiro. Whatis done is done. Go and walk with Foy, and fora while forget—­Ramiro.”

At the door of the factory Elsa found Foy awaitingher, and they walked together through one of the gatesof the city into the pleasant meadows that lay beyond.At first they did not speak much, for each of themwas occupied with thoughts which pressed their tonguesto silence. When they were clear of the town,however, Elsa could contain herself no more; indeed,the anguish awakened in her mind by the sight of Ramiroworking upon nerves already overstrung had made herhalf-hysterical. She began to speak; the wordsbroke from her like water from a dam which it hasbreached. She told Foy that she had seen the man,and more—­much more. All the miserywhich she had suffered, all the love for the fatherwho was lost to her.

At last Elsa ceased outworn, and, standing still thereupon the river bank she wrung her hands and wept.Till now Foy had said nothing, for his good spiritsand cheerful readiness seemed to have forsaken him.Even now he said nothing. All he did was to puthis arms about this sweet maid’s waist, and,drawing her to him, to kiss her upon brow and eyesand lips. She did not resist; it never seemedto occur to her to show resentment; indeed, she lether head sink upon his shoulder like the head of alittle child, and there sobbed herself to silence.At last she lifted her face and asked very simply:

“What do you want with me, Foy van Goorl?”

“What?” he repeated; “why I wantto be your husband.”

“Is this a time for marrying and giving in marriage?”she asked again, but almost as though she were speakingto herself.

“I don’t know that it is,” he replied,“but it seems the only thing to do, and in suchdays two are better than one.”

She drew away and looked at him, shaking her headsadly. “My father,” she began——­

“Yes,” he interrupted brightening, “thankyou for mentioning him, that reminds me. He wishedthis, so I hope now that he is gone you will takethe same view.”

“It is rather late to talk about that, isn’tit, Foy?” she stammered, looking at his shoulderand smoothing her ruffled hair with her small whitehand. “But what do you mean?”

So word for word, as nearly as he could remember it,he told her all that Hendrik Brant had said to himin the cellar at The Hague before they had enteredupon the desperate adventure of their flight to theHaarlemer Meer. “He wished it, you see,”he ended.

“My thought was always his thought, and—­Foy—­Iwish it also.”

“Priceless things are not lightly won,”said he, quoting Brant’s words as though bysome afterthought.

“There he must have been talking of the treasure,Foy,” she answered, her face lightening to asmile.

“Ay, of the treasure, sweet, the treasure ofyour dear heart.”

“A poor thing, Foy, but I think that—­itrings true.”

“It had need, Elsa, yet the best of coin maycrack with rough usage.”

“Mine will wear till death, Foy.”

“I ask no more, Elsa. When I am dead, spendit elsewhere; I shall find it again above where thereis no marrying or giving in marriage.”

“There would be but small change left to spend,Foy, so look to your own gold and—­see thatyou do not alter its image and superscription, formetal will melt in the furnace, and each queen hasher stamp.”

“Enough,” he broke in impatiently.“Why do you talk of such things, and in theseriddles which puzzle me?”

“Because, because, we are not married yet, and—­thewords are not mine—­precious things aredearly won. Perfect love and perfect peace cannotbe bought with a few sweet words and kisses; they mustbe earned in trial and tribulation.”

“Of which I have no doubt we shall find plenty,”Foy replied cheerfully. “Meanwhile, thekisses make a good road to travel on.”

After this Elsa did not argue any more.

At length they turned and walked homeward throughthe quiet evening twilight, hand clasped in hand,and were happy in their way. It was not a verydemonstrative way, for the Dutch have never been excitable,or at least they do not show their excitement.Moreover, the conditions of this betrothal were peculiar;it was as though their hands had been joined froma deathbed, the deathbed of Hendrik Brant, the martyrof The Hague, whose new-shed blood cried out to Heavenfor vengeance. This sense pressing on both ofthem did not tend towards rapturous outbursts of youthfulpassion, and even if they could have shaken it offand let their young blood have rein, there remainedanother sense—­that of dangers ahead ofthem.

“Two are better than one,” Foy had said,and for her own reasons she had not wished to arguethe point, still Elsa felt that to it there was anotherside. If two could comfort each other, could helpeach other, could love each other, could they notalso suffer for each other? In short, by doublingtheir lives, did they not also double their anxieties,or if children should come, treble and quadruple them?This is true of all marriage, but how much more wasit true in such days and in such a case as that ofFoy and Elsa, both of them heretics, both of themrich, and, therefore, both liable at a moment’snotice to be haled to the torment and the stake?Knowing these things, and having but just seen thehated face of Ramiro, it is not wonderful that althoughshe rejoiced as any woman must that the man to whomher soul turned had declared himself her lover, Elsacould only drink of this joyful cup with a chastenedand a fearful spirit. Nor is it wonderful thateven in the hour of his triumph Foy’s buoyantand hopeful nature was chilled by the shadow of herfears and the forebodings of his own heart.

When Lysbeth parted from Elsa that afternoon she wentstraight to the chamber of the Vrouw Jansen.It was a poor place, for after the execution of herhusband his wretched widow had been robbed of allher property and now existed upon the charity of herco-religionists. Lysbeth found her in bed, anold woman nursing her, who said that she thought thepatient was suffering from a fever. Lysbeth leantover the bed and kissed the sick woman, but startedback when she saw that the glands of her neck wereswollen into great lumps, while the face was flushedand the eyes so bloodshot as to be almost red.Still she knew her visitor, for she whispered:

“What is the matter with me, Vrouw van Goorl?Is it the smallpox coming on? Tell me, friend,the doctor would not speak.”

“I fear that it is worse; it is the plague,”said Lysbeth, startled into candour.

The poor girl laughed hoarsely. “Oh!I hoped it,” she said. “I am glad,I am glad, for now I shall die and go to join him.But I wish that I had caught it before,” sherambled on to herself, “for then I would havetaken it to him in prison and they couldn’t havetreated him as they did.” Suddenly sheseemed to come to herself, for she added, “Goaway, Vrouw van Goorl, go quickly or you may catchmy sickness.”

“If so, I am afraid that the mischief is done,for I have kissed you,” answered Lysbeth.“But I do not fear such things, though perhapsif I took it, this would save me many a trouble.Still, there are others to think of, and I will go.”So, having knelt down to pray awhile by the patient,and given the old nurse the basket of soup and food,Lysbeth went.

Next morning she heard that the Vrouw Jansen was dead,the pest that struck her being of the most fatal sort.

Lysbeth knew that she had run great risk, for thereis no disease more infectious than the plague.She determined, therefore, that so soon as she reachedhome she would burn her dress and other articles ofclothing and purify herself with the fumes of herbs.Then she dismissed the matter from her mind, whichwas already filled with another thought, a dominant,soul-possessing thought.

Oh God, Montalvo had returned to Leyden! Outof the blackness of the past, out of the gloom ofthe galleys, had arisen this evil genius of her life;yes, and, by a strange fatality, of the life of ElsaBrant also, since it was her, she swore, who had draggeddown her father. Lysbeth was a brave woman, onewho had passed through many dangers, but her wholeheart turned sick with terror at the sight of thisman, and sick it must remain till she, or he, weredead. She could well guess what he had come toseek. It was that cursed treasure of Hendrik Brant’swhich had drawn him. She knew from Elsa that fora year at least the man Ramiro had been plotting tosteal this money at The Hague. He had failedthere, failed with overwhelming and shameful loss throughthe bravery and resource of her son Foy and theirhenchman, Red Martin. Now he had discovered theiridentity; he was aware that they held the secret ofthe hiding-place of that accursed hoard, they and noothers, and he had established himself in Leyden towring it out of them. It was clear, clear asthe setting orb of the red sun before her. Sheknew the man—­had she not lived with him?—­andthere could be no doubt about it, and—­hewas the new governor of the Gevangenhuis. Doubtlesshe has purchased that post for his own dark purposesand—­to be near them.

Sick and half blind with the intensity of her dread,Lysbeth staggered home. She must tell Dirk, thatwas her one thought; but no, she had been in contactwith the plague, first she must purify herself.So she went to her room, and although it was summer,lit a great fire on the hearth, and in it burned hergarments. Then she bathed and fumigated her hairand body over a brazier of strong herbs, such as inthose days of frequent and virulent sickness housewiveskept at hand, after which she dressed herself afreshand went to seek her husband. She found him ata desk in his private room reading some paper, whichat her approach he shuffled into a drawer.

“What is that, Dirk?” she asked with suddensuspicion.

He pretended not to hear, and she repeated the query.

“Well, wife, if you wish to know,” heanswered in his blunt fashion, “it is my will.”

“Why are you reading your will?” she askedagain, beginning to tremble, for her nerves were afire,and this simple accident struck her as something awfuland ominous.

“For no particular reason, wife,” he repliedquietly, “only that we all must die, early orlate. There is no escape from that, and in thesetimes it is more often early than late, so it is aswell to be sure that everything is in order for thosewho come after us. Now, since we are on the subject,which I have never cared to speak about, listen tome.”

“What about, husband?”

“Why, about my will. Look you, HendrikBrant and his treasure have taught me a lesson.I am not a man of his substance, or a tenth of it,but in some countries I should be called rich, forI have worked hard and God has prospered me.Well, of late I have been realising where I could,also the bulk of my savings is in cash. But thecash is not here, not in this country at all.You know my correspondents, Munt and Brown, of Norwich,in England, to whom we ship our goods for the Englishmarket. They are honest folk, and Munt owes meeverything, almost to his life. Well, they havethe money, it has reached them safely, thanks be toGod, and with it a counterpart of this my will dulyattested, and here is their letter of acknowledgmentstating that they have laid it out carefully at interestupon mortgage on great estates in Norfolk where itlies to my order, or that of my heirs, and that a duplicateacknowledgment has been filed in their English registriesin case this should go astray. Little remainshere except this house and the factory, and even onthose I have raised money. Meanwhile the businessis left to live on, and beyond it the rents whichwill come from England, so that whether I be livingor dead you need fear no want. But what is thematter with you, Lysbeth? You look strange.”

“Oh! husband, husband,” she gasped, “Juande Montalvo is here again. He has appeared asthe new governor of the gaol. I saw him this afternoon,I cannot be mistaken, although he has lost an eye andis much changed.”

Dirk’s jaw dropped and his florid face whitened.“Juan de Montalvo!” he said. “Iheard that he was dead long ago.”

“You are mistaken, husband, a devil never dies.He is seeking Brant’s treasure, and he knowsthat we have its secret. You can guess the rest.More, now that I think of it, I have heard that a strangeSpaniard is lodging with Hague Simon, he whom theycall the Butcher, and Black Meg, of whom we have causeto know. Doubtless it is he, and—­Dirk,death overshadows us.”

“Why should he know of Brant’s treasure,wife?”

“Because he is Ramiro, the man who doggedhim down, the man who followed the ship Swallowto the Haarlemer Meer. Elsa was with me thisafternoon, she knew him again.”

Dirk thought a while, resting his head upon his hand.Then he lifted it and said:

“I am very glad that I sent the money to Muntand Brown, Heaven gave me that thought. Well,wife, what is your counsel now?”

“My counsel is that we should fly from Leyden—­allof us, yes, this very night before worse happens.”

He smiled. “That cannot be; there are nomeans of flight, and under the new laws we could notpass the gates; that trick has been played too often.Still, in a day or two, when I have had time to arrange,we might escape if you still wish to go.”

“To-night, to-night,” she urged, “orsome of us stay for ever.”

“I tell you, wife, it is not possible.Am I a rat that I should be bolted from my hole thusby this ferret of a Montalvo? I am a man of peaceand no longer young, but let him beware lest I stophere long enough to pass a sword through him.”

“So be it, husband,” she replied, “butI think it is through my heart that the sword willpass,” and she burst out weeping.

Supper that night was a somewhat melancholy meal.Dirk and Lysbeth sat at the ends of the table in silence.On one side of fit were placed Foy and Elsa, who werealso silent for a very different reason, while oppositeto them was Adrian, who watched Elsa with an anxiousand inquiring eye.

That the love potion worked he was certain, for shelooked confused and a little flushed; also, as wouldbe natural under the circumstances, she avoided hisglance and made pretence to be interested in Foy, whoseemed rather more stupid than usual. Well, sosoon as he could find his chance all this would becleared up, but meanwhile the general gloom and silencewere affecting his nerves.

“What have you been doing this afternoon, mother?”Adrian asked presently.

“I, son?” she replied with a start, “Ihave been visiting the unhappy Vrouw Jansen, whomI found very sick.”

“What is the matter with her, mother?”

Lysbeth’s mind, which had wandered away, againreturned to the subject at hand with an effort.

“The matter? Oh! she has the plague.”

“The plague!” exclaimed Adrian, springingto his feet, “do you mean to say you have beenconsorting with a woman who has the plague?”

“I fear so,” she answered with a smile,“but do not be frightened, Adrian, I have burntmy clothes and fumigated myself.”

Still Adrian was frightened. His recent experienceof sickness had been ample, and although he was nocoward he had a special dislike of infectious diseases,which at the time were many.

“It is horrible,” he said, “horrible.I only hope that we—­I mean you—­mayescape. The house is unbearably close. Iam going to walk in the courtyard,” and awayhe went, for the moment, at any rate, forgetting allabout Elsa and the love potion.

CHAPTER XVIII

FOY SEES A VISION

Never since that day when, many years before, shehad bought the safety of the man she loved by promisingherself in marriage to his rival, had Lysbeth sleptso ill as she did upon this night. Montalvo wasalive. Montalvo was here, here to strike downand destroy those whom she loved, and triple armedwith power, authority, and desire to do the deed.Well she knew that when there was plunder to be won,he would not step aside or soften until it was inhis hands. Yet there was hope in this; he wasnot a cruel man, as she knew also, that is to say,he had no pleasure in inflicting suffering for itsown sake; such methods he used only as a means toan end. If he could get the money, all of it,she was sure that he would leave them alone.Why should he not have it? Why should all theirlives be menaced because of this trust which had beenthrust upon them?

Unable to endure the torments of her doubts and fears,Lysbeth woke her husband, who was sleeping peacefullyat her side, and told him what was passing in hermind.

“It is a true saying,” answered Dirk witha smile, “that even the best of women are neverquite honest when their interest pulls the other way.What, wife, would you have us buy our own peace withBrant’s fortune, and thus break faith with adead man and bring down his curse upon us?”

“The lives of men are more than gold, and Elsawould consent,” she answered sullenly; “alreadythis pelf is stained with blood, the blood of HendrikBrant himself, and of Hans the pilot.”

“Yes, wife, and since you mention it, with theblood of a good many Spaniards also, who tried tosteal the stuff. Let’s see; there must havebeen several drowned at the mouth of the river, andquite twenty went up with the Swallow, so theloss has not been all on our side. Listen, Lysbeth,listen. It was my cousin, Hendrik Brant’s,belief that in the end this great fortune of his woulddo some service to our people or our country, forhe wrote as much in his will and repeated it to Foy.I know not when or in what fashion this may come about;how can I know? But first will I die before Ihand it over to the Spaniard. Moreover, I cannot,since its secret was never told to me.”

“Foy and Martin have it.”

“Lysbeth,” said Dirk sternly, “Icharge you as you love me not to work upon them tobetray their trust; no, not even to save my life oryour own—­if we must die, let us die withhonour. Do you promise?”

“I promise,” she answered with dry lips,“but on this condition only, that you fly fromLeyden with us all, to-night if maybe.”

“Good,” answered Dirk, “a halfpennyfor a herring; you have made your promise, and I’llgive you mine; that’s fair, although I am oldto seek a new home in England. But it can’tbe to-night, wife, for I must make arrangements.There is a ship sailing to-day, and we might catchher to-morrow at the river’s mouth, after shehas passed the officers, for her captain is a friendof mine. How will that do?”

“I had rather it had been to-night,” saidLysbeth. “While we are in Leyden with thatman we are not safe from one hour to the next.”

“Wife, we are never safe. It is all inthe hands of God, and, therefore, we should live likesoldiers awaiting the hour to march, and rejoice exceedinglywhen it pleases our Captain to sound the call.”

“I know,” she answered; “but, oh!Dirk, it would be hard—­to part.”

He turned his head aside for a moment, then said ina steady voice, “Yes, wife, but it will be sweetto meet again and part no more.”

While it was still early that morning Dirk summonedFoy and Martin to his wife’s chamber. Adrianfor his own reasons he did not summon, making theexcuse that he was still asleep, and it would be apity to disturb him; nor Elsa, since as yet therewas no necessity to trouble her. Then, briefly,for he was given to few words, he set out the gistof the matter, telling them that the man Ramiro whomthey had beaten on the Haarlemer Meer was in Leyden,which Foy knew already, for Elsa had told him as much,and that he was no other than the Spaniard named theCount Juan de Montalvo, the villain who had deceivedLysbeth into a mock marriage by working on her fears,and who was the father of Adrian. All this timeLysbeth sat in a carved oak chair listening with astony face to the tale of her own shame and betrayal.She made no sign at all beyond a little twitchingof her fingers, till Foy, guessing what she sufferedin her heart, suddenly went to his mother and kissedher. Then she wept a few silent tears, for aninstant laid her hand upon his head as though in blessing,and, motioning him back to his place, became herselfagain—­stern, unmoved, observant.

Next Dirk, taking up his tale, spoke of his wife’sfears, and of her belief that there was a plot towring out of them the secret of Hendrik Brant’streasure.

“Happily,” he said, addressing Foy, “neitheryour mother nor I, nor Adrian, nor Elsa, know thatsecret; you and Martin know it alone, you and perhapsone other who is far away and cannot be caught.We do not know it, and we do not wish to know it,and whatever happens to any of us, it is our earnesthope that neither of you will betray it, even if ourlives, or your lives, hang upon the words, for we holdit better that we should keep our trust with a deadman at all costs than that we should save ourselvesby breaking faith. Is it not so, wife?”

“It is so,” answered Lysbeth hoarsely.

“Have no fear,” said Foy. “Wewill die before we betray.”

“We will try to die before we betray,”grumbled Martin in his deep voice, “but fleshis frail and God knows.”

“Oh! I have no doubt of you, honest man,”said Dirk with a smile, “for you have no motherand father to think of in this matter.”

“Then, master, you are foolish,” repliedMartin, “for I repeat it—­flesh isfrail, and I always hated the look of a rack.However, I have a handsome legacy charged upon thistreasure, and perhaps the thought of that would supportme. Alive or dead, I should not like to thinkof my money being spent by any Spaniard.”

While Martin spoke the strangeness of the thing camehome to Foy. Here were four of them, two of whomknew a secret and two who did not, while those whodid not implored those who did to impart to them nothingof the knowledge which, if they had it, might serveto save them from a fearful doom. Then for thefirst time in his young and inexperienced life heunderstood how great erring men and women can be andwhat patient majesty dwells in the human heart, thatfor the sake of a trust it does not seek can yet defythe most hideous terrors of the body and the soul.Indeed, that scene stamped itself upon his mind insuch fashion that throughout his long existence henever quite forgot it for a single day. His mother,clad in her frilled white cap and grey gown, seatedcold-faced and resolute in the oaken chair. Hisfather, to whom, although he knew it not, he was nowspeaking for the last time, standing by her, his handresting upon her shoulder and addressing them in hisquiet, honest voice. Martin standing also buta little to one side and behind, the light of themorning playing upon his great red beard; his round,pale eyes glittering as was their fashion when wrathful,and himself, Foy, leaning forward to listen, everynerve in his body strung tight with excitement, love,and fear.

Oh! he never forgot it, which is not strange, forso great was the strain upon him, so well did he knowthat this scene was but the prelude to terrible events,that for a moment, only for a moment, his steady reasonwas shaken and he saw a vision. Martin, the huge,patient, ox-like Martin, was changed into a red Vengeance;he saw him, great sword aloft, he heard the roar ofhis battle cry, and lo! before him men went down todeath, and about him the floor seemed purple with theirblood. His father and his mother, too; they wereno longer human, they were saints—­see theglory which shone over them, and look, too, the deadHendrik Brant was whispering in their ears. Andhe, Foy, he was beside Martin playing his part inthose red frays as best he might, and playing it notin vain.

Then all passed, and a wave of peace rolled over him,a great sense of duty done, of honour satisfied, ofreward attained. Lo! the play was finished, andits ultimate meaning clear, but before he could readand understand—­it had gone.

He gasped and shook himself, gripping his hands together.

“What have you seen, son?” asked Lysbeth,watching his face.

“Strange things, mother,” Foy answered.“A vision of war for Martin and me, of gloryfor my father and you, and of eternal peace for usall.”

“It is a good omen, Foy,” she said.“Fight your fight and leave us to fight ours.’Through much tribulation we must enter intothe Kingdom of God,’ where at last there isa rest remaining for us all. It is a good omen.Your father was right and I was wrong. Now I haveno more to fear; I am satisfied.”

None of them seemed to be amazed or to find thesewords wonderful and out of the common. For themthe hand of approaching Doom had opened the gatesof Distance, and they knew everyone that through thesesome light had broken on their souls, a faint flickerof dawn from beyond the clouds. They acceptedit in thankfulness.

“I think that is all I have to say,” saidDirk in his usual voice. “No, it is notall,” and he told them of his plan for flight.They listened and agreed to it, yet to them it seemeda thing far off and unreal. None of them believedthat this escape would ever be carried out. Allof them believed that here in Leyden they would endurethe fiery trial of their faith and win each of themits separate crown.

When everything was discussed, and each had learnedthe lesson of what he must do that day, Foy askedif Adrian was to be told of the scheme. To thishis father answered hastily that the less it was spokenof the better, therefore he proposed to tell Adrianlate that night only, when he could make up his mindwhether he would accompany them or stay in Leyden.

“Then he shan’t go out to-night, and willcome with us as far as the ship only if I can manageit,” muttered Martin beneath his breath, butaloud he said nothing. Somehow it did not seemto him to be worth while to make trouble about it,for he knew that if he did his mistress and Foy, whobelieved so heartily in Adrian, would be angry.

“Father and mother,” said Foy again, “whilewe are gathered here there is something I wish tosay to you.”

“What is it, son?” asked Dirk.

“Yesterday I became affianced to Elsa Brant,and we wish to ask your consent and blessing.”

“That will be gladly given, son, for I thinkthis very good news. Bring her here, Foy,”answered Dirk.

But although in his hurry Foy did not notice it, hismother said nothing. She liked Elsa well indeed—­whowould not?—­but oh! this brought them astep nearer to that accursed treasure, the treasurewhich from generation to generation had been hoardedup that it might be a doom to men. If Foy wereaffianced to Elsa, it was his inheritance as wellas hers, for those trusts of Hendrik Brant’swill were to Lysbeth things unreal and visionary,and its curse would fall upon him as well as uponher. Moreover it might be said that he was marryingher to win the wealth.

“This betrothal does not please you; you aresad, wife,” said Dirk, looking at her quickly.

“Yes, husband, for now I think that we shallnever get out of Leyden. I pray that Adrian maynot hear of it, that is all.”

“Why, what has he to do with the matter?”

“Only that he is madly in love with the girl.Have you not seen it? And—­you knowhis temper.”

“Adrian, Adrian, always Adrian,” answeredDirk impatiently. “Well, it is a very fittingmatch, for if she has a great fortune hidden somewherein a swamp, which in fact she has not, since the bulkof it is bequeathed to me to be used for certain purposes;he has, or will have, moneys also—­safeat interest in England. Hark! here they come,so, wife, put on a pleasant face; they will thinkit unlucky if you do not smile.”

As he spoke Foy re-entered the room, leading Elsaby the hand, and she looked as sweet a maid as everthe sun shone on. So they told their story, andkneeling down before Dirk, received his blessing inthe old fashion, and very glad were they in the afteryears to remember that it had been so received.Then they turned to Lysbeth, and she also lifted upher hand to bless them, but ere it touched their heads,do what she would to check it, a cry forced its wayto her lips, and she said:

“Oh! children, doubtless you love each otherwell, but is this a time for marrying and giving inmarriage?”

“My own words, my very words,” exclaimedElsa, springing to her feet and turning pale.

Foy looked vexed. Then recovering himself andtrying to smile, he said:

“And I give them the same answer—­thattwo are better than one; moreover, this is a betrothal,not a marriage.”

“Ay,” muttered Martin behind, thinkingaloud after his fashion, “betrothal is one thingand marriage another,” but low as he spoke Elsaoverheard him.

“Your mother is upset,” broke in Dirk,“and you can guess why, so do not disturb hermore at present. Let us to our business, you andMartin to the factory to make arrangements there asI have told you, and I, after I have seen the captain,to whatever God shall call me to do. So, tillwe meet again, farewell, my son—­and daughter,”he added, smiling at Elsa.

They left the room, but as Martin was following themLysbeth called him back.

“Go armed to the factory, Martin,” shesaid, “and see that your young master wearsthat steel shirt beneath his jerkin.”

Martin nodded and went.

Adrian woke up that morning in an ill mood. Hehad, it is true, administered his love potion withsingular dexterity and success, but as yet he reapedno fruit from his labours, and was desperately afraidlest the effect of the magic draught might wear off.When he came downstairs it was to find that Foy andMartin were already departed to the factory, and thathis stepfather had gone out, whither he knew not.This was so much to the good, for it left the coastclear. Still he was none the better off, sinceeither his mother and Elsa had taken their breakfastupstairs, or they had dispensed with that meal.His mother he could spare, especially after her recentcontact with a plague patient, but under the circumstancesElsa’s absence was annoying. Moreover, suddenlythe house had become uncomfortable, for every one init seemed to be running about carrying articles hitherand thither in a fashion so aimless that it struckhim as little short of insane. Once or twicealso he saw Elsa, but she, too, was carrying things,and had no time for conversation.

At length Adrian wearied of it and departed to thefactory with the view of making up his books, which,to tell the truth, had been somewhat neglected oflate, to find that here, too, the same confusion reigned.Instead of attending to his ordinary work, Martin wasmarching to and fro bearing choice pieces of brassware,which were being packed into crates, and he noticed,for Adrian was an observant young man, that he wasnot wearing his usual artisan’s dress. Why,he wondered to himself, should Martin walk about afactory upon a summer’s day clad in his armourof quilted bull’s hide, and wearing his greatsword Silence strapped round his middle? Why,too, should Foy have removed the books and be engagedin going through them with a clerk? Was he auditingthem? If so, he wished him joy of the job, sinceto bring them to a satisfactory balance had provedrecently quite beyond his own powers. Not thatthere was anything wrong with the books, for he, Adrian,had kept them quite honestly according to his veryimperfect lights, only things must have been leftout, for balance they would not. Well, on thewhole, he was glad, since a man filled with lover’shopes and fears was in no mood for arithmetical exercises,so, after hanging about for a while, he returned hometo dinner.

The meal was late, an unusual occurrence, which annoyedhim; moreover, neither his mother nor his stepfatherappeared at table. At length Elsa came in lookingpale and worried, and they began to eat, or ratherto go through the form of eating, since neither ofthem seemed to have any appetite. Nor, as theservant was continually in the room, and as Elsa tookher place at one end of the long table while he wasat the other, had their tete-a-tete any ofthe usual advantages.

At last the waiting-woman went away, and, after afew moment’s pause, Elsa rose to follow.By this time Adrian was desperate. He would bearit no more; things must be brought to a head.

“Elsa,” he said, in an irritated voice,“everything seems to be very uncomfortable hereto-day, there is so much disturbance in the housethat one might imagine we were going to shut it upand leave Leyden.”

Elsa looked at him out of the corners of her eyes;probably by this time she had learnt the real causeof the disturbance.

“I am sorry, Heer Adrian,” she said, “butyour mother is not very well this morning.”

“Indeed; I only hope she hasn’t caughtthe plague from the Jansen woman; but that doesn’taccount for everybody running about with their handsfull, like ants in a broken nest, especially as itis not the time of year when women turn all the furnitureupside down and throw the curtains out of the windowsin the pretence that they are cleaning them.However, we are quiet here for a while, so let us talk.”

Elsa became suspicious. “Your mother wantsme, Heer Adrian,” she said, turning towardsthe door.

“Let her rest, Elsa, let her rest; there isno medicine like sleep for the sick.”

Elsa pretended not to hear him, so, as she still headedfor the door, by a movement too active to be dignified,he placed himself in front of it, adding, “Ihave said that I want to speak with you.”

“And I have said that I am busy, Heer Adrian,so please let me pass.”

Adrian remained immovable. “Not until Ihave spoken to you,” he said.

Now as escape was impossible Elsa drew herself upand asked in a cold voice:

“What is your pleasure? I pray you, bebrief.”

Adrian cleared his throat, reflecting that she waskeeping the workings of the love potion under wonderfulcontrol; indeed to look at her no one could have guessedthat she had recently absorbed this magic Easternmedicine. However, something must be done; hehad gone too far to draw back.

“Elsa,” he said boldly, though no harecould have been more frightened, “Elsa,”and he clasped his hands and looked at the ceiling,“I love you and the time has come to say so.”

“If I remember right it came some time ago,Heer Adrian,” she replied with sarcasm.“I thought that by now you had forgotten allabout it.”

“Forgotten!” he sighed, “forgotten!With you ever before my eyes how can I forget?”

“I am sure I cannot say,” she answered,“but I know that I wish to forget this folly.”

“Folly! She calls it folly!” he musedaloud. “Oh, Heaven, folly is the name shegives to the life-long adoration of my bleeding heart!”

“You have known me exactly five weeks, HeerAdrian——­”

“Which, sweet lady, makes me desire to knowyou for fifty years.”

Elsa sighed, for she found the prospect dreary.

“Come,” he went on with a gush, “foregothis virgin coyness, you have done enough and morethan enough for honour, now throw aside pretence,lay down your arms and yield. No hour, I swear,of this long fight will be so happy to you as thatof your sweet surrender, for remember, dear one, thatI, your conqueror, am in truth the conquered.I, abandoning——­”

He got no further, for at this point the sorely triedElsa lost control of herself, but not in the fashionwhich he hoped for and expected.

“Are you crazed, Heer Adrian,” she asked,“that you should insist thus in pouring thishigh-flown nonsense into my ears when I have told youthat it is unwelcome to me? I understand thatyou ask me for my love. Well, once for all Itell you that I have none to give.”

This was a blow, since it was impossible for Adrianto put a favourable construction upon language sopainfully straightforward. His self-conceit waspierced at last and collapsed like a pricked bladder.

“None to give!” he gasped, “noneto give! You don’t mean to tell me thatyou have given it to anybody else?”

“Yes, I do,” she answered, for by nowElsa was thoroughly angry.

“Indeed,” he replied loftily. “Letme see; last time it was your lamented father whooccupied your heart. Perhaps now it is that excellentgiant, Martin, or even—­no, it is too absurd”—­andhe laughed in his jealous rage, “even the familybuffoon, my worthy brother Foy.”

“Yes,” she replied quietly, “itis Foy.”

“Foy! Foy! Hear her, ye gods!My successful rival, mine, is the yellow-headed, muddy-brained,unlettered Foy—­and they say that womenhave souls! Of your courtesy answer me one question.Tell me when did this strange and monstrous thinghappen? When did you declare yourself vanquishedby the surpassing charms of Foy?”

“Yesterday afternoon, if you want to know,”she said in the same calm and ominous voice.

Adrian heard, and an inspiration took him. Hedashed his hand to his brow and thought a moment;then he laughed loud and shrilly.

“I have it,” he said. “It isthe love charm which has worked perversely. Elsa,you are under a spell, poor woman; you do not knowthe truth. I gave you the philtre in your drinkingwater, and Foy, the traitor Foy, has reaped its fruits.Dear girl, shake yourself free from this delusion,it is I whom you really love, not that base thief ofhearts, my brother Foy.”

“What do you say? You gave me a philtre?You dare to doctor my drink with your heathen nastiness?Out of the way, sir! Stand off, and never ventureto speak to me again. Well will it be for youif I do not tell your brother of your infamy.”

What happened after this Adrian could never quiteremember, but a vision remained of himself crouchingto one side, and of a door flung back so violentlythat it threw him against the wall; a vision, too,of a lady sweeping past him with blazing eyes andlips set in scorn. That was all.

For a while he was crushed, quite crushed; the blowhad gone home. Adrian was not only a fool, hewas also the vainest of fools. That any youngwoman on whom he chose to smile should actually rejecthis advances was bad and unexpected, but that theother man should be Foy—­oh! this was infamousand inexplicable. He was handsomer than Foy,no one would dream of denying it. He was clevererand better read, had he not mastered the contentsof every known romance—­high-souled workswhich Foy bluntly declared were rubbish and refusedeven to open? Was he not a poet? But rememberinga certain sonnet he did not follow this comparison.In short, how was it conceivable that a woman lookingupon himself, a very type of the chivalry of Spain,silver-tongued, a follower—­nay, a companionof the Muses, one to whom in every previous adventureof the heart to love had been to conquer, could stillprefer that broad-faced, painfully commonplace, ifworthy, young representative of the Dutch middle classes,Foy van Goorl?

It never occurred to Adrian to ask himself anotherquestion, namely, how it comes about that eight youngwomen out of ten are endowed with an intelligenceor instinct sufficiently keen to enable them to discriminatebetween an empty-headed popinjay of a man, intoxicatedwith the fumes of his own vanity, and an honest youngfellow of stable character and sterling worth?Not that Adrian was altogether empty-headed, for in

some ways he was clever; also beneath all this foamand froth the Dutch strain inherited from his motherhad given a certain ballast and determination to hisnature. Thus, when his heart was thoroughly setupon a thing, he could be very dogged and patient.Now it was set upon Elsa Brant, he did trulydesire to win her above any other woman, and thathe had left a different impression upon her mind wasowing largely to the affected air and grandiloquentstyle of language culled from his precious romanceswhich he thought it right to assume when addressinga lady upon matters of the affections.

For a little while he was prostrate, his heart seemedswept clean of all hope and feeling. Then hisfurious temper, the failing that, above every other,was his curse and bane, came to his aid and occupiedit like the seven devils of Scripture, bringing inits train his re-awakened vanity, hatred, jealousy,and other maddening passions. It could not betrue, there must be an explanation, and, of course,the explanation was that Foy had been so fortunate,or so cunning as to make advances to Elsa soon aftershe had swallowed the love philtre. Adrian, likemost people in his day, was very superstitious andcredulous. It never even occurred to him to doubtthe almost universally accepted power and efficacyof this witch’s medicine, though even now heunderstood what a fool he was when, in his first outburstof rage, he told Elsa that he had trusted to suchmeans to win her affections, instead of letting hisown virtues and graces do their natural work.

Well, the mischief was done, the poison was swallowed,but—­most poisons have their antidotes.Why was he lingering here? He must consult hisfriend, the Master, and at once.

Ten minutes later Adrian was at Black Meg’shouse.

CHAPTER XIX

THE FRAY IN THE SHOT TOWER

The door was opened by Hague Simon, the bald-headed,great-paunched villain who lived with Black Meg.In answer to his visitor’s anxious inquiriesthe Butcher said, searching Adrian’s face withhis pig-like eyes the while, that he could not tellfor certain whether Meg was or was not at home.He rather thought that she was consulting the spiritswith the Master, but they might have passed out withouthis knowing it, “for they had great gifts—­greatgifts,” and he wagged his fat head as he showedAdrian into the accustomed room.

It was an uncomfortable kind of chamber which, insome unexplained way, always gave Adrian the impressionthat people, or presences, were stirring in it whomhe could not see. Also in this place there happenedodd and unaccountable noises; creakings, and sighingswhich seemed to proceed from the walls and ceiling.Of course, such things were to be expected in a housewhere sojourned one of the great magicians of theday. Still he was not altogether sorry when thedoor opened and Black Meg entered, although some mighthave preferred the society of almost any ghost.

“What is it, that you disturb me at such anhour?” she asked sharply.

“What is it? What isn’t it?”Adrian replied, his rage rising at the thought ofhis injuries. “That cursed philtre of yourshas worked all wrong, that’s what it is.Another man has got the benefit of it, don’tyou understand, you old hag? And, by Heaven!I believe he means to abduct her, yes, that’sthe meaning of all the packing and fuss, blind foolthat I was not to guess it before. The Master—­Iwill see the Master. He must give me an antidote,another medicine——­”

“You certainly look as though you want it,”interrupted Black Meg drily. “Well, I doubtwhether you can see him; it is not his hour for receivingvisitors; moreover, I don’t think he’shere, so I shall have to signal for him.”

“I must see him. I will see him,”shouted Adrian.

“I daresay,” replied Black Meg, squintingsignificantly at his pocket.

Enraged as he was Adrian took the hint.

“Woman, you seek gold,” he said, quotinginvoluntarily from the last romance he had read, andpresenting her with a handful of small silver, whichwas all he had.

Meg took the silver with a sniff, on the principlethat something is better than nothing, and departedgloomily. Then followed more mysterious noises;voices whispered, doors opened and shut, furniturecreaked, after which came a period of exasperatingand rather disagreeable silence. Adrian turnedhis face to the wall, for the only window in the roomwas so far above his head that he was unable to lookout of it; indeed, it was more of a skylight than awindow. Thus he remained a while gnawing at theends of his moustache and cursing his fortune, tillpresently he felt a hand upon his shoulder.

“Who the devil is that?” he exclaimed,wheeling round to find himself face to face with thedraped and majestic form of the Master.

“The devil! That is an ill word upon younglips, my friend,” said the sage, shaking hishead in reproof.

“I daresay,” replied Adrian, “butwhat the—­I mean how did you get here?I never heard the door open.”

“How did I get here? Well, now you mentionit, I wonder how I did. The door—­whathave I to do with doors?”

“I am sure I don’t know,” answeredAdrian shortly, “but most people find them useful.”

“Enough of such material talk,” interruptedthe sage with sternness. “Your spirit criedto mine, and I am here, let that suffice.”

“I suppose that Black Meg fetched you,”went on Adrian, sticking to his point, for the philtrefiasco had made him suspicious.

“Verily, friend Adrian, you can suppose whatyou will; and now, as I have little time to spare,be so good as to set out the matter. Nay, whatneed, I know all, for have I not—­is thisthe case? You administered the philtre to themaid and neglected my instructions to offer yourselfto her at once. Another saw it and took advantageof the magic draught. While the spell was onher he proposed, he was accepted—­yes, yourbrother Foy. Oh! fool, careless fool, what elsedid you expect?”

“At any rate I didn’t expect that,”replied Adrian in a fury. “And now, ifyou have all the power you pretend, tell me what Iam to do.”

Something glinted ominously beneath the hood, it wasthe sage’s one eye.

“Young friend,” he said, “your manneris brusque, yes, even rude. But I understandand I forgive. Come, we will take counsel together.Tell me what has happened.”

Adrian told him with much emphasis, and the recitalof his adventures seemed to move the Master deeply,at any rate he turned away, hiding his face in hishands, while his back trembled with the intensity ofhis feelings.

“The matter is grave,” he said solemnly,when at length the lovesick and angry swain had finished.“There is but one thing to be done. Yourtreacherous rival—­oh! what fraud and deceitare hidden beneath that homely countenance—­hasbeen well advised, by whom I know not, though I suspectone, a certain practitioner of the Black Magic, namedArentz——­”

“Ah!” ejaculated Adrian.

“I see you know the man. Beware of him.He is, indeed, a wolf in sheep’s clothing, whowraps his devilish incantations in a cloak of seditiousdoctrine. Well, I have thwarted him before, forcan Darkness stand before Light? and, by the helpof those who aid me, I may thwart him again.Now, attend and answer my questions clearly, slowlyand truthfully. If the girl is to be saved toyou, mark this, young friend, your cunning rival mustbe removed from Leyden for a while until the charmworks out its power.”

“You don’t mean—­” saidAdrian, and stopped.

“No, no. I mean the man no harm. Imean only that he must take a journey, which he willdo fast enough, when he learns that his witchcraftsand other crimes are known. Now answer, or makean end, for I have more business to attend to thanthe love-makings of a foo—­of a headstrongyouth. First: What you have told me of theattendances of Dirk van Goorl, your stepfather, andothers of his household, namely, Red Martin and yourhalf-brother Foy, at the tabernacle of your enemy,the wizard Arentz, is true, is it not?”

“Yes,” answered Adrian, “but I donot see what that has to do with the matter.”

“Silence!” thundered the Master.Then he paused a while, and Adrian seemed to hearcertain strange squeakings proceeding from the walls.The sage remained lost in thought until the squeakingsceased. Again he spoke:

“What you have told me of the part played bythe said Foy and the said Martin as to their sailingaway with the treasure of the dead heretic, HendrikBrant, and of the murders committed by them in thecourse of its hiding in the Haarlemer Meer, is true,is it not?”

“Of course it is,” answered Adrian, “but——­”

“Silence!” again thundered the sage, “orby my Lord Zoroaster, I throw up the case.”

Adrian collapsed, and there was another pause.

“You believe,” he went on again, “thatthe said Foy and the said Dirk van Goorl, togetherwith the said Martin, are making preparations to abductthat innocent and unhappy maid, the heiress, Elsa Brant,for evil purposes of their own?”

“I never told you so,” said Adrian, “butI think it is a fact; at least there is a lot of packinggoing on.”

“You never told me! Do you not understandthat there is no need for you to tell me anything?”

“Then, in the name of your Lord Zoroaster, whydo you ask?” exclaimed the exasperated Adrian.

“That you will know presently,” he answeredmusing.

Once more Adrian heard the strange squeaking as ofyoung and hungry rats.

“I think that I will not take up your time anymore,” he said, growing thoroughly alarmed,for really the proceedings were a little odd, and herose to go.

The Master made no answer, only, which was curiousconduct for a sage, he began to whistle a tune.

“By your leave,” said Adrian, for themagician’s back was against the door. “Ihave business——­”

“And so have I,” replied the sage, andwent on whistling.

Then suddenly the side of one of the walls seemedto fall out, and through the opening emerged a manwrapped in a priest’s robe, and after him, HagueSimon, Black Meg, and another particularly evil-lookingfellow.

“Got it all down?” asked the Master inan easy, everyday kind of voice.

The monk bowed, and producing several folios of manuscript,laid them on the table together with an ink-horn anda pen.

“Very well. And now, my young friend, beso good as to sign there, at the foot of the writing.”

“Sign what?” gasped Adrian.

“Explain to him,” said the Master.“He is quite right; a man should know what heputs his name to.”

Then a monk spoke in a low, business-like voice.

“This is the information of Adrian, called VanGoorl, as taken down from his own lips, wherein, amongother things, he deposes to certain crimes of heresy,murder of the king’s subjects, an attempted escapefrom the king’s dominions, committed by hisstepfather, Dirk van Goorl, his half-brother, Foyvan Goorl, and their servant, a Frisian known as RedMartin. Shall I read the papers? It willtake some time.”

“If the witness so desires,” said theMaster.

“What is that document for?” whisperedAdrian in a hoarse voice.

“To persuade your treacherous rival, Foy vanGoorl, that it will be desirable in the interestsof his health that he should retire from Leyden fora while,” sneered his late mentor, while theButcher and Black Meg sniggered audibly. Onlythe monk stood silent, like a black watching fate.

“I’ll not sign!” shouted Adrian.“I have been tricked! There is treachery!”and he bent forward to spring for the door.

Ramiro made a sign, and in another instant the Butcher’sfat hands were about Adrian’s throat, and histhick thumbs were digging viciously at the victim’swindpipe. Still Adrian kicked and struggled, whereon,at a second sign, the villainous-looking man drewa great knife, and, coming up to him, pricked himgently on the nose.

Then Ramiro spoke to him very suavely and quietly.

“Young friend,” he said, “whereis that faith in me which you promised, and why, whenI wish you to sign this quite harmless writing, doyou so violently refuse?”

“Because I won’t betray my stepfatherand brother,” gasped Adrian. “I knowwhy you want my signature,” and he looked atthe man in a priest’s robe.

“You won’t betray them,” sneeredRamiro. “Why, you young fool, you havealready betrayed them fifty times over, and what ismore, which you don’t seem to remember, youhave betrayed yourself. Now look here. Ifyou choose to sign that paper, or if you don’tchoose, makes little difference to me, for, dear pupil,I would almost as soon have your evidence by wordof mouth.”

“I may be a fool,” said Adrian, turningsullen; “yes, I see now that I have been a foolto trust in you and your sham arts, but I am not foolenough to give evidence against my own people in anyof your courts. What I have said I said neverthinking that it would do them harm.”

“Not caring whether it would do them harm orno,” corrected Ramiro, “as you had yourown object to gain—­the young lady whom,by the way, you were quite ready to doctor with alove medicine.”

“Because love blinded me,” said Adrianloftily.

Ramiro put his hand upon his shoulder and shook himslightly as he answered:

“And has it not struck you, you vain puppy,that other things may blind you also—­hotirons, for instance?”

“What do you mean?” gasped Adrian.

“I mean that the rack is a wonderful persuader.Oh! it makes the most silent talk and the most solemnsing. Now take your choice. Will you signor will you go to the torture chamber?”

“What right have you to question me?”asked Adrian, striving to build up his tottering couragewith bold words.

“Just this right—­that I to whom youspeak am the Captain and Governor of the Gevangenhuisin this town, an official who has certain powers.”

Adrian turned pale but said nothing.

“Our young friend has gone to sleep,”remarked Ramiro, reflectively. “Here you,Simon, twist his arm a little. No, not the rightarm; he may want that to sign with, which will beawkward if it is out of joint: the other.”

With an ugly grin the Butcher, taking his fingersfrom Adrian’s throat, gripped his captive’sleft wrist, and very slowly and deliberately beganto screw it round.

Adrian groaned.

“Painful, isn’t it?” said Ramiro.“Well, I have no more time to waste, break hisarm.”

Then Adrian gave in, for he was not fitted to beartorture; his imagination was too lively.

“I will sign,” he whispered, the perspirationpouring from his pale face.

“Are you quite sure you do it willingly?”queried his tormentor, adding, “another littlehalf-turn, please, Simon; and you, Mistress Meg, ifhe begins to faint, just prick him in the thigh withyour knife.”

“Yes, yes,” groaned Adrian.

“Very good. Now here is the pen. Sign.”

So Adrian signed.

“I congratulate you upon your discretion, pupil,”remarked Ramiro, as he scattered sand on the writingand pocketed the paper. “To-day you havelearned a very useful lesson which life teaches tomost of us, namely, that the inevitable must ruleour little fancies. Let us see; I think thatby now the soldiers will have executed their task,so, as you have done what I wished, you can go, forI shall know where to find you if I want you.But, if you will take my advice, which I offer as thatof one friend to another, you will hold your tongueabout the events of this afternoon. Unless youspeak of it, nobody need ever know that you have furnishedcertain useful information, for in the Gevangenhuisthe names of witnesses are not mentioned to the accused.Otherwise you may possibly come into trouble withyour heretical friends and relatives. Good afternoon.Brother, be so good as to open the door for this gentleman.”

A minute later Adrian found himself in the street,towards which he had been helped by the kick of aheavy boot. His first impulse was to run, andhe ran for half a mile or more without stopping, tillat length he paused breathless in a deserted street,and, leaning against the wheel of an unharnessed waggon,tried to think. Think! How could he think?His mind was one mad whirl; rage, shame, disappointedpassion, all boiled in it like bones in a knacker’scauldron. He had been fooled, he had lost hislove, and, oh! infamy, he had betrayed his kindredto the hell of the Inquisition. They would betortured and burnt. Yes, even his mother andElsa might be burned, since those devils respectedneither age nor sex, and their blood would be uponhis head. It was true that he had signed undercompulsion, but who would believe that, for had theynot taken down his talk word for word? For onceAdrian saw himself as he was; the cloaks of vanityand self-love were stripped from his soul, and heknew what others would think when they came to learnthe story. He thought of suicide; there was water,here was steel, the deed would not be difficult.No, he could not; it was too horrible. Moreover,how dared he enter the other world so unprepared,so steeped in every sort of evil? What, then,could he do to save his character and those whom hisfolly had betrayed? He looked round him; there,not three hundred yards away, rose the tall chimneyof the factory. Perhaps there was yet time; perhapshe could still warn Foy and Martin of the fate whichawaited them.

Acting on the impulse of the moment, Adrian startedforward, running like a hare. As he approachedthe building he saw that the workmen had left, forthe big doors were shut. He raced round to thesmall entrance; it was open—­he was throughit, and figures were moving in the office. Godbe praised! They were Foy and Martin. Tothem he sped, a white-faced creature with gaping mouthand staring eyes, to look at more like a ghost thana human being.

Martin and Foy saw him and shrank back. Couldthis be Adrian, they thought, or was it an evil vision?

“Fly!” he gasped. “Hide yourselves!The officers of the Inquisition are after you!”Then another thought struck him, and he stammered,“My father and mother. I must warn them!”and before they could speak he had turned and wasgone, as he went crying, “Fly! Fly!”

Foy stood astonished till Martin struck him on theshoulder, and said roughly:

“Come, let us get out of this. Either heis mad, or he knows something. Have you yoursword and dagger? Quick, then.”

They passed through the door, which Martin pausedto lock, and into the courtyard. Foy reachedthe gate first, and looked through its open bars.Then very deliberately he shot the bolts and turnedthe great key.

“Are you brain-sick,” asked Martin, “thatyou lock the gate on us?”

“I think not,” replied Foy, as he cameback to him. “It is too late to escape.Soldiers are marching down the street.”

Martin ran and looked through the bars. It wastrue enough. There they came, fifty men or more,a whole company, headed straight for the factory,which it was thought might be garrisoned for defence.

“Now I can see no help but to fight for it,”Martin said cheerfully, as he hid the keys in thebucket of the well, which he let run down to the water.

“What can two men do against fifty?” askedFoy, lifting his steel-lined cap to scratch his head.

“Not much, still, with good luck, something.At least, as nothing but a cat can climb the walls,and the gateway is stopped, I think we may as welldie fighting as in the torture-chamber of the Gevangenhuis,for that is where they mean to lodge us.”

“I think so too,” answered Foy, takingcourage. “Now how can we hurt them mostbefore they quiet us?”

Martin looked round reflectively. In the centreof the courtyard stood a building not unlike a pigeon-house,or the shelter that is sometimes set up in the middleof a market beneath which merchants gather. Infact it was a shot tower, where leaden bullets ofdifferent sizes were cast and dropped through an openingin the floor into a shallow tank below to cool, forthis was part of the trade of the foundry.

“That would be a good place to hold,”he said; “and crossbows hang upon the walls.”

Foy nodded, and they ran to the tower, but not withoutbeing seen, for as they set foot upon its stair, theofficer in command of the soldiers called upon themto surrender in the name of the King. They madeno answer, and as they passed through the doorway,a bullet from an arquebus struck its woodwork.

The shot tower stood upon oaken piles, and the chamberabove, which was round, and about twenty feet in diameter,was reached by a broad ladder of fifteen steps, suchas is often used in stables. This ladder endedin a little landing of about six feet square, and tothe left of the landing opened the door of the chamberwhere the shot were cast. They went up into theplace.

“What shall we do now?” said Foy, “barricadethe door?”

“I can see no use in that,” answered Martin,“for then they would batter it down, or perhapsburn a way through it. No; let us take it offits hinges and lay it on blocks about eight incheshigh, so that they may catch their shins against itwhen they try to rush us.”

“A good notion,” said Foy, and they liftedoff the narrow oaken door and propped it up on fourmoulds of metal across the threshold, weighting itwith other moulds. Also they strewed the floorof the landing with three-pound shot, so that menin a hurry might step on them and fall. Anotherthing they did, and this was Foy’s notion.At the end of the chamber were the iron baths in whichthe lead was melted, and beneath them furnaces readylaid for the next day’s founding. TheseFoy set alight, pulling out the dampers to make themburn quickly, and so melt the leaden bars which layin the troughs.

“They may come underneath,” he said, pointingto the trap through which the hot shot were droppedinto the tank, “and then molten lead will beuseful.”

Martin smiled and nodded. Then he took down acrossbow from the walls, for in those days, when everydwelling and warehouse might have to be used as aplace of defence, it was common to keep a good storeof weapons hung somewhere ready to hand, and wentto the narrow window which overlooked the gate.

“As I thought,” he said. “Theycan’t get in and don’t like the look ofthe iron spikes, so they are fetching a smith to burstit open. We must wait.”

Very soon Foy began to fidget, for this waiting tobe butchered by an overwhelming force told upon hisnerves. He thought of Elsa and his parents, whomhe would never see again; he thought of death and allthe terrors and wonders that might lie beyond it;death whose depths he must so soon explore. Hehad looked to his crossbow, had tested the stringand laid a good store of quarrels on the floor besidehim; he had taken a pike from the walls and seen toits shaft and point; he had stirred the fires beneaththe leaden bars till they roared in the sharp draught.

“Is there nothing more to do?” he asked.

“Yes,” replied Martin, “we mightsay our prayers; they will be the last,” andsuiting his action to the word, the great man kneltdown, an example which Foy followed.

“Do you speak,” said Foy, “I can’tthink of anything.”

So Martin began a prayer which is perhaps worthy ofrecord:—­

“O Lord,” he said, “forgive me allmy sins, which are too many to count, or at leastI haven’t the time to try, and especially forcutting off the head of the executioner with his ownsword, although I had no death quarrel with him, andfor killing a Spaniard in a boxing match. O Lord,I thank you very much because you have arranged forus to die fighting instead of being tortured and burntin the gaol, and I pray that we may be able to killenough Spaniards first to make them remember us foryears to come. O Lord, protect my dear masterand mistress, and let the former learn that we havemade an end of which he would approve, but if maybe, hide it from the Paster Arentz, who might thinkthat we ought to surrender. That is all I haveto say. Amen.”

Then Foy did his own praying, and it was hearty enough,but we need scarcely stop to set down its substance.

Meanwhile the Spaniards had found a blacksmith, whowas getting to work upon the gate, for they couldsee him through the open upper bars.

“Why don’t you shoot?” asked Foy.“You might catch him with a bolt.”

“Because he is a poor Dutchman whom they havepressed for the job, while they stand upon one side.We must wait till they break down the gate. Alsowe must fight well when the time comes, Master Foy,for, see, folk are watching us, and they will expectit,” and he pointed upwards.

Foy looked. The foundry courtyard was surroundedby tall gabled houses, and of these the windows andbalconies were already crowded with spectators.Word had gone round that the Inquisition had sent soldiersto seize one of the young Van Goorls and Red Martin—­thatthey were battering at the gates of the factory.Therefore the citizens, some of them their own workmen,gathered there, for they did not think that Red Martinand Foy van Goorl would be taken easily.

The hammering at the gate went on, but it was verystout and would not give.

“Martin,” said Foy presently, “Iam frightened. I feel quite sick. I knowthat I shall be no good to you when the pinch comes.”

“Now I am sure that you are a brave man,”answered Martin with a short laugh, “for otherwiseyou would never have owned that you feel afraid.Of course you feel afraid, and so do I. It is the waitingthat does it; but when once the first blow has beenstruck, why, you will be as happy as a priest.Look you, master. So soon as they begin to rushthe ladder, do you get behind me, close behind, forI shall want all the room to sweep with my sword,and if we stand side by side we shall only hindereach other, while with a pike you can thrust past me,and be ready to deal with any who win through.”

“You mean that you want to shelter me with yourbig carcase,” answered Foy. “Butyou are captain here. At least I will do my best,”and putting his arms about the great man’s middle,he hugged him affectionately.

“Look! look!” cried Martin. “Thegate is down. Now, first shot to you,”and he stepped to one side.

As he spoke the oaken doors burst open and the Spanishsoldiers began to stream through them. SuddenlyFoy’s nerve returned to him and he grew steadyas a rock. Lifting his crossbow he aimed and pulledthe trigger. The string twanged, the quarrelrushed forth with a whistling sound, and the firstsoldier, pierced through breastplate and through breast,sprang into the air and fell forward. Foy steppedto one side to string his bow.

“Good shot,” said Martin taking his place,while from the spectators in the windows went up asudden shout. Martin fired and another man fell.Then Foy fired again and missed, but Martin’snext bolt struck the last soldier through the armand pinned him to the timber of the broken gate.After this they could shoot no more, for the Spaniardswere beneath them.

“To the doorway,” said Martin, “andremember what I told you. Away with the bows,cold steel must do the rest.”

Now they stood by the open door, Martin, a helmetfrom the walls upon his head, tied beneath his chinwith a piece of rope because it was too small forhim, the great sword Silence lifted ready to strike,and Foy behind gripping the long pike with both hands.Below them from the gathered mob of soldiers camea confused clamour, then a voice called out an orderand they heard footsteps on the stair.

“Look out; they are coming,” said Martin,turning his head so that Foy caught sight of his face.It was transfigured, it was terrible. The greatred beard seemed to bristle, the pale blue unshadedeyes rolled and glittered, they glittered like theblue steel of the sword Silence that wavered abovethem. In that dread instant of expectancy Foyremembered his vision of the morning. Lo! it wasfulfilled, for before him stood Martin, the peaceful,patient giant, transformed into a Red Vengeance.

A man reached the head of the ladder, stepped uponone of the loose cannon-balls and fell with an oathand a crash. But behind him came others.Suddenly they turned the corner, suddenly they burstinto view, three or four of them together. Gallantlythey rushed on. The first of them caught hisfeet in the trap of the door and fell headlong acrossit. Of him Martin took no heed, but Foy did, forbefore ever the soldier could rise he had driven hispike down between the man’s shoulders, so thathe died there upon the door. At the next Martinstruck, and Foy saw this one suddenly grow small anddouble up, which, if he had found leisure to examinethe nature of that wound, would have surprised himvery little. Another man followed so quickly thatMartin could not lift the sword to meet him.But he pointed with it, and next instant was shakinghis carcase off its blade.

After this Foy could keep no count. Martin slashedwith the sword, and when he found a chance Foy thrustwith the pike, till at length there were none to thrustat, for this was more than the Spaniards had bargained.Two of them lay dead in the doorway, and others hadbeen dragged or had tumbled down the ladder, whilefrom the onlookers at the windows without, as theycaught sight of them being brought forth slain orsorely wounded, went up shout upon shout of joy.

“So far we have done very well,” saidMartin quietly, “but if they come up again,we must be cooler and not waste our strength so much.Had I not struck so hard, I might have killed anotherman.”

But the Spaniards showed no sign of coming up anymore; they had seen enough of that narrow way andof the red swordsman who awaited them in the doorwayround the corner. Indeed it was a bad place forattackers, since they could not shoot with arquebusesor arrows, but must pass in to be slaughtered likesheep at the shambles in the dim room beyond.So, being cautious men who loved their lives, theytook a safer counsel.

The tank beneath the shot-tower, when it was not inuse, was closed with a stone cover, and around thisthey piled firewood and peats from a stack in thecorner of the yard, and standing in the centre outof the reach of arrows, set light to it. Martinlay down watching them through a crack in the floor.Then he signed to Foy, and whispered, and going tothe iron baths, Foy drew from them two large bucketsof molten lead, each as much as a man could carry.Again Martin looked through the crack, waiting tillseveral of the burners were gathered beneath.Then, with a swift motion he lifted up the trap-door,and as those below stared upwards wondering, fullinto their faces came the buckets of molten lead.Down went two of them never to speak more, while othersran out shrieking and aflame, tearing at their hairand garments.

After this the Spaniards grew more wary, and builttheir fires round the oak piers till the flames eatingup them fired the building, and the room above grewfull of little curling wreaths of smoke.

“Now we must choose,” said Martin, “whetherwe will be roasted like fowls in an oven, or go downand have our throats cut like pigs in the open.”

“For my part, I prefer to die in the air,”coughed Foy.

“So say I, master. Listen. We can’tget down the stair, for they are watching for us there,so we must drop from the trap-door and charge throughthe fire. Then, if we are lucky, back to backand fight it out.”

Half a minute later two men bearing naked swords intheir hands might be seen bursting through the barrierof flaming wood. Out they came safely enough,and there in an open space not far from the gateway,halted back to back, rubbing the water from theirsmarting eyes. On them, a few seconds later,like hounds on a wounded boar, dashed the mob of soldiers,while from every throat of the hundreds who were watchingwent up shrill cries of encouragement, grief, andfear. Men fell before them, but others rushedin. They were down, they were up again, once morethey were down, and this time only one of them rose,the great man Martin. He staggered to his feet,shaking off the soldiers who tried to hold him, asa dog in the game-pit shakes off rats. He wasup, he stood across the body of his companion, andonce more that fearful sword was sweeping round, bringingdeath to all it touched. They drew back, but asoldier, old in war, creeping behind him suddenlythrew a cloak over his head. Then the end came,and slowly, very slowly, they overmatched his strength,and bore him down and bound him, while the watchingmob groaned and wept with grief.

CHAPTER XX

IN THE GEVANGENHUIS

When Adrian left the factory he ran on to the housein the Bree Straat.

“Oh! what has happened?” said his motheras he burst into the room where she and Elsa wereat work.

“They are coming for him,” he gasped.“The soldiers from the Gevangenhuis. Whereis he? Let him escape quickly—­my stepfather.”

Lysbeth staggered and fell back into her chair.

“How do you know?” she asked.

At the question Adrian’s head swam and his heartstood still. Yet his lips found a lie.

“I overheard it,” he said; “thesoldiers are attacking Foy and Martin in the factory,and I heard them say that they were coming here forhim.”

Elsa moaned aloud, then she turned on him like a tiger,asking:

“If so, why did you not stay to help them?”

“Because,” he answered with a touch ofhis old pomposity, “my first duty was towardsmy mother and you.”

“He is out of the house,” broke in Lysbethin a low voice that was dreadful to hear. “Heis out of the house, I know not where. Go, son,and search for him. Swift! Be swift!”

So Adrian went forth, not sorry to escape the presenceof these tormented women. Here and there he wanderedto one haunt of Dirk’s after another, but withoutsuccess, till at length a noise of tumult drew him,and he ran towards the sound. Presently he wasround the corner, and this was what he saw.

Advancing down the wide street leading to the Gevangenhuiscame a body of Spanish soldiers, and in the centreof them were two figures whom it was easy for Adrianto recognise—­Red Martin and his brotherFoy. Martin, although his bull-hide jerkin wascut and slashed and his helmet had gone, seemed tobe little hurt, for he was still upright and proud,walking along with his arms lashed behind him, whilea Spanish officer held the point of a sword, his ownsword Silence, near his throat ready to drive it homeshould he attempt to escape. With Foy the casewas different. At first Adrian thought that hewas dead, for they were carrying him upon a ladder.Blood fell from his head and legs, while his doubletseemed literally to be rent to pieces with sword-cutsand dagger-thrusts; and in truth had it not been forthe shirt of mail which he wore beneath, he must havebeen slain several times over. But Foy was notdead, for as Adrian watched he saw his head turn uponthe ladder and his hand rise up and fall again.

But this was not all, for behind appeared a cart drawnby a grey horse, and in it were the bodies of Spanishsoldiers—­how many Adrian could not tell,but there they lay with their harness still on them.After these again, in a long and melancholy procession,marched other Spanish soldiers, some of them sorelywounded, and, like Foy, carried upon doors or ladders,and others limping forward with the help of their comrades.No wonder that Martin walked proudly to his doom, sincebehind him came the rich harvest of the sword Silence.Also, there were other signs to see and hear, sinceabout the cavalcade surged and roared a great mob ofthe citizens of Leyden.

“Bravo, Martin! Well fought, Foy van Goorl!”they shouted, “We are proud of you! Weare proud of you!” Then from the back of thecrowd someone cried, “Rescue them!” “Killthe Inquisition dogs!” “Tear the Spaniardsto pieces!”

A stone flew through the air, then another and another,but at a word of command the soldiers faced aboutand the mob drew back, for they had no leader.So it went on till they were within a hundred yardsof the Gevangenhuis.

“Don’t let them be murdered,” criedthe voice. “A rescue! a rescue!” andwith a roar the crowd fell upon the soldiers.It was too late, for the Spaniards, trained to arms,closed up and fought their way through, taking theirprisoners with them. But they cost them dear,for the wounded men, and those who supported them,were cut off. They were cut off, they were struckdown. In a minute they were dead, every one ofthem, and although they still held its fortresses andwalls, from that hour the Spaniards lost their gripof Leyden, nor did they ever win it back again.From that hour to this Leyden has been free. Suchwere the first fruits of the fight of Foy and Martinagainst fearful odds.

The great doors of oak and iron of the Gevangenhuisclashed to behind the prisoners, the locks were shot,and the bars fell home, while outside raved the furiouscrowd.

The place was not large nor very strong, merely adrawbridge across the narrow arm of a moat, a gatewaywith a walled courtyard beyond, and over it a three-storiedhouse built in the common Dutch fashion, but withstraight barrel windows. To the right, under theshadow of the archway, which, space being limited,was used as an armoury, and hung with weapons, laythe court-room where prisoners were tried, and to theleft a vaulted place with no window, not unlike alarge cellar in appearance. This was the torture-chamber.Beyond was the courtyard, and at the back of it rosethe prison. In this yard were waiting the newgovernor of the jail, Ramiro, and with him a littlered-faced, pig-eyed man dressed in a rusty doublet.He was the Inquisitor of the district, especiallyempowered as delegate of the Blood Council and undervarious edicts and laws to try and to butcher heretics.

The officer in command of the troops advanced to makehis report.

“What is all that noise?” asked the Inquisitorin a frightened, squeaky voice. “Is thiscity also in rebellion?”

“And where are the rest of you?” saidRamiro, scanning the thin files.

“Sir,” answered the officer saluting,“the rest of us are dead. Some were killedby this red rogue and his companion, and the mob havethe others.”

Then Ramiro began to curse and to swear, as well hemight, for he knew that when this story reached headquarters,his credit with Alva and the Blood Council would begone.

“Coward!” he yelled, shaking his fistin the face of the officer. “Coward tolose a score or more of men in taking a brace of heretics.”

“Don’t blame me, sir,” answeredthe man sullenly, for the word stirred his bile, “blamethe mob and this red devil’s steel, which wentthrough us as though we were wet clay,” andhe handed him the sword Silence.

“It fits the man,” muttered Montalvo,“for few else could wield such a blade.Go hang it in the doorway, it may be wanted in evidence,”but to himself he thought, “Bad luck again,the luck that follows me whenever I pit myself againstLysbeth van Hout.” Then he gave an order,and the two prisoners were taken away up some narrowstairs.

At the top of the first flight was a solid door throughwhich they passed, to find themselves in a large anddarksome place. Down the centre of this placeran a passage. On either side of the passage,dimly lighted by high iron-barred windows, were cagesbuilt of massive oaken bars, and measuring each ofthem eight or ten feet square, very dens such as mighthave served for wild beasts, but filled with humanbeings charged with offences against the doctrinesof the Church. Those who chance to have seenthe prison of the Inquisition at The Hague as it stillstands to-day, will know what they were like.

Into one of these dreadful holes they were thrust,Foy, wounded as he was, being thrown roughly upona heap of dirty straw in the corner. Then, havingbolted and locked the door of their den, the soldiersleft them.

As soon as his eyes grew accustomed to the light,Martin stared about him. The conveniences ofthe dungeon were not many; indeed, being built abovethe level of the ground, it struck the imaginationas even more terrible than any subterranean vaultdevoted to the same dreadful purpose. By goodfortune, however, in one corner of it stood an earthenwarebasin and a large jug of water.

“I will take the risk of its being poisoned,”thought Martin to himself, as lifting the jug he drankdeep of it, for what between fighting, fire and furythere seemed to be no moisture left in him. Then,his burning thirst satisfied at last, he went to whereFoy lay unconscious and began to pour water, littleby little, into his mouth, which, senseless as hewas, he swallowed mechanically and presently groaneda little. Next, as well as he could, Martin examinedhis comrade’s wounds, to find that what hadmade him insensible was a cut upon the right side ofthe head, which, had it not been for his steel-linedcap, must certainly have killed him, but as it was,beyond the shock and bruise, seemed in no way serious.

His second hurt was a deep wound in the left thigh,but being on the outside of the limb, although hebled much it had severed no artery. Other injurieshe had also upon the forearms and legs, also beneaththe chain shirt his body was bruised with the blowsof swords and daggers. But none of these weredangerous.

Martin stripped him as tenderly as he might and washedhis wounds. Then he paused, for both of themwere wearing garments of flannel, which is unsuitablefor the dressing of hurts.

“You need linen,” said a woman’svoice, speaking from the next den. “Waitawhile and I will give you my smock.”

“How can I take your garment, lady, whoeveryou may be,” answered Martin, “to bindabout the limbs of a man even if he is wounded?”

“Take it and welcome,” said the unknownin sweet, low tones, “I want it no more; theyare going to execute me to-night.”

“Execute you to-night?” muttered Martin.

“Yes,” replied the voice, “in thecourt-room or one of the cellars, I believe, as theydare not do it outside because of the people.By beheading—­am I not fortunate? Onlyby beheading.”

“Oh! God, where art Thou?” groanedMartin.

“Don’t be sorry for me,” answeredthe voice, “I am very glad. There werethree of us, my father, my sister, and I, and—­youcan guess—­well, I wish to join them.Also it is better to die than to go through what Ihave suffered again. But here is the garment.I fear that it is stained about the neck, but it willserve if you tear it into strips,” and a trembling,delicate hand, which held the linen, was thrust betweenthe oaken bars.

Even in that light, however, Martin saw that the wristwas cut and swollen. He saw it, and because ofthat tender, merciful hand he registered an oath aboutpriests and Spaniards, which, as it chanced, he livedto keep very thoroughly. Also, he paused awhilewondering whether if all this was of any good, wonderingif it would not be best to let Foy die at once, oreven to kill him.

“What are you thinking about, sir?” askedthe lady on the other side of the bars.

“I am thinking,” answered Martin, “thatperhaps my young master here would be better dead,and that I am a fool to stop the bleeding.”

“No, no,” said the sweet voice, “doyour utmost and leave the rest to God. It pleasesGod that I should die, which matters little as I ambut a weak girl; it may please Him that this youngman shall live to be of service to his country andhis faith. I say, bind up his wounds, good sir.”

“Perhaps you are right,” answered Martin.“Who knows, there’s a key to every lock,if only it can be found.” Then he set towork upon Foy’s wounds, binding them round withstrips of the girl’s garment dipped in water,and when he had done the best he could he clothed himagain, even to the chain shirt.

“Are you not hurt yourself?” asked thevoice presently.

“A little, nothing to speak of; a few cuts andbruises, that’s all; this bull’s hideturned their swords.”

“Tell me whom you have been fighting,”she said.

So, to while away the time while Foy still lay senseless,Martin told her the story of the attack upon the shottower, of how they had driven the Spaniards down theladder, of how they had drenched them with moltenlead, and of their last stand in the courtyard whenthey were forced from the burning building.

“Oh! what a fearful fight—­two againstso many,” said the voice with a ring of admirationin it.

“Yes,” answered Martin, “it wasa good fight—­the hottest that ever I wasin. For myself I don’t much care, for they’vepaid a price for my carcase. I didn’t tellyou, did I, that the mob set on them as they haledus here and pulled four wounded men and those who carriedthem to bits? Oh! yes, they have paid a price,a very good price for a Frisian boor and a Leydenburgher.”

“God pardon their souls,” murmured theunknown.

“That’s as He likes,” said Martin,“and no affair of mine; I had only to do withtheir bodies and—­” At this momentFoy groaned, sat up and asked for something to drink.

Martin gave him water from the pitcher.

“Where am I?” he asked, and he told him.

“Martin, old fellow,” said Foy in an uncertainvoice, “we are in a very bad way, but as wehave lived through this”—­here hischaracteristic hopefulness asserted itself—­“Ibelieve, I believe that we shall live through therest.”

“Yes, young sir,” echoed the thin, faintnotes out of the darkness beyond the bars, “Ibelieve, too, that you will live through the rest,and I am praying that it may be so.”

“Who is that?” asked Foy drowsily.

“Another prisoner,” answered Martin.

“A prisoner who will soon be free,” murmuredthe voice again through the blackness, for by nownight had fallen, and no light came from the holeabove.

Then Foy fell into sleep or stupor, and there wassilence for a long while, until they heard the boltsand bars of the door of the dungeon creaking, andthe glint of a lantern appeared floating on the gloom.Several men tramped down the narrow gangway, and oneof them, unlocking their cage, entered, filled thejug of water from a leathern jack, and threw downsome loaves of black bread and pieces of stockfish,as food is thrown to dogs. Having examined thepair of them he grunted and went away, little knowinghow near he had been to death, for the heart of Martinwas mad. But he let him go. Then the doorof the next cell was opened, and a man said, “Comeout. It is time.”

“It is time and I am ready,” answeredthe thin voice. “Good-bye, friends, Godbe with you.”

“Good-bye, lady,” answered Martin; “mayyou soon be with God.” Then he added, byan afterthought, “What is your name? I shouldlike to know.”

“Mary,” she replied, and began to singa hymn, and so, still singing the hymn, she passedaway to her death. They never saw her face, theynever learned who she might be, this poor girl whowas but an item among the countless victims of perhapsthe most hideous tyranny that the world has ever known—­oneof Alva’s slaughtered sixty thousand. Butmany years afterwards, when Foy was a rich man ina freer land, he built a church and named it Mary’skirk.

The long night wore away in silence, broken only bythe groans and prayers of prisoners in dens upon thesame floor, or with the solemn rhythm of hymns sungby those above, till at length the light, creepingthrough the dungeon lattices, told them that it wasmorning. At its first ray Martin awoke much refreshed,for even there his health and weariness had broughtsleep to him. Foy also awoke, stiff and sore,but in his right mind and very hungry. Then Martinfound the loaves and the stockfish, and they filledthemselves, washing down the meal with water, afterwhich he dressed Foy’s wounds, making a poulticefor them out of the crumb of the bread, and doctoredhis own bruises as best he could.

It must have been ten o’clock or later whenagain the doors were opened, and men appeared whocommanded that they should follow them.

“One of us can’t walk,” said Martin;“still, perhaps I can manage,” and, liftingFoy in his arms as though he had been a baby, he passedwith the jailers out of the den, down the stair, andinto the court-room. Here, seated behind a table,they found Ramiro and the little, squeaky-voiced,red-faced Inquisitor.

“Heaven above us!” said the Inquisitor,“what a great hairy ruffian; it makes me feelnervous to be in the same place with him. I begyou, Governor Ramiro, instruct your soldiers to bewatching and to stab him at the first movement.”

“Have no fear, noble sir,” answered Ramiro,“the villain is quite unarmed.”

“I daresay, I daresay, but let us get on.Now what is the charge against these people?Ah! I see, heresy like the last upon the evidenceof—­oh! well, never mind. Well, wewill take that as proved, and, of course, it is enough.But what more? Ah! here it is. Escaped fromThe Hague with the goods of a heretic, killed sundryof his Majesty’s lieges, blew up others on theHaarlemer Meer, and yesterday, as we know for ourselves,committed a whole series of murders in resisting lawfularrest. Prisoners, have you anything to say?”

“Plenty,” answered Foy.

“Then save your trouble and my time, since nothingcan excuse your godless, rebellious, and damnablebehaviour. Friend Governor, into your hands Ideliver them, and may God have mercy on their souls.See, by the way, that you have a priest at hand toshrive them at last, if they will be shriven, justfor the sake of charity, but all the other detailsI leave to you. Torment? Oh! of course ifyou think there is anything to be gained by it, orthat it will purify their souls. And now I willbe going on to Haarlem, for I tell you frankly, friendGovernor, that I don’t think this town of Leydensafe for an honest officer of the law; there are toomany bad characters here, schismatics and resistersof authority. What? The warrant not ready?Well, I will sign it in blank. You can fill itin. There. God forgive you, heretics; mayyour souls find peace, which is more, I fear, thanyour bodies will for the next few hours. Bah!friend Governor, I wish that you had not made me assistat the execution of that girl last night, especiallyas I understand she leaves no property worth having;her white face haunts my mind, I can’t be ridof the look of those great eyes. Oh! these heretics,to what sorrow do they put us orthodox people!Farewell, friend Governor; yes, I think I will goout by the back way, some of those turbulent citizensmight be waiting in front. Farewell, and temperjustice with mercy if you can,” and he was gone.

Presently Ramiro, who had accompanied him to the gate,returned. Seating himself on the further sideof the table, he drew his rapier and laid it beforehim. Then, having first commanded them to bringa chair in which Foy might sit, since he could notstand because of his wounded leg, he told the guardto fall back out of hearing, but to be ready shouldhe need them.

“Not much dignity about that fellow,”he said, addressing Martin and Foy in a cheerful voice;“quite different from the kind of thing youexpected, I daresay. No hooded Dominican priests,no clerks taking notes, no solemnities, nothing buta little red-faced wretch, perspiring with terrorlest the mob outside should catch him, as for my partI hope they may. Well, gentlemen, what can youexpect, seeing that, to my knowledge, the man is abankrupt tailor of Antwerp? However, it is thesubstance we have to deal with, not the shadow, andthat’s real enough, for his signature on a deathwarrant is as good as that of the Pope, or his graciousMajesty King Philip, or, for the matter of that, ofAlva himself. Therefore, you are—­deadmen.”

“As you would have been had I not been foolenough to neglect Martin’s advice out in theHaarlemer Meer and let you escape,” answeredFoy.

“Precisely, my young friend, but you see myguardian angel was too many for you, and you did neglectthat excellent counsel. But, as it happens, itis just about the Haarlemer Meer that I want to havea word with you.”

Foy and Martin looked at each other, for now theyunderstood exactly why they were there, and Ramiro,watching them out of the corners of his eyes, wenton in a low voice:

“Let us drop this and come to business.You hid it, and you know where it is, and I am inneed of a competence for my old age. Now, I amnot a cruel man; I wish to put no one to pain or death;moreover, I tell you frankly, I admire both of youvery much. The escape with the treasure on boardof your boat Swallow, and the blowing up, wereboth exceedingly well managed, with but one mistakewhich you, young sir, have pointed out,” andhe bowed and smiled. “The fight that youmade yesterday, too, was splendid, and I have enteredthe details of it in my own private diary, becausethey ought not to be forgotten.”

Now it was Foy’s turn to bow, while even onMartin’s grim and impassive countenance flickereda faint smile.

“Naturally,” went on Ramiro, “Iwish to save such men, I wish you to go hence quitefree and unharmed,” and he paused.

“How can we after we have been condemned todeath?” asked Foy.

“Well, it does not seem so difficult. Myfriend, the tailor—­I mean the Inquisitor—­who,for all his soft words, is a cruel man indeed,was in a hurry to be gone, and—­he signeda blank warrant, always an incautious thing to do.Well, a judge can acquit as well as condemn, and thisone—­is no exception. What is thereto prevent me filling this paper in with an orderfor your release?”

“And what is there to show us that you wouldrelease us after all?” asked Foy.

“Upon the honour of a gentleman,” answeredRamiro laying his hand on his heart. “Tellme what I want to know, give me a week to make certainnecessary arrangements, and so soon as I am back youshall both of you be freed.”

“Doubtless,” said Foy, angrily, “uponsuch honour as gentlemen learn in the galleys, SenorRamiro—­I beg your pardon, Count Juan deMontalvo.”

Ramiro’s face grew crimson to the hair.

“Sir,” he said, “were I a differentsort of man, for those words you should die in a fashionfrom which even the boldest might shrink. Butyou are young and inexperienced, so I will overlookthem. Now this bargaining must come to a head.Which will you have, life and safety, or the chance—­whichunder the circumstances is no chance at all—­thatone day, not you, of course, but somebody interestedin it, may recover a hoard of money and jewels?”

Then Martin spoke for the first time, very slowlyand respectfully.

“Worshipful sir,” he said, “we cannottell you where the money is because we do not know.To be frank with you, nobody ever knew except myself.I took the stuff and sank it in the water in a narrowchannel between two islands, and I made a little drawingof them on a piece of paper.”

“Exactly, my good friend, and where is thatpiece of paper?”

“Alas! sir, when I was lighting the fuses onboard the Swallow, I let it fall in my haste,and it is—­in exactly the same place as areall your worship’s worthy comrades who wereon board that ship. I believe, however, thatif you will put yourself under my guidance I couldshow your Excellency the spot, and this, as I do notwant to be killed, I should be most happy to do.”

“Good, simple man,” said Ramiro with alittle laugh, “how charming is the prospectthat you paint of a midnight row with you upon thoselonely waters; the tarantula and the butterfly armin arm! Mynheer van Goorl, what have you to say?”

“Only that the story told by Martin here istrue. I do not know where the money is, as Iwas not present at its sinking, and the paper hasbeen lost.”

“Indeed? I am afraid, then, that it willbe necessary for me to refresh your memory, but, first,I have one more argument, or rather two. Hasit struck you that another life may hang upon youranswer? As a rule men are loth to send theirfathers to death.”

Foy heard, and terrible as was the hint, yet it cameto him as a relief, for he had feared lest he wasabout to say “your mother” or “ElsaBrant.”

“That is my first argument, a good one, I think,but I have—­another which may appeal evenmore forcibly to a young man and prospective heir.The day before yesterday you became engaged to ElsaBrant—­don’t look surprised; peoplein my position have long ears, and you needn’tbe frightened, the young lady will not be brought here;she is too valuable.”

“Be so good as to speak plainly,” saidFoy.

“With pleasure. You see this girl is theheiress, is she not? and whether or no I find outthe facts from you, sooner or later, in this way orthat, she will doubtless discover where her heritageis hidden. Well, that fortune a husband wouldhave the advantage of sharing. I myself labourat present under no matrimonial engagements, and amin a position to obtain an introduction—­ah!my friend, are you beginning to see that there aremore ways of killing a dog than by hanging him?”

Weak and wounded as he was, Foy’s heart sankin him at the words of this man, this devil who hadbetrayed his mother with a mock marriage, and whowas the father of Adrian. The idea of making theheiress his wife was one worthy of his evil ingenuity,and why should he not put it into practice? Elsa,of course, would rebel, but Alva’s officialsin such days had means of overcoming any maidenlyreluctance, or at least of forcing women to choosebetween death and degradation. Was it not commonfor them even to dissolve marriages in order to giveheretics to new husbands who desired their wealth?There was no justice left in the land; human beingswere the chattels and slaves of their oppressors.Oh God! what was there to do, except to trust in God?Why should they be tortured, murdered, married againsttheir wills, for the sake of a miserable pile of pelf?Why not tell the truth and let the fellow take themoney? He had measured up his man, and believedthat he could drive a bargain with him. Ramirowanted money, not lives. He was no fanatic; horrorsgave him no pleasure; he cared nothing about his victims’souls. As he had betrayed his mother, Lysbeth,for cash, so he would be willing to let them all gofor cash. Why not make the exchange?

Then distinct, formidable, overwhelming, the answerrose up in Foy’s mind. Because he had swornto his father that nothing which could be imaginedshould induce him to reveal this secret and betraythis trust. And not only to his father, to HendrikBrant also, who already had given his own life tokeep his treasure out of the hands of the Spaniards,believing that in some unforeseen way it would advantagehis own land and countrymen. No, great as wasthe temptation, he must keep the letter of his bondand pay its dreadful price. So again Foy answered,

“It is useless to try to bribe me, for I donot know where the money is.”

“Very well, Heer Foy van Goorl, now we havea plain issue before us, but I will still try to protectyou against yourself—­the warrant shallremain blank for a little while.”

Then he called aloud, “Sergeant, ask the ProfessorBaptiste to be so good as to step this way.”

CHAPTER XXI

HOW MARTIN TURNED COWARD

The sergeant left the room and presently returned,followed by the Professor, a tall hang-dog lookingrogue, clad in rusty black, with broad, horny hands,and nails bitten down to the quick.

“Good morning to you, Professor,” saidRamiro. “Here are two subjects for yourgentle art. You will begin upon the big one, andfrom time to time report progress, and be sure, ifhe becomes willing to reveal what I want to know—­nevermind what it is, that is my affair—­cometo summon me at once.”

“What methods does your Excellency wish employed?”

“Man, I leave that to you. Am I a masterof your filthy trade? Any method, provided itis effective.”

“I don’t like the look of him,”grumbled the Professor, gnawing at his short nails.“I have heard about this mad brute; he is capableof anything.”

“Then take the whole guard with you; one nakedwretch can’t do much against eight armed men.And, listen; take the young gentleman also, and lethim see what goes on; the experience may modify hisviews, but don’t touch him without telling me.I have reports to write, and shall stop here.”

“I don’t like the look of him,”repeated the Professor. “I say that hemakes me feel cold down the back—­he hasthe evil eye; I’d rather begin with the youngone.”

“Begone and do what I tell you,” saidRamiro, glaring at him fiercely. “Guard,attend upon the executioner Baptiste.”

“Bring them along,” grumbled the Professor.

“No need for violence, worthy sir,” mutteredMartin; “show the way and we follow,”and stooping down he lifted Foy from his chair.

Then the procession started. First went Baptisteand four soldiers, next came Martin bearing Foy, andafter them four more soldiers. They passed outof the courtroom into the passage beneath the archway.Martin, shuffling along slowly, glanced down it andsaw that on the wall, among some other weapons, hunghis own sword, Silence. The big doors were lockedand barred, but at the wicket by the side of them stooda sentry, whose office it was to let people in andout upon their lawful business. Making pretenceto shift Foy in his arms, Martin scanned this wicketas narrowly as time would allow, and observed thatit seemed to be secured by means of iron bolts atthe top and the bottom, but that it was not locked,since the socket into which the tongue went was empty.Doubtless, while he was on guard there, the porterdid not think it necessary to go to the pains of usingthe great key that hung at his girdle.

The sergeant in charge of the victims opened a lowand massive door, which was almost exactly oppositeto that of the court-room, by shooting back a boltand pushing it ajar. Evidently the place beyondat some time or other had been used as a prison, whichaccounted for the bolt on the outside. A fewseconds later and they were locked into the torture-chamberof the Gevangenhuis, which was nothing more than agood-sized vault like that of a cellar, lit with lamps,for no light of day was suffered to enter here, andby a horrid little fire that flickered on the floor.The furnitures of the place may be guessed at; thosethat are curious about such things can satisfy themselvesby examining the mediaeval prisons at The Hague andelsewhere. Let us pass them over as unfit evenfor description, although these terrors, of whichwe scarcely like to speak to-day, were very familiarto the sight of our ancestors of but three centuriesago.

Martin sat Foy down upon some terrible engine thatroughly resembled a chair, and once more let his blueeyes wander about him. Amongst the various implementswas one leaning against the wall, not very far fromthe door, which excited his especial interest.It was made for a dreadful purpose, but Martin reflectedonly that it seemed to be a stout bar of iron exactlysuited to the breaking of anybody’s head.

“Come,” sneered the Professor, “undressthat big gentleman while I make ready his little bed.”

So the soldiers stripped Martin, nor did they assaulthim with sneers and insults, for they remembered theman’s deeds of yesterday, and admired his strengthand endurance, and the huge, muscular frame beneaththeir hands.

“Now he is ready if you are,” said thesergeant.

The Professor rubbed his hands.

“Come on, my little man,” he said.

Then Martin’s nerve gave way, and he began toshiver and to shake.

“Oho!” laughed the Professor, “evenin this stuffy place he is cold without his clothes;well we must warm him—­we must warm him.”

“Who would have thought that a big fellow, whocan fight well, too, was such a coward at heart,”said the sergeant of the guard to his companions.“After all, he will give no more play than aRhine salmon.”

Martin heard the words, and was seized with such anintense access of fear that he burst into a sweatall over his body.

“I can’t bear it,” he said, coveringhis eyes—­which, however, he did not shut—­withhis fingers. “The rack was always my nightmare,and now I see why. I’ll tell all I know.”

“Oh! Martin, Martin,” broke out Foyin a kind of wail, “I was doing my best to keepmy own courage; I never dreamt that you would turncoward.”

“Every well has a bottom, master,” whinedMartin, “and mine is the rack. Forgiveme, but I can’t abide the sight of it.”

Foy stared at him open-mouthed. Could he believehis ears? And if Martin was so horribly scared,why did his eye glint in that peculiar way betweenhis fingers? He had seen this light in it before,no later indeed than the last afternoon just as thesoldiers tried to rush the stair. He gave upthe problem as insoluble, but from that moment hewatched very narrowly.

“Do you hear what this young lady says, ProfessorBaptiste?” said the sergeant. “Shesays” (imitating Martin’s whine) “thatshe’ll tell all she knows.”

“Then the great cur might have saved me thistrouble. Stop here with him. I must go andinform the Governor; those are my orders. No,no, you needn’t give him clothes yet—­thatcloth is enough—­one can never be sure.”

Then he walked to the door and began to unlock it,as he went striking Martin in the face with the backof his hand, and saying,

“Take that, cur.” Whereat, as Foyobserved, the cowed prisoner perspired more profuselythan before, and shrank away towards the wall.

God in Heaven! What had happened? The doorof the torture den was opened, and suddenly, utteringthe words, “To me, Foy!” Martinmade a movement more quick than he could follow.Something flew up and fell with a fearful thud uponthe executioner in the doorway. The guard sprangforward, and a great bar of iron, hurled with awfulforce into their faces, swept two of them broken tothe ground. Another instant, and one arm wasabout his middle, the next they were outside the door,Martin standing straddle-legged over the body of thedead Professor Baptiste.

They were outside the door, but it was not shut, fornow, on the other side of it six men were pushingwith all their might and main. Martin droppedFoy. “Take his dagger and look out for theporter,” he gasped as he hurled himself againstthe door.

In a second Foy had drawn the weapon out of the beltof the dead man, and wheeled round. The porterfrom the wicket was running on them sword in hand.Foy forgot that he was wounded—­for the momenthis leg seemed sound again. He doubled himselfup and sprang at the man like a wild-cat, as one springswho has the rack behind him. There was no fight,yet in that thrust the skill which Martin had taughthim so patiently served him well, for the sword ofthe Spaniard passed over his head, whereas Foy’slong dagger went through the porter’s throat.A glance showed Foy that from him there was nothingmore to fear, so he turned.

“Help if you can,” groaned Martin, aswell he might, for with his naked shoulder wedgedagainst one of the cross pieces of the door he wasstriving to press it to so that the bolt could be shotinto its socket.

Heavens! what a struggle was that. Martin’sblue eyes seemed to be starting from his head, histongue lolled out and the muscles of his body rosein great knots. Foy hopped to him and pushed aswell as he was able. It was little that he coulddo standing upon one leg only, for now the sinewsof the other had given way again; still that littlemade the difference, for let the soldiers on the furtherside strive as they might, slowly, very slowly, thethick door quivered to its frame. Martin glancedat the bolt, for he could not speak, and with his lefthand Foy slowly worked it forward. It was stiffwith disuse, it caught upon the edge of the socket.

“Closer,” he gasped.

Martin made an effort so fierce that it was hideousto behold, for beneath the pressure the blood trickledfrom his nostrils, but the door went in the sixteenthof an inch and the rusty bolt creaked home into itsstone notch.

Martin stepped back, and for a moment stood swayinglike a man about to fall. Then, recovering himself,he leapt at the sword Silence which hung upon thewall and passed its thong over his right wrist.Next he turned towards the door of the court-room.

“Where are you going?” asked Foy.

“To bid him farewell,” hissed Martin.

“You’re mad,” said Foy; “let’sfly while we can. That door may give—­theyare shouting.”

“Perhaps you are right,” answered Martindoubtfully. “Come. On to my back withyou.”

A few seconds later the two soldiers on guard outsidethe Gevangenhuis were amazed to see a huge, red-beardedman, naked save for a loin-cloth, and waving a greatbare sword, who carried upon his back another man,rush straight at them with a roar. They neverwaited his onset; they were terrified and thoughtthat he was a devil. This way and that they sprang,and the man with his burden passed between them overthe little drawbridge down the street of the city,heading for the Morsch poort.

Finding their wits again the guards started in pursuit,but a voice from among the passers-by cried out:

“It is Martin, Red Martin, and Foy van Goorl,who escape from the Gevangenhuis,” and instantlya stone flew towards the soldiers.

Then, bearing in mind the fate of their comrades onthe yesterday, those men scuttled back to the friendlyshelter of the prison gate. When at length Ramiro,growing weary of waiting, came out from an inner chamberbeyond the court-room, where he had been writing, tofind the Professor and the porter dead in the passage,and the yelling guard locked in his own torture-chamber,why, then those sentries declared that they had seennothing at all of prisoners clothed or naked.

For a while he believed them, and mighty was the huntfrom the clock-tower of the Gevangenhuis down to thelowest stone of its cellars, yes, and even in thewaters of the moat. But when the Governor foundout the truth it went very ill with those soldiers,and still worse with the guard from whom Martin hadescaped in the torture-room like an eel out of thehand of a fish-wife. For by this time Ramiro’stemper was roused, and he began to think that he haddone ill to return to Leyden.

But he had still a card to play. In a certainroom in the Gevangenhuis sat another victim.Compared to the dreadful dens where Foy and Martinhad been confined this was quite a pleasant chamberupon the first floor, being reserved, indeed, forpolitical prisoners of rank, or officers capturedupon the field who were held to ransom. Thus ithad a real window, secured, however, by a double setof iron bars, which overlooked the little inner courtyardand the gaol kitchen. Also it was furnished aftera fashion, and was more or less clean. This prisonerwas none other than Dirk van Goorl, who had been neatlycaptured as he returned towards his house after makingcertain arrangements for the flight of his family,and hurried away to the gaol. On that morningDirk also had been put upon his trial before the squeaky-voicedand agitated ex-tailor. He also had been condemnedto death, the method of his end, as in the case ofFoy and Martin, being left in the hands of the Governor.Then they led him back to his room, and shot the boltsupon him there.

Some hours later a man entered his cell, to the doorof which he was escorted by soldiers, bringing himfood and drink. He was one of the cooks and,as it chanced, a talkative fellow.

“What passes in this prison, friend?”asked Dirk looking up, “that I see people runningto and fro across the courtyard, and hear tramplingand shouts in the passages? Is the Prince ofOrange coming, perchance, to set all of us poor prisonersfree?” and he smiled sadly.

“Umph!” grunted the man, “we haveprisoners here who set themselves free without waitingfor any Prince of Orange. Magicians they mustbe—­magicians and nothing less.”

Dirk’s interest was excited. Putting hishand into his pocket he drew out a gold piece, whichhe gave to the man.

“Friend,” he said, “you cook myfood, do you not, and look after me? Well, Ihave a few of these about me, and if you prove kindthey may as well find their way into your pocket asinto those of your betters. Do you understand?”

The man nodded, took the money, and thanked him.

“Now,” went on Dirk, “while youclean the room, tell me about this escape, for smallthings amuse those who hear no tidings.”

“Well, Mynheer,” answered the man, “thisis the tale of it so far as I can gather. Yesterdaythey captured two fellows, heretics I suppose, whomade a good fight and did them much damage in a warehouse.I don’t know their names, for I am a strangerto this town, but I saw them brought in; a young fellow,who seemed to be wounded in the leg and neck, anda great red-bearded giant of a man. They wereput upon their trial this morning, and afterwardssent across, the two of them together, with eightmen to guard them, to call upon the Professor—­youunderstand?”

Dirk nodded, for this Professor was well known inLeyden. “And then?” he asked.

“And then? Why, Mother in Heaven! theycame out, that’s all—­the big manstripped and carrying the other on his back. Yes,they killed the Professor with the branding iron,and out they came—­like ripe peas from apod.”

“Impossible!” said Dirk.

“Very well, perhaps you know better than I do;perhaps it is impossible also that they should havepushed the door to, let all those Spanish cocks insidedo what they might, and bolted them in; perhaps itis impossible that they should have spitted the porterand got clean away through the outside guards, thebig one still carrying the other upon his back.Perhaps all these things are impossible, but they’retrue nevertheless, and if you don’t believeme, after they get away from the whipping-post, justask the bridge guard why they ran so fast when theysaw that great, naked, blue-eyed fellow come at themroaring like a lion, with his big sword flashing abovehis head. Oh! there’s a pretty to-do, Ican tell you, a pretty to-do, and in meal or malt weshall all pay the price of it, from the Governor down.Indeed, some backs are paying it now.”

“But, friend, were they not taken outside thegaol?”

“Taken? Who was to take them when the rascallymob made them an escort five hundred strong as theywent down the street? No, they are far away fromLeyden now, you may swear to that. I must be going,but if there is anything you’d like while you’rehere just tell me, and as you are so liberal I’lltry and see that you get what you want.”

As the bolts were shot home behind the man Dirk claspedhis hands and almost laughed aloud with joy.So Martin was free and Foy was free, and until theycould be taken again the secret of the treasure remainedsafe. Montalvo would never have it, of that hewas sure. And as for his own fate? Well,he cared little about it, especially as the Inquisitorhad decreed that, being a man of so much importance,he was not to be put to the “question.”This order, however, was prompted, not by mercy, butby discretion, since the fellow knew that, like otherof the Holland towns, Leyden was on the verge of openrevolt, and feared lest, should it leak out that oneof the wealthiest and most respected of its burgherswas actually being tormented for his faith’ssake, the populace might step over the boundary line.

When Adrian had seen the wounded Spanish soldiersand their bearers torn to pieces by the rabble, andhad heard the great door of the Gevangenhuis closeupon Foy and Martin, he turned to go home with hisevil news. But for a long while the mob wouldnot go home, and had it not been that the drawbridgeover the moat in front of the prison was up, and thatthey had no means of crossing it, probably they wouldhave attacked the building then and there. Presently,however, rain began to fall and they melted away,wondering, not too happily, whether, in that timeof daily slaughter, the Duke of Alva would think afew common soldiers worth while making a stir about.

Adrian entered the upper room to tell his tidings,since they must be told, and found it occupied byhis mother alone. She was sitting straight uprightin her chair, her hands resting upon her knees, staringout of the window with a face like marble.

“I cannot find him,” he began, “butFoy and Martin are taken after a great fight in whichFoy was wounded. They are in the Gevangenhuis.”

“I know all,” interrupted Lysbeth in acold, heavy voice. “My husband is takenalso. Someone must have betrayed them. MayGod reward him! Leave me, Adrian.”

Then Adrian turned and crept away to his own chamber,his heart so full of remorse and shame that at timeshe thought that it must burst. Weak as he was,wicked as he was, he had never intended this, but now,oh Heaven! his brother Foy and the man who had beenhis benefactor, whom his mother loved more than herlife, were through him given over to a death worsethan the mind could conceive. Somehow that nightwore away, and of this we may be sure, that it didnot go half as heavily with the victims in their dungeonas with the betrayer in his free comfort. Thriceduring its dark hours, indeed, Adrian was on the pointof destroying himself; once even he set the hilt ofhis sword upon the floor and its edge against hisbreast, and then at the prick of steel shrank back.

Better would it have been for him, perhaps, couldhe have kept his courage; at least he would have beenspared much added shame and misery.

So soon as Adrian had left her Lysbeth rose, robedherself, and took her way to the house of her cousin,van de Werff, now a successful citizen of middle ageand the burgomaster-elect of Leyden.

“You have heard the news?” she said.

“Alas! cousin, I have,” he answered, “andit is very terrible. Is it true that this treasureof Hendrik Brant’s is at the bottom of it all?”

She nodded, and answered, “I believe so.”

“Then could they not bargain for their livesby surrendering its secret?”

“Perhaps. That is, Foy and Martin might—­Dirkdoes not know its whereabouts—­he refusedto know, but they have sworn that they will die first.”

“Why, cousin?”

“Because they promised as much to Hendrik Brant,who believed that if his gold could be kept from theSpaniards it would do some mighty service to his countryin time to come, and who has persuaded them all thatis so.”

“Then God grant it may be true,” saidvan de Werff with a sigh, “for otherwise itis sad to think that more lives should be sacrificedfor the sake of a heap of pelf.”

“I know it, cousin, but I come to you to savethose lives.”

“How?”

“How?” she answered fiercely. “Why,by raising the town; by attacking the Gevangenhuisand rescuing them, by driving the Spaniards out ofLeyden——­”

“And thereby bringing upon ourselves the fateof Mons. Would you see this place also givenover to sack by the soldiers of Noircarmes and DonFrederic?”

“I care not what I see so long as I save myson and my husband,” she answered desperately.

“There speaks the woman, not the patriot.It is better that three men should die than a wholecity full.”

“That is a strange argument to find in yourmouth, cousin, the argument of Caiaphas the Jew.”

“Nay, Lysbeth, be not wroth with me, for whatcan I say? The Spanish troops in Leyden are notmany, it is true, but more have been sent for fromHaarlem and elsewhere after the troubles of yesterdayarising out of the capture of Foy and Martin, andin forty-eight hours at the longest they will be here.This town is not provisioned for a siege, its citizensare not trained to arms, and we have little powderstored. Moreover, the city council is divided.For the killing of the Spanish soldiers we may compound,but if we attack the Gevangenhuis, that is open rebellion,and we shall bring the army of Don Frederic down uponus.”

“What matter, cousin? It will come sooneror later.”

“Then let it come later, when we are more preparedto beat it off. Oh! do not reproach me, for Ican bear it ill, I who am working day and night tomake ready for the hour of trial. I love yourhusband and your son, my heart bleeds for your sorrowand their doom, but at present I can do nothing, nothing.You must bear your burden, they must bear theirs,I must bear mine; we must all wander through the nightnot knowing where we wander till God causes the dawnto break, the dawn of freedom and retribution.”

Lysbeth made no answer, only she rose and stumbledfrom the house, while van de Werff sat down groaningbitterly and praying for help and light.

CHAPTER XXII

A MEETING AND A PARTING

Lysbeth did not sleep that night, for even if hermisery would have let her sleep, she could not becauseof the physical fire that burnt in her veins, andthe strange pangs of agony which pierced her head.At first she thought little of them, but when at lastthe cold light of the autumn morning dawned she wentto a mirror and examined herself, and there upon herneck she found a hard red swelling of the size of anut. Then Lysbeth knew that she had caught theplague from the Vrouw Jansen, and laughed aloud, adreary little laugh, since if all she loved were todie, it seemed to her good that she should die also.Elsa was abed prostrated with grief, and, shuttingherself in her room, Lysbeth suffered none to comenear her except one woman who she knew had recoveredfrom the plague in past years, but even to her shesaid nothing of her sickness.

About eleven o’clock in the morning this womanrushed into her chamber crying, “They have escaped!They have escaped!”

“Who?” gasped Lysbeth, springing fromher chair.

“Your son Foy and Red Martin,” and shetold the tale of how the naked man with the nakedsword, carrying the wounded Foy upon his back, bursthis way roaring from the Gevangenhuis, and, protectedby the people, had run through the town and out ofthe Morsch poort, heading for the Haarlemer Meer.

As she listened Lysbeth’s eyes flamed up witha fire of pride.

“Oh! good and faithful servant,” she murmured,“you have saved my son, but alas! your masteryou could not save.”

Another hour passed, and the woman appeared againbearing a letter.

“Who brought this?” she asked.

“A Spanish soldier, mistress.”

Then she cut the silk and read it. It was unsigned,and ran:—­

“One in authority sends greetings to the Vrouwvan Goorl. If the Vrouw van Goorl would savethe life of the man who is dearest to her, she isprayed to veil herself and follow the bearer of thisletter. For her own safety she need have no fear;it is assured hereby.”

Lysbeth thought awhile. This might be a trick;very probably it was a trick to take her. Well,if so, what did it matter since she would rather diewith her husband than live on without him; moreover,why should she turn aside from death, she in whoseveins the plague was burning? But there was anotherthing worse than that. She could guess who hadpenned this letter; it even seemed to her, after allthese many years, that she recognised the writing,disguised though it was. Could she face him!Well, why not—­for Dirk’s sake?

And if she refused and Dirk was done to death, wouldshe not reproach herself, if she lived to rememberit, because she had left a stone unturned?

“Give me my cloak and veil,” she saidto the woman, “and now go tell the man thatI am coming.”

At the door she found the soldier, who saluted her,and said respectfully, “Follow me, lady, butat a little distance.”

So they started, and through side streets Lysbethwas led to a back entrance of the Gevangenhuis, whichopened and closed behind her mysteriously, leavingher wondering whether she would ever pass that gateagain. Within a man was waiting—­shedid not even notice what kind of man—­whoalso said, “Follow me, lady,” and led herthrough gloomy passages and various doors into a littleempty chamber furnished with a table and two chairs.Presently the door opened and shut; then her wholebeing shrank and sickened as though beneath the breathof poison, for there before her, still the same, stillhandsome, although so marred by time and scars andevil, stood the man who had been her husband, Juande Montalvo. But whatever she felt Lysbeth showednothing of it in her face, which remained white andstern; moreover, even before she looked at him shewas aware that he feared her more than she feared him.

It was true, for from this woman’s eyes wentout a sword of terror that seemed to pierce Montalvo’sheart. Back flew his mind to the scene of theirbetrothal, and the awful words that she had spokenthen re-echoed in his ears. How strangely thingshad come round, for on that day, as on this, the stakeat issue was the life of Dirk van Goorl. In theold times she had bought it, paying as its price herself,her fortune, and, worst of all, to a woman, her lover’sscorn and wonder. What would she be preparedto pay now? Well, fortunately, he need ask butlittle of her. And yet his soul mistrusted himof these bargainings with Lysbeth van Hout for thelife of Dirk van Goorl. The first had ended illwith a sentence of fourteen years in the galleys,most of which he had served. How would the secondend?

By way of answer there seemed to rise before the eyeof Montalvo’s mind a measureless black gulf,and, falling, falling, falling through its infinitedepths one miserable figure, a mere tiny point thatserved to show the vastness it explored. Thepoint turned over, and he saw its face as in a crystal—­itwas his own.

This unpleasant nightmare of the imagination camein an instant, and in an instant passed. Thenext Montalvo, courteous and composed, was bowingbefore his visitor and praying her to be seated.

“It is most good of you, Vrouw van Goorl,”he began, “to have responded so promptly tomy invitation.”

“Perhaps, Count de Montalvo,” she replied,“you will do me the favour to set out your businessin as few words as possible.”

“Most certainly; that is my desire. Letme free your mind of apprehension. The past hasmingled memories for both of us, some of them bitter,some, let me hope, sweet,” and he laid his handupon his heart and sighed. “But it is adead past, so, dear lady, let us agree to bury itin a fitting silence.”

Lysbeth made no answer, only her mouth grew a triflemore stern.

“Now, one word more, and I will come to thepoint. Let me congratulate you upon the gallantdeeds of a gallant son. Of course his courageand dexterity, with that of the red giant, Martin,have told against myself, have, in short, lost mea trick in the game. But I am an old soldier,and I can assure you that the details of their fightyesterday at the factory, and of their marvellousescape from—­from—­well, painfulsurroundings this morning, have stirred my blood andmade my heart beat fast.”

“I have heard the tale; do not trouble to repeatit,” said Lysbeth. “It is only whatI expected of them, but I thank God that it has pleasedHim to let them live on so that in due course theymay fearfully avenge a beloved father and master.”

Montalvo coughed and turned his head with the ideaof avoiding that ghastly nightmare of a pitiful littleman falling down a fathomless gulf which had sprungup suddenly in his mind again.

“Well,” he went on, “a truce tocompliments. They escaped, and I am glad of it,whatever murders they may contemplate in the future.Yes, notwithstanding their great crimes and manslayingsin the past I am glad that they escaped, althoughit was my duty to keep them while I could—­andif I should catch them it will be my duty—­butI needn’t talk of that to you. Of course,however, you know, there is one gentleman who wasnot quite so fortunate.”

“My husband?”

“Yes, your worthy husband, who, happily formy reputation as captain of one of His Majesty’sprisons, occupies an upstairs room.”

“What of him?” asked Lysbeth.

“Dear lady, don’t be over anxious; thereis nothing so wearing as anxiety. I was comingto the matter.” Then, with a sudden changeof manner, he added, “It is needful, Lysbeth,that I should set out the situation.”

“What situation do you mean?”

“Well, principally that of the treasure.”

“What treasure?”

“Oh! woman, do not waste time in trying to foolme. The treasure, the vast, the incalculabletreasure of Hendrik Brant which Foy van Goorl andMartin, who have escaped”—­and he groundhis teeth together at the anguish of the thought—­“disposedof somewhere in the Haarlemer Meer.”

“Well, what about this treasure?”

“I want it, that is all.”

“Then you had best go to seek it.”

“That is my intention, and I shall begin thesearch—­in the heart of Dirk van Goorl,”he added, slowly crushing the handkerchief he heldwith his long fingers as though it were a living thingthat could be choked to death.

Lysbeth never stirred, she had expected this.

“You will find it a poor mine to dig in,”she said, “for he knows nothing of the whereaboutsof this money. Nobody knows anything of it now.Martin hid it, as I understand, and lost the paper,so it will lie there till the Haarlemer Meer is drained.”

“Dear me! Do you know I have heard thatstory before; yes, from the excellent Martin himself—­and,do you know, I don’t quite believe it.”

“I cannot help what you believe or do not believe.You may remember that it was always my habit to speakthe truth.”

“Quite so, but others may be less conscientious.See here,” and drawing a paper from his doublet,he held it before her. It was nothing less thanthe death-warrant of Dirk van Goorl, signed by theInquisitor, duly authorised thereto.

Mechanically she read it and understood.

“You will observe,” he went on, “thatthe method of the criminal’s execution is leftto the good wisdom of our well-beloved—­etc.,in plain language, to me. Now might I troubleyou so far as to look out of this little window?What do you see in front of you? A kitchen?Quite so; always a homely and pleasant sight in theeyes of an excellent housewife like yourself.And—­do you mind bending forward a little?What do you see up there? A small barred window?Well, let us suppose, for the sake of argument, thata hungry man, a man who grows hungrier and hungrier,sat behind that window watching the cooks at theirwork and seeing the meat carried into this kitchen,to come out an hour or two later as hot, steaming,savoury joints, while he wasted, wasted, wasted andstarved, starved, starved. Don’t you think,my dear lady, that this would be a very unpleasantexperience for that man?”

“Are you a devil?” gasped Lysbeth, springingback.

“I have never regarded myself as such, but ifyou seek a definition, I should say that I am a hard-working,necessitous, and somewhat unfortunate gentleman whohas been driven to rough methods in order to securea comfortable old age. I can assure you that Ido not wish to starve anybody; I wish only to findHendrik Brant’s treasure, and if your worthyhusband won’t tell me where it is, why I mustmake him, that is all. In six or eight days undermy treatment I am convinced that he will become quitefluent on the subject, for there is nothing that shouldcause a fat burgher, accustomed to good living, toopen his heart more than a total lack of the victualswhich he can see and smell. Did you ever hearthe story of an ancient gentleman called Tantalus?These old fables have a wonderful way of adaptingthemselves to the needs and circumstances of us moderns,haven’t they?”

Then Lysbeth’s pride broke down, and, in theabandonment of her despair, flinging herself uponher knees before this monster, she begged for herhusband’s life, begged, in the name of God, yes,and even in the name of Montalvo’s son, Adrian.So low had her misery brought her that she pleadedwith the man by the son of shame whom she had borneto him.

He prayed her to rise. “I want to saveyour husband’s life,” he said. “Igive you my word that if only he will tell me whatI desire to know, I will save it; yes, although therisk is great, I will even manage his escape, andI shall ask you to go upstairs presently and explainmy amiable intentions to him.” Then hethought a moment and added, “But you mentionedone Adrian. Pray do you mean the gentleman whosesignature appears here?” and he handed her anotherdocument, saying, “Read it quietly, there isno hurry. The good Dirk is not starving yet; Iam informed, indeed, that he has just made an excellentbreakfast—­not his last by many thousands,let us hope.”

Lysbeth took the sheets and glanced at them.Then her intelligence awoke, and she read on fiercelyuntil her eye came to the well-known signature atthe foot of the last page. She cast the roll downwith a cry as though a serpent had sprung from itspages and bitten her.

“I fear that you are pained,” said Montalvosympathetically, “and no wonder, for myselfI have gone through such disillusionments, and knowhow they wound a generous nature. That’swhy I showed you this document, because I also amgenerous and wish to warn you against this young gentleman,who, I understand, you allege is my son. You seethe person who would betray his brother might evengo a step further and betray his mother, so, if youtake my advice, you will keep an eye upon the youngman. Also I am bound to remind you that it ismore or less your own fault. It is a most unluckything to curse a child before it is born—­youremember the incident? That curse has come hometo roost with a vengeance. What a warning againstgiving way to the passion of the moment!”

Lysbeth heeded him no longer; she was thinking asshe had never thought before. At that moment,as though by an inspiration, there floated into hermind the words of the dead Vrouw Jansen: “Theplague, I wish that I had caught it before, for thenI would have taken it to him in prison, and they couldn’thave treated him as they did.” Dirk wasin prison, and Dirk was to be starved to death, for,whatever Montalvo might think, he did not know thesecret, and, therefore, could not tell it. Andshe—­she had the plague on her; she knewits symptoms well, and its poison was burning in herevery vein, although she still could think and speakand walk.

Well, why not? It would be no crime. Indeed,if it was a crime, she cared little; it would be betterthat he should die of the plague in five days, orperhaps in two, if it worked quickly, as it often didwith the full-blooded, than that he should lingeron starving for twelve or more, and perhaps be tormentedbesides.

Swiftly, very swiftly, Lysbeth came to her dreadfuldecision. Then she spoke in a hoarse voice.

“What do you wish me to do?”

“I wish you to reason with your husband, andto persuade him to cease from his obstinacy, and tosurrender to me the secret of the hiding-place ofBrant’s hoard. In that event, so soon asI have proved the truth of what he tells me, I undertakethat he shall be set at liberty unharmed, and that,meanwhile, he shall be well treated.”

“And if I will not, or he will not, or cannot?”

“Then I have told you the alternative, and toshow you that I am not joking, I will now write andsign the order. Then, if you decline this mission,or if it is fruitless, I will hand it to the officerbefore your eyes—­and within the next tendays or so let you know the results, or witness themif you wish.”

“I will go,” she said, “but I mustsee him alone.”

“It is unusual,” he answered, “butprovided you satisfy me that you carry no weapon,I do not know that I need object.”

So, when Montalvo had written his order and scattereddust on it from the pounce-box, for he was a man ofneat and methodical habits, he himself with everypossible courtesy conducted Lysbeth to her husband’sprison. Having ushered her into it, with a cheerful“Friend van Goorl, I bring you a visitor,”he locked the door upon them, and patiently waitedoutside.

It matters not what passed within. Whether Lysbethtold her husband of her dread yet sacred purpose,or did not tell him; whether he ever learned of theperfidy of Adrian, or did not learn it; what were theirparting words—­their parting prayers, allthese things matter not; indeed, the last are tooholy to be written. Let us bow our heads andpass them by in silence, and let the reader imaginethem as he will.

Growing impatient at length, Montalvo unlocked theprison door and opened it, to discover Lysbeth andher husband kneeling side by side in the centre ofthe room like the figures on some ancient marble monument.They heard him and rose. Then Dirk folded hiswife in his arms in a long, last embrace, and, loosingher, held one hand above her head in blessing, aswith the other he pointed to the door.

So infinitely pathetic was this dumb show of farewell,for no word passed between them while he was present,that not only his barbed gibes, but the questionsthat he meant to ask, died upon the lips of Montalvo.Try as he might he could not speak them here.

“Come,” he said, and Lysbeth passed out.

At the door she turned to look, and there, in thecentre of the room, still stood her husband, tearsstreaming from his eyes, down a face radiant withan unearthly smile, and his right hand lifted towardsthe heavens. And so she left him.

Presently Montalvo and Lysbeth were together againin the little room.

“I fear,” he said, “from what Isaw just now, that your mission has failed.”

“It has failed,” she answered in sucha voice as might be dragged by an evil magic fromthe lips of a corpse. “He does not knowthe secret you seek, and, therefore, he cannot tellit.”

“I am sorry that I cannot believe you,”said Montalvo, “so”—­and hestretched out his hand towards a bell upon the table.

“Stop,” she said; “for your ownsake stop. Man, will you really commit this awful,this useless crime? Think of the reckoning thatmust be paid here and hereafter; think of me, thewoman you dishonoured, standing before the JudgmentSeat of God, and bearing witness against your naked,shivering soul. Think of him, the good and harmlessman whom you are about cruelly to butcher, cryingin the ear of Christ, ’Look upon Juan de Montalvo,my pitiless murderer——­’”

“Silence,” shouted Montalvo, yet shrinkingback against the wall as though to avoid a sword-thrust.“Silence, you ill-omened witch, with your talkof God and judgment. It is too late, I tell you,it is too late; my hands are too red with blood, myheart is too black with sin, upon the tablets of mymind is written too long a record. What more canthis one crime matter, and—­do you understand?—­Imust have money, money to buy my pleasures, moneyto make my last years happy, and my deathbed soft.I have suffered enough, I have toiled enough, and Iwill win wealth and peace who am now once more a beggar.Yes, had you twenty husbands, I would crush the lifeout of all of them inch by inch to win the gold thatI desire.”

As he spoke and the passions in him broke throughtheir crust of cunning and reserve, his face changed.Now Lysbeth, watching for some sign of pity, knewthat hope was dead, for his countenance was as it hadbeen on that day six-and-twenty years ago, when shesat at his side while the great race was run.There was the same starting eyeball, the same shiningfangs appeared between the curled lips, and above themthe moustachios, now grown grey, touched the highcheekbones. It was as in the fable of the weremen,who, at a magic sign or word, put off their humanaspect and become beasts. So it had chanced tothe spirit of Montalvo, shining through his fleshlike some baleful marsh-light through the mist.It was a thing which God had forgotten, a thing thathad burst the kindly mould of its humanity, and wraptitself in the robe and mask of such a wolf as mightraven about the cliffs of hell. Only there wasfear on the face of the wolf, that inhuman face which,this side of the grave, she was yet destined to seeonce more.

The fit passed, and Montalvo sank down gasping, whileeven in her woe and agony Lysbeth shuddered at thisnaked vision of a Satan-haunted soul.

“I have one more thing to ask,” she said.“Since my husband must die, suffer that I diewith him. Will you refuse this also, and causethe cup of your crimes to flow over, and the lastangel of God’s mercy to flee away?”

“Yes,” he answered. “You, womanwith the evil eye, do you suppose that I wish youhere to bring all the ills you prate of upon my head?I say that I am afraid of you. Why, for yoursake, once, years ago, I made a vow to the BlessedVirgin that, whatever I worked on men, I would neveragain lift a hand against a woman. To that oathI look to help me at the last, for I have kept itsacredly, and am keeping it now, else by this timeboth you and the girl, Elsa, might have been stretchedupon the rack. No, Lysbeth, get you gone, andtake your curses with you,” and he snatchedand rang the bell.

A soldier entered the room, saluted, and asked hiscommands.

“Take this order,” he said, “tothe officer in charge of the heretic, Dirk van Goorl;it details the method of his execution. Let itbe strictly adhered to, and report made to me eachmorning of the condition of the prisoner. Stay,show this lady from the prison.”

The man saluted again and went out of the door.After him followed Lysbeth. She spoke no more,but as she passed she looked at Montalvo, and he knewwell that though she might be gone, yet her curse remainedbehind.

The plague was on her, the plague was on her, herhead and bones were racked with pain, and the swordsof sorrow pierced her poor heart. But Lysbeth’smind was still clear, and her limbs still supportedher. She reached her home and walked upstairsto the sitting room, commanding the servant to findthe Heer Adrian and bid him join her there.

In the room was Elsa, who ran to her crying,

“Is it true? Is it true?”

“It is true, daughter, that Foy and Martin haveescaped——­”

“Oh! God is good!” wept the girl.

“And that my husband is a prisoner and condemnedto death.”

“Ah!” gasped Elsa, “I am selfish.”

“It is natural that a woman should think firstof the man she loves. No, do not come near me;I fear that I am stricken with the pest.”

“I am not afraid of that,” answered Elsa.“Did I never tell you? As a child I hadit in The Hague.”

“That, at least, is good news among much thatis very ill; but be silent, here comes Adrian, towhom I wish to speak. Nay, you need not leaveus; it is best that you should learn the truth.”

Presently Adrian entered, and Elsa, watching everything,noticed that he looked sadly changed and ill.

“You sent for me, mother,” he began, withsome attempt at his old pompous air. Then hecaught sight of her face and was silent.

“I have been to the Gevangenhuis, Adrian,”she said, “and I have news to tell you.As you may have heard, your brother Foy and our servantMartin have escaped, I know not whither. Theyescaped out of the very jaws of worse than death,out of the torture-chamber, indeed, by killing thatwretch who was known as the Professor, and the wardenof the gate, Martin carrying Foy, who is wounded,upon his back.”

“I am indeed rejoiced,” cried Adrian excitedly.

“Hypocrite, be silent,” hissed his mother,and he knew that the worst had overtaken him.

“My husband, your stepfather, has not escaped;he is in the prison still, for there I have just biddenhim farewell, and the sentence upon him is that heshall be starved to death in a cell overlooking thekitchen.”

“Oh! oh!” cried Elsa, and Adrian groaned.

“It was my good, or my evil, fortune,”went on Lysbeth, in a voice of ice, “to seethe written evidence upon which my husband, your brotherFoy, and Martin were condemned to death, on the groundsof heresy, rebellion, and the killing of the king’sservants. At the foot of it, duly witnessed,stands the signature of—­Adrian van Goorl.”

Elsa’s jaw fell. She stared at the traitorlike one paralysed, while Adrian, seizing the backof a chair, rested upon it, and rocked his body toand fro.

“Have you anything to say?” asked Lysbeth.

There was still one chance for the wretched man—­hadhe been more dishonest than he was. He mighthave denied all knowledge of the signature. Butto do this never occurred to him. Instead, heplunged into a wandering, scarcely intelligible, explanation,for even in his dreadful plight his vanity would notpermit him to tell all the truth before Elsa.Moreover, in that fearful silence, soon he became utterlybewildered, till at length he hardly knew what he wassaying, and in the end came to a full stop.

“I understand you to admit that you signed thispaper in the house of Hague Simon, and in the presenceof a man called Ramiro, who is Governor of the prison,and who showed it to me,” said Lysbeth, liftingher head which had sunk upon her breast.

“Yes, mother, I signed something, but——­”

“I wish to hear no more,” interruptedLysbeth. “Whether your motive was jealousy,or greed, or wickedness of heart, or fear, you signedthat which, had you been a man, you would not haveyourself to be torn to pieces with redhot pincersyou put a pen to it. Moreover, you gave yourevidence fully and freely, for I have read it, andsupported it with the severed finger of the womanMeg which you stole from Foy’s room. Youare the murderer of your benefactor and of your mother’sheart, and the would-be murderer of your brother andof Martin Roos. When you were born, the mad wife,Martha, who nursed me, counselled that you shouldbe put to death, lest you should live to bring evilupon me and mine. I refused, and you have broughtthe evil upon us all, but most, I think, upon yourown soul. I do not curse you, I call down no illupon you; Adrian, I give you over into the hands ofGod to deal with as He sees fit. Here is money”—­and,going to her desk, she took from it a heavy purseof gold which had been prepared for their flight, andthrust it into the pocket of his doublet, wiping herfingers upon her kerchief after she had touched him.“Go hence and never let me see your face again.You were born of my body, you are my flesh and blood,but for this world and the next I renounce you, Adrian.Bastard, I know you not. Murderer, get you gone.”

Adrian fell upon the ground; he grovelled before hismother trying to kiss the hem of her dress, whileElsa sobbed aloud hysterically. But Lysbeth spurnedhim in the face with her foot, saying,

“Get you gone before I call up such servantsas are left to me to thrust you to the street.”

Then Adrian rose and with great gasps of agony, likesome sore-wounded thing, crept from that awful andmajestic presence of outraged motherhood, crept downthe stairs and away into the city.

When he had gone Lysbeth took pen and paper and wrotein large letters these words:—­

“Notice to all the good citizens of Leyden.Adrian, called van Goorl, upon whose written evidencehis stepfather, Dirk van Goorl, his half-brother,Foy van Goorl, and the serving-man, Martin Roos, havebeen condemned to death in the Gevangenhuis by torment,starvation, water, fire, and sword, is known hereno longer. Lysbeth van Goorl.”

Then she called a servant and gave orders that thispaper should be nailed upon the front door of thehouse where every passer-by might read it.

“It is done,” she said. “Ceaseweeping, Elsa, and lead me to my bed, whence I prayGod that I may never rise again.”

Two days went by, and a fugitive rode into the city,a worn and wounded man of Leyden, with horror stampedupon his face.

“What news?” cried the people in the market-place,recognising him.

“Mechlin! Mechlin!” he gasped.“I come from Mechlin.”

“What of Mechlin and its citizens?” askedPieter van de Werff, stepping forward.

“Don Frederic has taken it; the Spaniards havebutchered them; everyone, old and young, men, women,and children, they are all butchered. I escaped,but for two leagues and more I heard the sound of thedeath-wail of Mechlin. Give me wine.”

They gave him wine, and by slow degrees, in brokensentences, he told the tale of one of the most awfulcrimes ever committed in the name of Christ by cruelman against God and his own fellows. It was writtenlarge in history: we need not repeat it here.

Then, when they knew the truth, up from that multitudeof the men of Leyden went a roar of wrath, and a cryto vengeance for their slaughtered kin. Theytook arms, each what he had, the burgher his sword,the fisherman his fish-spear, the boor his ox-goador his pick; leaders sprang up to command them, andthere arose a shout of “To the gates! Tothe Gevangenhuis! Free the prisoners!”

They surged round the hateful place, thousands ofthem. The drawbridge was up, but they bridgedthe moat. Some shots were fired at them, thenthe defence ceased. They battered in the massivedoors, and, when these fell, rushed to the dens andloosed those who remained alive within them.

But they found no Spaniards, for by now Ramiro andhis garrison had vanished away, whither they knewnot. A voice cried, “Dirk van Goorl, seekfor Dirk van Goorl,” and they came to the chamberoverlooking the courtyard, shouting, “Van Goorl,we are here!”

They broke in the door, and there they found him,lying upon his pallet, his hands clasped, his faceupturned, smitten suddenly dead, not by man, but bythe poison of the plague.

Unfed and untended, the end had overtaken him veryswiftly.

BOOK THE THIRD

THE HARVESTING

CHAPTER XXIII

FATHER AND SON

When Adrian left his mother’s house in the BreeStraat he wandered away at hazard, for so utterlymiserable was he that he could form no plans as towhat he was to do or whither he should go. Presentlyhe found himself at the foot of that great mound whichin Leyden is still known as the Burg, a strange placewith a circular wall upon the top of it, said to havebeen constructed by the Romans. Up this moundhe climbed, and throwing himself upon the grass underan oak which grew in one of the little recesses ofthose ancient walls, he buried his face in his handsand tried to think.

Think! How could he think? Whenever he shuthis eyes there arose before them a vision of his mother’sface, a face so fearful in its awesome and unnaturalcalm that vaguely he wondered how he, the outcast son,upon whom it had been turned like the stare of theMedusa’s head, withering his very soul, couldhave seen it and still live. Why did he live?Why was he not dead, he who had a sword at his side?Was it because of his innocence? He was not guiltyof this dreadful crime. He had never intendedto hand over Dirk van Goorl and Foy and Martin to theInquisition. He had only talked about them toa man whom he believed to be a professor of judicialastrology, and who said that he could compound draughtswhich would bend the wills of women. Could hehelp it if this fellow was really an officer of theBlood Council? Of course not. But, oh! whyhad he talked so much? Oh! why had he signed thatpaper, why did he not let them kill him first?He had signed, and explain as he would, he could neverlook an honest man in the face again, and less stilla woman, if she knew the truth. So he was notstill alive because he was innocent, since for allthe good that this very doubtful innocence of hiswas likely to be even to his own conscience, he mightalmost as well have been guilty. Nor was he alivebecause he feared to die. He did fear to die horribly,but to the young and impressionable, at any rate,there are situations in which death seems the lesserof two evils. That situation had been well-nighreached by him last night when he set the hilt ofhis sword against the floor and shrank back at theprick of its point. To-day it was overpast.

No, he lived on because before he died he had a hateto satisfy, a revenge to work. He would killthis dog, Ramiro, who had tricked him with his crystalgazing and his talk of friendship, who had frightenedhim with the threat of death until he became like somepoor girl and for fear signed away his honour—­oh,Heaven! for very fear, he who prided himself uponhis noble Spanish blood, the blood of warriors—­thistreacherous dog, who, having used him, had not hesitatedto betray his shame to her from whom most of all itshould have been hidden, and, for aught he knew, tothe others also. Yes if ever he met him—­hisown brother—­Foy would spit upon him in thestreet; Foy, who was so hatefully open and honest,who could not understand into what degradation a man’snerves may drag him. And Martin, who had alwaysmistrusted and despised him, why, if he found the chance,he would tear him limb from limb as a kite tears apartridge. And, worse still, Dirk van Goorl,the man who had befriended him, who had bred him upalthough he was no son of his, but the child of somerival, he would sit there in his prison cell, andwhile his face fell in and his bones grew daily plainer,till at length his portly presence was as that of aliving skeleton, he would sit there by the window,watching the dishes of savoury food pass in and outbeneath him, and between the pangs of his long-drawn,hideous agony, put up his prayer to God to pay backto him, Adrian, all the woe that he had caused.

Oh! it was too much. Under the crushing weightof his suffering, his senses left him, and he foundsuch peace as to-day is won by those who are aboutto pass beneath the surgeon’s knife; the peacethat but too often wakes to a livelier agony.

When Adrian came to himself again, he felt cold, foralready the autumn evening had begun to fall, andthere was a feel in the clear, still air as of approachingfrost. Also he was hungry (Dirk van Goorl, too,must be growing hungry now, he remembered), for hehad eaten nothing since the yesterday. He wouldgo into the town, get food, and then make up his mindwhat he should do.

Accordingly, descending from the Burg, Adrian wentto the best inn in Leyden, and, seating himself ata table under the trees that grew outside of it, badethe waiting-man bring him food and beer. Unconsciously,for he was thinking of other things, in speaking tohim, Adrian had assumed the haughty, Spanish hidalgomanner that was customary with him when addressinghis inferiors. Even then he noticed, with theindignation of one who dwells upon his dignity, thatthis server made him no bow, but merely called hisorder to someone in the house, and, turning his backupon him, began to speak to a man who was loiteringnear. Soon Adrian became aware that he was thesubject of that conversation, for the two of themlooked at him out of the corners of their eyes, andjerked their thumbs towards him. Moreover, firstone, then two, then quite a number of passers-by stoppedand joined in the conversation, which appeared tointerest them very much. Boys came also, a dozenor more of them, and women of the fish-wife stamp,and all of these looked at him out of the corner oftheir eyes, and from time to time jerked theirthumbs towards him. Adrian began to feel uneasyand angered, but, drawing down his bonnet, and foldinghis arms upon his breast, he took no notice.Presently the server thrust his meal and flagon ofbeer before him with such clattering clumsiness thatsome of the liquor splashed over upon the table.

“Be more careful and wipe that up,” saidAdrian.

“Wipe it yourself,” answered the man,rudely turning upon his heel.

Now Adrian was minded to be gone, but he was hungryand thirsty, so first, thought he, he would satisfyhimself. Accordingly he lifted the tankard andtook a long pull at it, when suddenly something struckthe bottom of the vessel, jerking liquor over hisface and doublet. He set it down with an oath,and laying his hand upon his sword hilt asked whohad done this. But the mob, which by now numberedfifty or sixty, and was gathered about him in a triplecircle, made no answer. They stood there staringsullenly, and in the fading light their faces seemeddangerous and hostile.

He was frightened. What could they mean?Yes, he was frightened, but he determined to braveit out, and lifted the cover from his meat, when somethingpassed over his shoulder and fell into the dish, somethingstinking and abominable—­to be particular,a dead cat. This was too much. Adrian sprangto his feet, and asked who dared thus to foul hisfood. The crowd did not jeer, did not even mock;it seemed too much in earnest for gibes, but a voiceat the back called out:

“Take it to Dirk van Goorl. He’llbe glad of it soon.”

Now Adrian understood. All these people knewof his infamy; the whole of Leyden knew that tale.His lips turned dry, and the sweat broke out uponhis body. What should he do? Brave it out?He sat down, and the fierce ring of silent faces drewa pace or two nearer. He tried to bid the manto bring more meat, but the words stuck in his throat.Now the mob saw his fear, and of a sudden seemed toaugur his guilt from it, and to pass sentence on himin their hearts. At least, they who had been sodumb broke out into yells and hoots.

“Traitor!” “Spanish spy!”“Murderer!” they screamed. “Whogave evidence against our Dirk? Who sold hisbrother to the rack?”

Then came another shriller note. “Killhim.” “Hang him up by the heels andstone him.” “Twist off his tongue,”and so forth. Out shot a hand, a long, skinny,female hand, and a harsh voice cried, “Give usa keepsake, my pretty boy!” Then there was asharp wrench at his head, and he knew that from ita lock of hair was missing. This was too much.He ought to have stopped there and let them kill himif they would, but a terror of these human wolvesentered his soul and mastered him. To be troddenbeneath those mire-stained feet, to be rent by thosefilthy hands, to be swung up living by the anklesto some pole and then carved piecemeal—­hecould not bear it. He drew his sword and turnedto fly.

“Stop him,” yelled the mob, whereon helunged at them wildly, running a small boy throughthe arm.

The sight of blood and the screech of the woundedlad settled the question, and those who were foremostcame at him with a spring. But Adrian was swifterthan they, and before a hand could be laid upon him,amidst a shower of stones and filth, he was speedingdown the street. After him came the mob, andthen began one of the finest man-hunts ever knownin Leyden.

From one street to another, round this turn and roundthat, sped the quarry, and after him, a swiftly growingpack, came the hounds. Some women drew a washing-lineacross the street to trip him. Adrian jumpedit like a deer. Four men got ahead and tried tocut him off. He dodged them. Down the BreeStraat he went, and on his mother’s door he sawa paper and guessed what was written there. Theywere gaining, they were gaining, for always freshones took the place of those who grew weary.There was but one chance for him now. Near byran the Rhine, and here it was wide and unbridged.Perhaps they would not follow him through the water.In he went, having no choice, and swam for his life.They threw stones and bits of wood at him, and calledfor bows but, luckily for him, by now the night wasfalling fast, so that soon he vanished from theirsight, and heard them crying to each other that hewas drowned.

But Adrian was not drowned, for at that moment hewas dragging himself painfully through the deep, greasymud of the opposing bank and hiding among the oldboats and lumber which were piled there, till his breathcame to him again. But he could not stay long,for even if he had not been afraid that they wouldcome and find him, it was too cold. So he creptaway into the darkness.

Half an hour later, as, resting from their daily labours,Hague Simon and his consort Meg were seated at theirevening meal, a knock came at the door, causing themto drop their knives and to look at each other suspiciously.

“Who can it be?” marvelled Meg.

Simon shook his fat head. “I have no appointment,”he murmured, “and I don’t like strangevisitors. There’s a nasty spirit abroadin the town, a very nasty spirit.”

“Go and see,” said Meg.

“Go and see yourself, you——­”and he added an epithet calculated to anger the meekestwoman.

She answered it with an oath and a metal plate, whichstruck him in the face, but before the quarrel couldgo farther, again came the sound of raps, this timelouder and more hurried. Then Black Meg went toopen the door, while Simon took a knife and hid himselfbehind a curtain. After some whispering, Megbade the visitor enter, and ushered him into the room,that same fateful room where the evidence was signed.Now he was in the light, and she saw him.

“Oh! come here,” she gasped. “Simon,come and look at our little grandee.” SoSimon came, whereon the pair of them, clapping theirhands to their ribs, burst into screams of laughter.

“It’s the Don! Mother of Heaven!it is the Don,” gurgled Simon.

Well might they laugh, they who had known Adrian inhis pride and rich attire, for before them, crouchingagainst the wall, was a miserable, bareheaded object,his hair stained with mud and rotten eggs, blood runningfrom his temple where a stone had caught him, his garmentsa mass of filth and dripping water, one boot goneand his hose burst to tatters. For a while thefugitive bore it, then suddenly, without a word, hedrew the sword that still remained to him and rushedat the bestial looking Simon, who skipped away roundthe table.

“Stop laughing,” he said, “or Iwill put this through you. I am a desperate man.”

“You look it,” said Simon, but he laughedno more, for the joke had become risky. “Whatdo you want, Heer Adrian?”

“I want food and lodging for so long as I pleaseto stop here. Don’t be afraid, I have moneyto pay you.”

“I am thinking that you are a dangerous guest,”broke in Meg.

“I am,” replied Adrian; “but I tellyou that I shall be more dangerous outside. Iwas not the only one concerned in that matter of theevidence, and if they get me they will have you too.You understand?”

Meg nodded. She understood perfectly; for thoseof her trade Leyden was growing a risky habitation.

“We will accommodate you with our best, Mynheer,”she said. “Come upstairs to the Master’sroom and put on some of his clothes. They willfit you well; you are much of the same figure.”

Adrian’s breath caught in his throat.

“Is he here?” he asked.

“No, but he keeps his room.”

“Is he coming back?”

“I suppose so, sometime, as he keeps his room.Do you want to see him?”

“Very much, but you needn’t mention it;my business can wait till we meet. Get my clotheswashed and dried as quickly as you can, will you?I don’t care about wearing other men’sgarments.”

A quarter of an hour later Adrian, cleaned and clothed,different indeed to look on from the torn and huntedfugitive, re-entered the sitting-room. As hecame, clad in Ramiro’s suit, Meg nudged her husbandand whispered, “Like, ain’t they?”

“Like as two devils in hell,” Simon answeredcritically, then added, “Your food is ready;come, Mynheer, and eat.”

So Adrian ate and drank heartily enough, for the meatand wine were good, and he needed them. Alsoit rejoiced him in a dull way to find that there wassomething left in which he could take pleasure, evenif it were but eating and drinking. When he hadfinished he told his story, or so much of it as hewished to tell, and afterwards went to bed wonderingwhether his hosts would murder him in his sleep forthe purse of gold he carried, half hoping that theymight indeed, and slept for twelve hours without stirring.

All that day and until the evening of the next Adriansat in the home of his spy hosts recovering his strengthand brooding over his fearful fall. Black Megbrought in news of what passed without; thus he learnedthat his mother had sickened with the plague, and thatthe sentence of starvation was being carried out uponthe body of her husband, Dirk van Goorl. He learnedalso the details of the escape of Foy and Martin,which were the talk of all the city. In the eyesof the common people they had become heroes, and somelocal poet had made a song about them which men weresinging in the streets. Two verses of that songwere devoted to him, Adrian; indeed, Black Meg repeatedthem to him word by word with a suppressed but malignantjoy. Yes, this was what had happened; his brotherhad become a popular hero and he, Adrian, who in everyway was so infinitely that brother’s superior,an object of popular execration. And of all thisthe man, Ramiro, was the cause.

Well, he was waiting for Ramiro. That was whyhe risked his life by staying in Leyden. Sooneror later Ramiro would be bound to visit this hauntof his, and then—­here Adrian drew his rapierand lunged and parried, and finally with hissing breathdrove it down into the wood of the flooring, picturing,in a kind of luxury of the imagination, that the throatof Ramiro was between its point and the ground.Of course in the struggle that must come, the saidRamiro, who doubtless was a skilful swordsman, mightget the upper hand; it might be his, Adrian’sthroat, which was between the point and the ground.Well, if so, it scarcely mattered; he did not care.At any rate, for this once he would play the man andthen let the devil take his own; himself, or Ramiro,or both of them.

On the afternoon of the second day Adrian heard shoutingin the streets, and Hague Simon came in and told himthat a man had arrived with bad news from Mechlin;what it was he could not say, he was going to findout. A couple of hours went by and there was moreshouting, this time of a determined and ordered nature.Then Black Meg appeared and informed him that thenews from Mechlin was that everyone in that unhappytown had been slain by the Spaniards; that furtherthe people of Leyden had risen and were marching toattack the Gevangenhuis. Out she hurried again,for when the waters were stormy then Black Meg mustgo afishing.

Another hour went by, and once more the street doorwas opened with a key, to be carefully shut when thevisitor had entered.

Simon or Meg, thought Adrian, but as he could notbe sure he took the precaution of hiding himself behindthe curtain. The door of the room opened, andnot Meg or Simon, but Ramiro entered. So his opportunityhad come!

The Master seemed disturbed. He sat down upona chair and wiped his brow with a silk handkerchief.Then aloud, and shaking his fist in the air, he uttereda most comprehensive curse upon everybody and everything,but especially upon the citizens of Leyden. Afterthis once more he lapsed into silence, sitting, hisone eye fixed upon vacancy, and twisting his waxedmoustaches with his hand.

Now was Adrian’s chance; he had only to stepout from behind the curtain and run him through beforehe could rise from his seat. The plan had greatcharms, and doubtless he might have put it into executionhad not Adrian’s histrionic instincts stayedhis hand. If he killed Ramiro thus, he wouldnever know why he had been killed, and above all thingsAdrian desired that he should know. He wantednot only to wreak his wrongs, but to let his adversarylearn why they were wreaked. Also, to do himjustice, he preferred a fair fight to a secret stabdelivered from behind, for gentlemen fought, but assassinsstabbed.

Still, as there were no witnesses, he might have beenwilling to waive this point, if only he could makesure that Ramiro should learn the truth before hedied. He thought of springing out and woundinghim, and then, after he had explained matters, finishinghim off at his leisure. But how could he be sureof his sword-thrust, which might do too much or toolittle? No, come what would, the matter must beconcluded in the proper fashion.

Choosing his opportunity, Adrian stepped from behindthe hanging and placed himself between Ramiro andthe door, the bolt of which he shot adroitly thatno one might interrupt their interview. At thesound Ramiro started and looked up. In an instanthe grasped the situation, and though his bronzed facepaled, for he knew that his danger was great, roseto it, as might have been expected from a gentlemanof his long and varied experience.

“The Heer Adrian called van Goorl, as I live!”he said. “My friend and pupil, I am gladto see you; but, if I might ask, although the timesare rough, why in this narrow room do you wave abouta naked rapier in that dangerous fashion?”

“Villain,” answered Adrian, “youknow why; you have betrayed me and mine, and I amdishonoured, and now I am going to kill you in payment.”

“I see,” said Ramiro, “the van Goorlaffair again. I can never be clear of it forhalf an hour even. Well, before you begin, itmay interest you to know that your worthy stepfather,after a couple of days’ fasting, is by now,I suppose, free, for the rabble have stormed the Gevangenhuis.Truth, however, compels me to add that he is sufferingbadly from the plague, which your excellent mother,with a resource that does her credit, managed to communicateto him, thinking this end less disagreeable on thewhole than that which the law had appointed.”

Thus spoke Ramiro, slowly and with purpose, for allthe while he was so manoeuvring that the light fromthe lattice fell full upon his antagonist, leavinghimself in the shadow, a position which experiencetaught him would prove of advantage in emergency.

Adrian made no answer, but lifted his sword.

“One moment, young gentleman,” went onRamiro, drawing his own weapon and putting himselfon guard; “are you in earnest? Do you reallywish to fight?”

“Yes,” answered Adrian.

“What a fool you must be,” mused Ramiro.“Why at your age should you seek to be rid oflife, seeing that you have no more chance against methan a rat in a corner against a terrier dog?Look!” and suddenly he lunged most viciouslystraight at his heart. But Adrian was watchingand parried the thrust.

“Ah!” continued Ramiro, “I knewyou would do that, otherwise I should not have letfly, for all the angels know I do not wish to hurtyou.” But to himself he added, “Thelad is more dangerous than I thought—­mylife hangs on it. The old fault, friend, too high,too high!”

Then Adrian came at him like a tiger, and for thenext thirty seconds nothing was heard in the roombut the raspings of steel and the hard breathing ofthe two men.

At first Adrian had somewhat the better of it, forhis assault was fierce, and he forced the older andcooler man to be satisfied with guarding himself.He did more indeed, for presently thrusting over Ramiro’sguard, he wounded him slightly in the left arm.The sting of his hurt seemed to stir Ramiro’sblood; at any rate he changed his tactics and beganto attack in turn. Now, moreover, his skill andseasoned strength came to his aid; slowly but surelyAdrian was driven back before him till his retreatin the narrow confines of the room became continuous.Suddenly, half from exhaustion and half because ofa stumble, he reeled right across it, to the furtherwall indeed. With a guttural sound of triumphRamiro sprang after him to make an end of him whilehis guard was down, caught his foot on a joined stoolwhich had been overset in the struggle, and fell proneto the ground.

This was Adrian’s chance. In an instanthe was on him and had the point of his rapier at histhroat. But he did not stab at once, not fromany compunction, but because he wished his enemy tofeel a little before he died, for, like all his race,Adrian could be vindictive and bloodthirsty enoughwhen his hate was roused. Rapidly Ramiro consideredthe position. In a physical sense he was helpless,for Adrian had one foot upon his breast, the otherupon his sword-arm, and the steel at his throat.Therefore if time were given him he must trust to hiswit.

“Make ready, you are about to die,” saidAdrian.

“I think not,” replied the prostrate Ramiro.

“Why not?” asked Adrian, astonished.

“If you will be so kind as to move that sword-pointa little—­it is pricking me—­thankyou. Now I will tell you why. Because itis not usual for a son to stick his father as thoughhe were a farmyard pig.”

“Son? Father?” said Adrian.“Do you mean——?”

“Yes, I do mean that we have the happiness offilling those sacred relationships to each other.”

“You lie,” said Adrian.

“Let me stand up and give me my sword, youngsir, and you shall pay for that. Never yet dida man tell the Count Juan de Montalvo that he lied,and live.”

“Prove it,” said Adrian.

“In this position, to which misfortune, notskill, has reduced me, I can prove nothing. Butif you doubt it, ask your mother, or your hosts, orconsult the registers of the Groote Kerke, and seewhether on a date, which I will give you, Juan deMontalvo was, or was not, married to Lysbeth van Hout,of which marriage was born one Adrian. Man, Iwill prove it to you. Had I not been your father,would you have been saved from the Inquisition withothers, and should I not within the last five minuteshad run you through twice over, for though you foughtwell, your swordsmanship is no match for mine?”

“Even if you are my father, why should I notkill you, who have forced me to your will by threatsof death, you who wronged and shamed me, you becauseof whom I have been hunted through the streets likea mad dog, and made an outcast?” And Adrianlooked so fierce, and brought down his sword so close,that hope sank very low in Ramiro’s heart.

“There are reasons which might occur to thereligious,” he said, “but I will giveyou one that will appeal to your own self-interest.If you kill me, the curse which follows the parricidewill follow you to your last hour—­of thebeyond I say nothing.”

“It would need to be a heavy one,” answeredAdrian, “if it was worse than that of whichI know.” But there was hesitation in hisvoice, for Ramiro, the skilful player upon human hearts,had struck the right string, and Adrian’s superstitiousnature answered to the note.

“Son,” went on Ramiro, “be wiseand hold your hand before you do that for which allhell itself would cry shame upon you. You thinkthat I have been your enemy, but it is not so; allthis while I have striven to work you good, but howcan I talk lying thus like a calf before its butcher?Take the swords, both of them, and let me sit up, andI will tell you all my plans for the advantage ofus both. Or if you wish it, thrust on and makean end. I will not plead for my life with you;it is not worthy of an hidalgo of Spain. Moreover,what is life to me who have known so many sorrowsthat I should seek to cling to it? Oh! God,who seest all, receive my soul, and I pray Thee pardonthis youth his horrible crime, for he is mad and foolish,and will live to sorrow for the deed.”

Since it was no further use to him, Ramiro had letthe sword fall from his hand. Drawing it towardshim with the point of his own weapon, Adrian stoopedand picked it up.

“Rise,” he said, lifting his foot, “Ican kill you afterwards if I wish.”

Could he have looked into the heart of his new-foundparent as stiff and aching he staggered to his feet,the execution would not have been long delayed.

“Oh! my young friend, you have given me a nastyfright,” thought Ramiro to himself, “butit is over now, and if I don’t pay you out beforeI have done with you, my sweet boy, your name is notAdrian.”

Ramiro rose, dusted his garments, seated himself deliberately,and began to talk with great earnestness. Itwill be sufficient to summarise his arguments.First of all, with the most convincing sincerity, heexplained that when he had made use of him, Adrian,he had no idea that he was his son. Of coursethis was a statement that will not bear a moment’sexamination, but Ramiro’s object was to gaintime, and Adrian let it pass. Then he explainedthat it was only after his mother had, not by hiswish, but accidentally, seen the written evidence uponwhich her husband was convicted, that he found outthat Adrian van Goorl was her child and his own.However, as he hurried to point out, all these thingswere now ancient history that had no bearing on thepresent. Owing to the turbulent violence of themob, which had driven him from his post and fortress,he, Ramiro, was in temporary difficulties, and owingto other circumstances, he, Adrian, was, so far ashis own party and people were concerned, an absolutelydishonoured person. In this state of affairshe had a suggestion to make. Let them join forces;let the natural relationship that existed betweenthem, and which had been so nearly severed by a swordthrust that both must have regretted, become realand tender. He, the father, had rank, althoughit suited him to sink it; he had wide experience,friends, intelligence, and the prospect of enormouswealth, which, of course, he could not expect to enjoyfor ever. On the other side, he, the son, hadyouth, great beauty of person, agreeable and distinguishedmanners, a high heart, the education of a young manof the world, ambition and powers of mind that wouldcarry him far, and for the immediate future an objectto gain, the affection of a lady whom all acknowledgedto be as good as she was charming, and as charmingas she was personally attractive.

“She hates me,” broke in Adrian.

“Ah!” laughed Ramiro, “there speaksthe voice of small experience. Oh! youth, soeasily exalted and so easily depressed! Joyous,chequered youth! How many happy marriages haveI not known begin with such hate as this? Well,there it is, you must take my word for it. Ifyou want to marry Elsa Brant, I can manage it foryou, and if not, why, you can leave it alone.”

Adrian reflected, then as his mind had a practicalside, he put a question.

“You spoke of the prospect of enormous wealth;what is it?”

“I will tell you, I will tell you,” whisperedhis parent, looking about him cautiously; “itis the vast hoard of Hendrik Brant which I intendto recover; indeed, my search for it has been at theroot of all this trouble. And now, son, you cansee how open I have been with you, for if you marryElsa that money will legally be your property, andI can only claim whatever it may please you to giveme. Well, as to that question, in the spiritof the glorious motto of our race, ‘Trust toGod and me,’ I shall leave it to your senseof honour, which, whatever its troubles, has neveryet failed the house of Montalvo. What does itmatter to me who is the legal owner of the stuff,so long as it remains in the family?”

“Of course not,” replied Adrian, loftily,“especially as I am not mercenary.”

“Ah! well,” went on Ramiro, “wehave talked for a long while, and if I continue tolive there are affairs to which I ought to attend.You have heard all I have to say, and you have theswords in your hand, and, of course, I am—­onlyyour prisoner on parole. So now, my son, be sogood as to settle this matter without further delay.Only, if you make up your mind to use the steel, allowme to show you where to thrust, as I do not wish toundergo any unnecessary discomfort”—­andhe stood before him and bowed in a very courtly anddignified fashion.

Adrian looked at him and hesitated. “Idon’t trust you,” he said; “youhave tricked me once and I daresay that you will trickme again. Also I don’t think much of peoplewho masquerade under false names and lay such trapsas you laid to get my evidence against the rest ofthem. But I am in a bad place and without friends.I want to marry Elsa and recover my position in theworld; also, as you know well, I can’t cut thethroat of my own father in cold blood,” andhe threw down one of the swords.

“Your decision is just such as I would haveexpected from my knowledge of your noble nature, sonAdrian,” remarked Ramiro as he picked up hisweapon and restored it to the scabbard. “Butnow, before we enter upon this perfect accord, I havetwo little stipulations to make on my side.”

“What are they?” asked Adrian.

“First, that our friendship should be complete,such as ought to exist between a loving father andson, a friendship without reservations. Secondly—­thisis a condition that I fear you may find harder—­but,although fortune has led me into stony paths, and Ifear some doubtful expedients, there was always onething which I have striven to cherish and keep pure,and that in turn has rewarded me for my devotion inmany a dangerous hour, my religious belief. NowI am Catholic, and I could wish that my son shouldbe Catholic also; these horrible errors, believe me,are as dangerous to the soul as just now they happento be fatal to the body. May I hope that you,who were brought up but not born in heresy, will consentto receive instruction in the right faith?”

“Certainly you may,” answered Adrian,almost with enthusiasm. “I have had enoughof conventicles, psalm-singing, and the daily chanceof being burned; indeed, from the time when I couldthink for myself I always wished to be a Catholic.”

“Your words make me a happy man,” answeredRamiro. “Allow me to unbolt the door, Ihear our hosts. Worthy Simon and Vrouw, I makeyou parties to a solemn and joyful celebration.This young man is my son, and in token of my fatherlylove, which he has been pleased to desire, I now takehim in my arms and embrace him before you,” andhe suited the action to the word.

But Black Meg, watching his face in astonishment fromover Adrian’s shoulder, saw its one bright eyesuddenly become eclipsed. Could it be that thenoble Master had winked?

CHAPTER XXIV

MARTHA PREACHES A SERMON AND TELLS A SECRET

Two days after his reconciliation with his father,Adrian was admitted as a member of the Catholic Church.His preparation had been short; indeed, it consistedof three interviews with a priest who was broughtto the house at night. The good man found in hispupil so excellent a disposition and a mind so opento his teaching that, acting on a hint given him byRamiro, who, for reasons of his own not altogetherconnected with religion, was really anxious to seehis son a member of the true and Catholic Church,he declared it unnecessary to prolong the period ofprobation. Therefore, on the third day, as thedusk of evening was closing, for in the present stateof public feeling they dared not go out while it waslight, Adrian was taken to the baptistry of the GrooteKerke. Here he made confession of his sins toa certain Abbe known as Father Dominic, a simple ceremony,for although the list of them which he had preparedwas long, its hearing proved short. Thus allhis offences against his family, such as his betrayalof his stepfather, were waived aside by the priestas matters of no account; indeed, crimes of this nature,he discovered, to the sacerdotal eye wore the faceof virtue. Other misdoings also, such as a youngman might have upon his mind, were not thought weighty.What really was considered important proved to bethe earnestness of his recantation of heretical errors,and when once his confessor was satisfied upon thatpoint, the penitent soul was relieved by absolutionfull and free.

After this came the service of his baptism, which,because Ramiro wished it, for a certain secret reason,was carried out with as much formal publicity as thecircumstances would allow. Indeed, several priestsofficiated at the rite, Adrian’s sponsors beinghis father and the estimable Hague Simon, who waspaid a gold piece for his pains. While the sacramentwas still in progress, an untoward incident occurred.From its commencement the trampling and voices ofa mob had been heard in the open space in front ofthe church, and now they began to hammer on the greatdoors and to cast stones at the painted windows, breakingthe beautiful and ancient glass. Presently abeadle hurried into the baptistery, and whisperedsomething in the ear of the Abbe which caused thatecclesiastic to turn pale and to conclude the servicein a somewhat hasty fashion.

“What is it?” asked Ramiro.

“Alas! my son,” said the priest, “theseheretic dogs saw you, or our new-found brother, Iknow not which—­enter this holy place, anda great mob of them have surrounded it, ravening forour blood.”

“Then we had best begone,” said Ramiro.

“Senor, it is impossible,” broke in thesacristan; “they watch every door. Hark!hark! hark!” and as he spoke there came the soundof battering on the oaken portals.

“Can your reverences make any suggestions?”asked Ramiro, “for if not—­”and he shrugged his shoulders.

“Let us pray,” said one of them in a tremblingvoice.

“By all means, but I should prefer to do soas I go. Fool, is there any hiding place in thischurch, or must we stop here to have our throats cut?”

Then the sacristan, with white lips and knocking knees,whispered:

“Follow me, all of you. Stay, blow outthe lights.”

So the candles were extinguished, and in the darknessthey grasped each other’s hands and were ledby the verger whither they knew not. Across thewide spaces of the empty church they crawled, its echoingsilence contrasting strangely with the muffled roarof angry voices without and the dull sound of batteringon the doors. One of their number, the fat AbbeDominic, became separated from them in the gloom, andwandered away down an arm of the vast transept, whencethey could hear him calling to them. The sacristancalled back, but Ramiro fiercely bade him to be silent,adding:

“Are we all to be snared for the sake of onepriest?”

So they went on, till presently in that great placehis shouts grew fainter, and were lost in the roarof the multitude without.

“Here is the spot,” muttered the sacristan,after feeling the floor with his hands, and by a dimray of moonlight which just then pierced the windowsof the choir, Adrian saw that there was a hole in thepavement before him.

“Descend, there are steps,” said theirguide. “I will shut the stone,” andone by one they passed down six or seven narrow stepsinto some darksome place.

“Where are we?” asked a priest of theverger, when he had pulled the stone close and joinedthem.

“In the family vault of the noble Count vanValkenburg, whom your reverence buried three daysago. Fortunately the masons have not yet cometo cement down the stone. If your Excellenciesfind it close, you can get air by standing upon thecoffin of the noble Count.”

Adrian did find it close, and took the hint, to discoverthat in a line with his head was some filigree stonework,pierced with small apertures, the front doubtlessof the marble tomb in the church above, for throughthem he could see the pale moon rays wavering on thepavement of the choir. As he looked the priestat his side muttered:

“Hark! The doors are down. Aid us,St. Pancras!” and falling upon his knees hebegan to pray very earnestly.

Yielding at last to the blows of the battering-beam,the great portals had flown open with a crash, andnow through them poured the mob. On they camewith a rush and a roar, like that of the sea breakingthrough a dyke, carrying in their hands torches, lanternshung on poles, axes, swords and staves, till at lengththey reached the screen of wonderful carved oak, onthe top of which, rising to a height of sixty feetabove the floor of the church, stood the great Rood,with the images of the Virgin and St. John on eitherside. Here, of a sudden, the vastness and thesilence of the holy place which they had known, everyone, from childhood, with its echoing aisles, themoonlit, pictured windows, its consecrated lamps twinklinghere and there like fisher lights upon the darklingwaters, seemed to take hold of them. As at thesound of the Voice Divine sweeping down the wild wavesat night, the winds ceased their raving and the seaswere still, so now, beneath the silent reproach ofthe effigy of the White Christ standing with upliftedhand above the altar, hanging thorn-crowned upon theRood, kneeling agonised within the Garden, seatedat the Holy Supper, on His lips the New Commandment,“As I have loved you, so ye also love one another,”their passions flickered down and their wrath slept.

“They are not here, let us be going,”said a voice.

“They are here,” answered another voice,a woman’s voice with a note of vengeance init. “I tracked them to the doors, the Spanishmurderer Ramiro, the spy Hague Simon, the traitorAdrian, called van Goorl, and the priests, the priests,the priests who butcher us.”

“Let God deal with them,” said the firstvoice, which to Adrian sounded familiar. “Wehave done enough. Go home in peace.”

Now muttering, “The pastor is right. Obeythe Pastor Arentz,” the more orderly of themultitude turned to depart, when suddenly, from thefar end of the transept, arose a cry.

“Here’s one of them. Catch him! catchhim!” A minute more and into the circle of thetorchlight rushed the Abbe Dominic, his eyes startingfrom his head with terror, his rent robe flappingon the ground. Exhausted and bewildered he casthimself down, and grasping the pedestal of an imagebegan to cry for mercy, till a dozen fierce hands draggedhim to his feet again.

“Let him go,” said the voice of the PastorArentz. “We fight the Church, not its ministers.”

“Hear me first,” she answered who hadspoken before, and men turned to see standing abovethem in the great pulpit of the church, a fierce-eyed,yellow-toothed hag, grey-haired, skinny-armed, long-facedlike a horse, and behind her two other women, eachof whom held a torch in her right hand.

“It is the Mare,” roared the multitude.“It is Martha of the Mere. Preach on, Martha.What’s your text?”

“Whoso sheddeth man’s blood by man shallhis blood be shed,” she answered in a ringing,solemn voice, and instantly a deep silence fell uponthe place.

“You call me the Mare,” she went on.“Do you know how I got that name? Theygave it me after they had shrivelled up my lips andmarred the beauty of my face with irons. Anddo you know what they made me do? They made mecarry my husband to the stake upon my back becausethey said that a horse must be ridden. And doyou know who said this? That priest who standsbefore you.”

As the words left her lips a yell of rage beat againstthe roof. Martha held up her thin hand, and againthere was silence.

“He said it—­the holy Father Dominic;let him deny it if he can. What? He doesnot know me? Perchance not, for time and griefand madness and hot pincers have changed the faceof Vrouw Martha van Muyden, who was called the Lilyof Brussels. Ah! look at him now. He remembersthe Lily of Brussels. He remembers her husbandand her son also, for he burned them. O God,judge between us. O people, deal with that devilas God shall teach you.

“Who are the others? He who is called Ramiro,the Governor of the Gevangenhuis, the man who yearsago would have thrust me beneath the ice to drownhad not the Vrouw van Goorl bought my life; he whoset her husband, Dirk van Goorl, the man you loved,to starve to death sniffing the steam of kitchens.O people, deal with that devil as God shall teachyou.

“And the third, the half-Spaniard, the traitorAdrian called van Goorl, he who has come here to-nightto be baptised anew into the bosom of the Holy Church;he who signed the evidence upon which Dirk was murdered”—­here,again, the roar of hate and rage went up and beat alongthe roof—­“upon which too his brotherFoy was taken to the torture, whence Red Martin savedhim. O people, do with that devil also as Godshall teach you.

“And the fourth, Hague Simon the spy, the manwhose hands for years have smoked with innocent blood;Simon the Butcher—­Simon the false witness——­”

“Enough, enough!” roared the crowd.“A rope, a rope; up with him to the arm of theRood.”

“My friends,” cried Arentz, “letthe man go. Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord,and I will repay.”

“Yes, but we will give him something on account,”shouted a voice in bitter blasphemy. “Wellclimbed, Jan, well climbed,” and they lookedup to see, sixty feet above their heads, seated uponthe arm of the lofty Rood, a man with a candle boundupon his brow and a coil of rope upon his back.

“He’ll fall,” said one.

“Pish!” answered another, “it issteeplejack Jan, who can hang on a wall like a fly.”

“Look out for the ends of the rope,” criedthe thin voice above, and down they came.

“Spare me,” screamed the wretched priest,as his executioners caught hold of him.

“Yes, yes, as you spared the Heer Jansen a fewmonths ago.”

“It was to save his soul,” groaned Dominic.

“Quite so, and now we are going to save yours;your own medicine, father, your own medicine.”

“Spare me, and I will tell you where the othersare.”

“Well, where are they?” asked the ringleader,pushing his companions away.

“Hidden in the church, hidden in the church.”

“We knew that, you traitorous dog. Nowthen for the soul-saving. Catch hold there andrun away with it. A horse should be ridden, father—­yourown saying—­and an angel must learn to fly.”

Thus ended the life of the Abbe Dominic at the handsof avenging men. Without a doubt they were fierceand bloody-minded, for the reader must not supposethat all the wickedness of those days lies on the headsof the Inquisition and the Spaniards. The adherentsof the New Religion did evil things also, things thatsound dreadful in our ears. In excuse of them,however, this can be urged, that, compared to thoseof their oppressors, they were as single trees toa forest full; also that they who worked them hadbeen maddened by their sufferings. If our fathers,husbands and brothers had been burned at the stake,or done to death under the name of Jesus in the densof the Inquisition, or slaughtered by thousands inthe sack of towns; if our wives and daughters had beenshamed, if our houses had been burned, our goods taken,our liberties trampled upon, and our homes made adesolation, then, my reader, is it not possible thateven in these different days you and I might have beencruel when our hour came? God knows alone, andGod be thanked that so far as we can foresee, exceptunder the pressure, perhaps, of invasion by semi-barbarianhordes, or of dreadful and sudden social revolutions,civilized human nature will never be put to such atest again.

Far aloft in the gloom there, swinging from the armof the Cross, whose teachings his life had mocked,like some mutinous sailor at the yard of the vesselhe had striven to betray, the priest hung dead, buthis life did not appease the fury of the triumphantmob.

“The others,” they cried, “findthe others,” and with torches and lanterns theyhunted round the great church. They ascended thebelfry, they rummaged the chapels, they explored thecrypt; then, baffled, drew together in a countlesscrowd in the nave, shouting, gesticulating, suggesting.

“Get dogs,” cried a voice; “dogswill smell them out;” and dogs were brought,which yapped and ran to and fro, but, confused by themultitude, and not knowing what to seek, found nothing.Then some one threw an image from a niche, and nextminute, with a cry of “Down with the idols,”the work of destruction began.

Fanatics sprang at the screens and the altars, “allthe carved work thereof they break down with hatchetand hammer,” they tore the hangings from theshrines, they found the sacred cups, and filling themwith sacramental wine, drank with gusts of ribaldlaughter. In the centre of the choir they builta bonfire, and fed it with pictures, carvings, andoaken benches, so that it blazed and roared furiously.On to it—­for this mob did not come to stealbut to work vengeance—­they threw utensilsof gold and silver, the priceless jewelled offeringsof generations, and danced around its flames in triumph,while from every side came the crash of falling statuesand the tinkling of shattered glass.

The light of that furnace shone through the latticestonework of the tomb, and in its lurid and ominousglare Adrian beheld the faces of those who refugedwith him. What a picture it was; the niches filledwith mouldering boxes, the white gleam of human bonesthat here and there had fallen from them, the brightfurnishings and velvet pall of the coffin of the newcomeron which he stood—­and then those faces.The priests, still crouched in corners, rolling onthe ground, their white lips muttering who knows what;the sacristan in a swoon, Hague Simon hugging a coffinin a niche, as a drowning man hugs a plank, and, standingin the midst of them, calm, sardonic and watchful,a drawn rapier in his hand, his father Ramiro.

“We are lost,” moaned a priest, losingcontrol of himself. “We are lost.They will kill us as they have killed the holy Abbe.”

“We are not lost,” hissed Ramiro, “weare quite safe, but, friend, if you open that cursedmouth of yours again it shall be for the last time,”and he lifted his sword, adding, “Silence; hewho speaks, dies.”

How long did it last? Was it one hour, or twoor three? None of them knew, but at length theimage-breaking was done, and it came to an end.The interior of the church, with all its wealth andadornments, was utterly destroyed, but happily theflames did not reach the roof, and the walls couldnot catch fire.

By degrees the iconoclasts wearied; there seemed tobe nothing more to break, and the smoke choked them.Two or three at a time they left the ravaged place,and once more it became solemn and empty; a symbolof Eternity mocking Time, of Peace conquering Tumult,of the Patience and Purpose of God triumphant overthe passions and ravings of Man. Little curlsof smoke went up from the smouldering fire; now andagain a fragment of shattered stonework fell withan echoing crash, and the cold wind of the comingwinter sighed through the gaping windows. Thedeed was done, the revenge of a tortured multitudehad set its seal upon the ancient fane in which theirforefathers worshipped for a score of generations,and once more quiet brooded upon the place, and theshafts of the sweet moonlight pierced its desecratedsolitudes.

One by one, like ghosts arising at a summons of theSpirit, the fugitives crept from the shelter of thetomb, crept across the transepts to the little doorof the baptistery, and with infinite peeping and precaution,out into the night, to vanish this way and that, huggingtheir hearts as though to feel whether they still beatsafely in their bosoms.

As he passed the Rood Adrian looked up, and there,above the broken carvings and the shattered statueof the Virgin, hung the calm face of the Saviour crownedwith thorns. There, too, not far from it, lookingsmall and infinitely piteous at that great height,and revolving slowly in the sharp draught from thebroken windows, hung another dead face, the horridface of the Abbe Dominic, lately the envied, prosperousdignitary and pluralist, who not four hours since hadbaptised him into the bosom of the Church, and whonow himself had been born again into the bosom ofwhatever world awaited him beyond the Gates. Itterrified Adrian; no ghost could have frightened himmore, but he set his teeth and staggered on, guidedby the light gleaming faintly on the sword of Ramiro—­towhatever haven that sword should lead him.

Before dawn broke it had led him out of Leyden.

It was after ten o’clock that night when a woman,wrapped in a rough frieze coat, knocked at the doorof the house in the Bree Straat and asked for theVrouw van Goorl.

“My mistress lies between life and death withthe plague,” answered the servant. “Getyou gone from this pest-house, whoever you are.”

“I do not fear the plague,” said the visitor.“Is the Jufvrouw Elsa Brant still up? Thentell her that Martha, called the Mare, would speakwith her.”

“She can see none at such an hour,” answeredthe servant.

“Tell her I come from Foy van Goorl.”

“Enter,” said the servant wondering, andshut the door behind her.

A minute later Elsa, pale-faced, worn, but still beautiful,rushed into the room, gasping, “What news?Does he live? Is he well?”

“He lives, lady, but he is not well, for thewound in his thigh has festered and he cannot walk,or even stand. Nay, have no fear, time and cleandressing will heal him, and he lies in a safe place.”

In the rapture of her relief Elsa seized the woman’shand, and would have kissed it.

“Touch it not, it is bloodstained,” saidMartha, drawing her hand away.

“Blood? Whose blood is on it?” askedElsa, shrinking back.

“Whose blood?” answered Martha with ahollow laugh; “why that of many a Spanish man.Where, think you, lady, that the Mare gallops of nights?Ask it of the Spaniards who travel by the HaarlemerMeer. Aye, and now Red Martin is with me andwe run together, taking our tithe where we can gatherit.”

“Oh! tell me no more,” said Elsa.“From day to day it is ever the same tale, atale of death. Nay, I know your wrongs have drivenyou mad, but that a woman should slay——­”

“A woman! I am no woman; my womanhood diedwith my husband and my son. Girl, I tell youthat I am no woman; I am a Sword of God myself appointedto the sword. And so to the end I kill, and killand kill till the hour when I am killed. Go,look in the church yonder, and see who hangs to thehigh arm of the Rood—­the fat Abbe Dominic.Well, I sent him there to-night; to-morrow you willhear how I turned parson and preached a sermon—­aye,and Ramiro and Adrian called van Goorl, and Simonthe spy, should have joined him there, only I couldnot find them because their hour has not come.But the idols are down and the paintings burnt, andthe gold and silver and jewels are cast upon the dung-heap.Swept and garnished is the temple, made clean and fitfor the Lord to dwell in.”

“Made clean with the blood of murdered priests,and fit by the smoke of sacrilege?” broke inElsa. “Oh! woman, how can you do such wickedthings and not be afraid?”

“Afraid?” she answered. “Thosewho have passed through hell have no more fear; deathI seek, and when judgment comes I will say to the Lord:What have I done that the Voice which speaks to meat night did not tell me to do? Look down, theblood of my husband and my son still smokes upon theground. Hearken, Lord God, it cries to Thee forvengeance!” and as she spoke she lifted herblackened hands and shook them. Then she wenton.

“They murdered your father, why do you not killthem also? You are small and weak and timid,and could not run by night and use the knife as Ido, but there is poison. I can brew it and bringit to you, made from marsh herbs, white as water anddeadly as Death itself. What! You shrinkfrom such things? Well, girl, once I was beautifulas you and as loving and beloved, and I can do themfor my love’s sake—­for my love’ssake. Nay, I do not do them, they aredone through me. The Sword am I, the Sword!And you too are a sword, though you know it not, thoughyou see it not, you, maiden, so soft and white andsweet, are a Sword of Vengeance working the deathof men; I, in my way, you in yours, paying back, back,back, full measure pressed down and running over tothose appointed to die. The treasure of HendrikBrant, your treasure, it is red with blood, everypiece of it. I tell you that the deaths that Ihave done are but as a grain of sand to a bowlful comparedto those which your treasure shall do. There,maid, I fright you. Have no fear, it is but MadMartha, who, when she sees, must speak, and throughthe flames in the kirk to-night I saw visions suchas I have not seen for years.”

“Tell me more of Foy and Martin,” saidElsa, who was frightened and bewildered.

At her words a change seemed to come over this woman,at once an object of pity and of terror, for the screamwent out of her voice and she answered quietly,

“They reached me safe enough five days ago,Red Martin carrying Foy upon his back. From afarI saw him, a naked man with a named sword, and knewhim by his size and beard. And oh! when I heardhis tale I laughed as I have not laughed since I wasyoung.”

“Tell it me,” said Elsa.

And she told it while the girl listened with claspedhands.

“Oh! it was brave, brave,” she murmured.“Red Martin forcing to the door and Foy, weakand wounded, slaying the warder. Was there eversuch a story?”

“Men are brave and desperate with the torturepit behind them,” answered Martha grimly; “butthey did well, and now they are safe with me whereno Spaniard can find them unless they hunt in greatcompanies after the ice forms and the reeds are dead.”

“Would that I could be there also,” saidElsa, “but I tend his mother who is very sick,so sick that I do not know whether she will live ordie.”

“Nay, you are best here among your people,”answered Martha. “And now that the Spaniardsare driven out, here Foy shall return also so soonas it is safe for him to travel; but as yet he cannotstir, and Red Martin stays to watch him. Beforelong, however, he must move, for I have tidings thatthe Spaniards are about to besiege Haarlem with a greatarmy, and then the Mere will be no longer safe forus, and I shall leave it to fight with the Haarlemfolk.”

“And Foy and Martin will return?”

“I think so, if they are not stopped.”

“Stopped?”—­and she put herhand upon her heart.

“The times are rough, Jufvrouw Elsa. Whothat breathes the air one morning can know what breathwill pass his nostrils at the nightfall? Thetimes are rough, and Death is king of them. Thehoard of Hendrik Brant is not forgotten, nor thosewho have its key. Ramiro slipped through my handsto-night, and doubtless by now is far away from Leydenseeking the treasure.”

“The treasure! Oh! that thrice accursedtreasure!” broke in Elsa, shivering as thoughbeneath an icy wind; “would that we were ridof it.”

“That you cannot be until it is appointed, foris this not the heritage which your father died tosave? Listen. Do you know, lady, where itlies hid?” and she dropped her voice to a whisper.

Elsa shook her head, saying:

“I neither know nor wish to know.”

“Still it is best that you should be told, forwe three who have the secret may be killed, everyone of us—­no, not the place, but where toseek a clue to the place.”

Elsa looked at her questioningly, and Martha, leaningforward, whispered in her ear:

“It lies in the hilt of the Sword Silence.If Red Martin should be taken or killed, seek outhis sword and open the hilt. Do you understand?”

Elsa nodded and answered, “But if aught happensto Martin the sword may be lost.”

Martha shrugged her shoulders. “Then thetreasure will be lost also, that is if I am gone.It is as God wills; but at least in name you are theheiress, and you should know where to find its secret,which may serve you or your country in good steadin time to come. I give you no paper, I tellyou only where to seek a paper, and now I must be goneto reach the borders of the Mere by daybreak.Have you any message for your love, lady?”

“I would write a word, if you can wait.They will bring you food.”

“Good; write on and I will eat. Love forthe young and meat for the old, and for both let Godbe thanked.”

CHAPTER XXV

THE RED MILL

After a week’s experience of that delectabledwelling and its neighbourhood, Adrian began to growweary of the Red Mill. Nine or ten Dutch milesto the nor’west of Haarlem is a place calledVelsen, situated on the borders of the sand-dunes,to the south of what is known to-day as the NorthSea Canal. In the times of which this page ofhistory tells, however, the canal was represented bya great drainage dyke, and Velsen was but a desertedvillage. Indeed, hereabouts all the country wasdeserted, for some years before a Spanish force hadpassed through it, burning, slaying, laying waste,so that few were left to tend the windmills and repairthe dyke. Holland is a country won from swampsand seas, and if the water is not pumped out of it,and the ditches are not cleaned, very quickly it relapsesinto primeval marsh; indeed, it is fortunate if theocean, bursting through the feeble barriers rearedby the industry of man, does not turn it into vastlagoons of salt water.

Once the Red Mill had been a pumping station, which,when the huge sails worked, delivered the water fromthe fertile meadows into the great dyke, whence itran through sluice gates to the North Sea. Now,although the embankment of this dyke still held, themeadows had gone back into swamps. Rising outof these—­for it was situated upon a lowmound of earth, raised, doubtless, as a point of refugeby marsh-dwellers who lived and died before historybegan, towered the wreck of a narrow-waisted windmill,built of brick below and wood above, of very lonesomeand commanding appearance in its gaunt solitude.There were no houses near it, no cattle grazed aboutits foot; it was a dead thing in a dead landscape.To the left, but separated from it by a wide and slimydyke, whence in times of flood the thick, brackishwater trickled to the plain, stretched an arid areaof sand-dunes, clothed with sparse grass, that grewlike bristles upon the back of a wild hog. Beyondthese dunes the ocean roared and moaned and whisperedhungrily as the wind and weather stirred its depths.In front, not fifty paces away, ran the big dyke likea raised road, secured by embankments, and dischargingday by day its millions of gallons of water into thesea. But these embankments were weakening now,and here and there could be seen a spot which lookedas though a giant ploughshare had been drawn up them,for a groove of brown earth scarred the face of green,where in some winter flood the water had poured overto find its level, cutting them like cheese, but whenits volume sank, leaving them still standing, and asyet sufficient for their purpose.

To the right again and behind, were more marshes,broken only in the distance by the towers of Haarlemand the spires of village churches, marshes wherethe snipe and bittern boomed, the herons fed, and insummer the frogs croaked all night long.

Such was the refuge to which Ramiro and his son, Adrian,had been led by Hague Simon and Black Meg, after theyhad escaped with their lives from Leyden upon thenight of the image-breaking in the church, that ominousnight when the Abbe Dominic gave up the ghost on thearm of the lofty Rood, and Adrian had received absolutionand baptism from his consecrated hand.

On the journey hither Adrian asked no questions asto their destination; he was too broken in heart andtoo shaken in body to be curious; life in those dayswas for him too much of a hideous phantasmagoria ofwaste and blackness out of which appeared vengeful,red-handed figures, out of which echoed dismal, despairingvoices calling him to doom.

They came to the place and found its great basementand the floors above, or some of them, furnished aftera fashion. The mill had been inhabited, and recently,as Adrian gathered, by smugglers, or thieves, withwhom Meg and Simon were in alliance, or some such outcastevil-doers who knew that here the arm of the law couldnot reach them. Though, indeed, while Alva ruledin the Netherlands there was little law to be fearedby those who were rich or who dared to worship Godafter their own manner.

“Why have we come here—­father,”Adrian was about to add, but the word stuck in histhroat.

Ramiro shrugged his shoulders and looked round himwith his one criticising eye.

“Because our guides and friends, the worthySimon and his wife, assure me that in this spot aloneour throats are for the present safe, and by St. Pancras,after what we saw in the church yonder I am inclinedto agree with them. He looked a poor thing upunder the roof there, the holy Father Dominic, didn’the, hanging up like a black spider from the end ofhis cord? Bah! my backbone aches when I thinkof him.”

“And how long are we to stop here?”

“Till—­till Don Frederic has takenHaarlem and these fat Hollanders, or those who areleft of them, lick our boots for mercy,” andhe ground his teeth, then added: “Son,do you play cards? Good, well let us have a game.Here are dice; it will serve to turn our thoughts.Now then, a hundred guilders on it.”

So they played and Adrian won, whereon, to his amazement,his father paid him the money.

“What is the use of that?” asked Adrian.

“Gentlemen should always pay their debts atcards.”

“And if they cannot?”

“Then they must keep score of the amount anddischarge it when they are able. Look you, youngman, everything else you may forget, but what youlose over the dice is a debt of honour. Therelives no man who can say that I cheated him of a guilderat cards, though I fear some others have my name standingin their books.”

When they rose from their game that night Adrian hadwon between three and four hundred florins. Nextday his winnings amounted to a thousand florins, forwhich his father gave him a carefully-executed noteof hand; but at the third sitting the luck changedor perhaps skill began to tell, and he lost two thousandflorins. These he paid up by returning his father’snote, his own winnings, and all the balance of thepurse of gold which his mother had given to him whenhe was driven from the house, so that now he was practicallypenniless.

The rest of the history may be guessed. At everygame the stakes were increased, for since Adrian couldnot pay, it was a matter of indifference to him howmuch he wagered. Moreover, he found a kind ofmild excitement in playing at the handling of suchgreat sums of money. By the end of a week hehad lost a queen’s dowry. As they rose fromthe table that night his father filled in the usualform, requested him to be so good as to sign it, anda sour-faced woman who had arrived at the mill, Adrianknew not whence, to do the household work, to put hername as witness.

“What is the use of this farce?” askedAdrian. “Brant’s treasure would scarcelypay that bill.”

His father pricked his ears.

“Indeed? I lay it at as much again.What is the use? Who knows—­one dayyou might become rich, for, as the great Emperor said,’Fortune is a woman who reserves her favoursfor the young,’ and then, doubtless, being theman of honour that you are, you would wish to pay yourold gambling debts.”

“Oh! yes, I should pay if I could,” answeredAdrian with a yawn. “But it seems hardlyworthy while talking about, does it?” and hesauntered out of the place into the open air.

His father rose, and, standing by the great peat fire,watched him depart thoughtfully.

“Let me take stock of the position,” hesaid to himself. “The dear child hasn’ta farthing left; therefore, although he is gettingbored, he can’t run away. Moreover, heowes me more money than I ever saw; therefore, ifhe should chance to become the husband of the JufvrouwBrant, and the legal owner of her parent’s wealth,whatever disagreements may ensue between him and meI shall have earned my share of it in a clean andgentlemanly fashion. If, on the other hand, itshould become necessary for me to marry the young lady,which God forbid, at least no harm is done, and hewill have had the advantage of some valuable lessonsfrom the most accomplished card-player in Spain.

“And now what we need to enliven this detestableplace is the presence of Beauty herself. Ourworthy friends should be back soon—­bringingtheir sheaves with them, let us hope, for otherwisematters will be complicated. Let me see:have I thought of everything, for in such affairsone oversight—­He is a Catholic, thereforecan contract a legal marriage under the Proclamations—­itwas lucky I remembered that point of law, though itnearly cost us all our lives—­and the priest,I can lay my hands on him, a discreet man, who won’thear if the lady says No, but filled beyond a questionwith the power and virtue of his holy office.No, I have nothing to reproach myself with in the wayof precaution, nothing at all. I have sown theseed well and truly, it remains only for Providenceto give the increase, or shall I say—­no,I think not, for between the general and the privatefamiliarity is always odious. Well, it is timethat you met with a little success and settled down,for you have worked hard, Juan, my friend, and youare getting old—­yes, Juan, you are gettingold. Bah! what a hole and what weather!”and Montalvo established himself by the fireside todoze away his ennui.

When Adrian shut the door behind him the late Novemberday was drawing to its close, and between the riftsin the sullen snow clouds now and again an arrow fromthe westering sun struck upon the tall, skeleton-likesails of the mill, through which the wind rushed witha screaming noise. Adrian had intended to walkon the marsh, but finding it too sodden, he crossedthe western dyke by means of a board laid from bankto bank, and struck into the sand-dunes beyond.Even in the summer, when the air was still and flowersbloomed and larks sang, these dunes were fantasticand almost unnatural in appearance, with their deep,wind-scooped hollows of pallid sand, their sharp angles,miniature cliffs, and their crests crowned with coarsegrasses. But now, beneath the dull pall of thewinter sky, no spot in the world could have been morelonesome or more desolate, for never a sign of manwas to be seen upon them and save for a solitary curlew,whose sad note reached Adrian’s ears as it beatup wind from the sea, even the beasts and birds thatdwelt there had hidden themselves away. Only thevoices of Nature remained in all their majesty, thedrear screams and moan of the rushing wind, and aboveit, now low and now voluminous as the gale veered,the deep and constant roar of the ocean.

Adrian reached the highest crest of the ridge, whencethe sea, hidden hitherto, became suddenly visible,a vast, slate-coloured expanse, twisted here and thereinto heaps, hollowed here and there into valleys,and broken everywhere with angry lines and areas ofwhite. In such trouble, for, after its own fashion,his heart was troubled, some temperaments might havefound a kind of consolation in this sight, for whilewe witness them, at any rate, the throes and moodsof Nature in their greatness declare a mastery ofour senses, and stun or hush to silence the pettyturmoil of our souls. This, at least, is so withthose who have eyes to read the lesson written onNature’s face, and ears to hear the messagewhich day by day she delivers with her lips; giftsgiven only to such as hold the cypher-key of imagination,and pray for grace to use it.

In Adrian’s case, however, the weirdness ofthe sand-hills and the grandeur of the seascape withthe bitter wind that blew between and the solitudewhich brooded over all, served only to exasperate nervesthat already were strained well nigh to breaking.

Why had his father brought him to this hideous swampbordered by a sailless sea? To save their livesfrom the fury of the mob? This he understood,but there was more in it than that, some plot whichhe did not understand, and which the ruffian, HagueSimon, and that she-fiend, his companion, had goneaway to execute. Meanwhile he must sit here dayafter day playing cards with the wretch Ramiro, whom,for no fault of his own, God had chosen out to behis parent. By the way, why was the man so fondof playing cards? And what was the meaning ofall that nonsense about notes of hand? Yes, herehe must sit, and for company he had the sense of hisunalterable shame, the memory of his mother’sface as she spurned and rejected him, the vision ofthe woman whom he loved and had lost, and—­theghost of Dirk van Goorl.

He shivered as he thought of it; yes, his hair liftedand his lip twitched involuntarily, for to Adrian’sracked nerves and distorted vision this ghost of thegood man whom he had betrayed was no child of phantasy.He had woken in the night and seen it standing at hisbedside, plague-defiled and hunger-wasted, and becauseof it he dreaded to sleep alone, especially in thatcreaking, rat-haunted mill, whose very board seemedcharged with some tale of death and blood. Heavens!At this very moment he thought he could hear thatdead voice calling down the gale. No, it mustbe the curlew, but at least he would be going home.Home—­that place home—­with noteven a priest near to confess to and be comforted!

Thanks be to the Saints! the wind had dropped a little,but now in place of it came the snow, dense, whirling,white; so dense indeed that he could scarcely seehis path. What an end that would be, to be frozento death in the snow on these sand-hills while thespirit of Dirk van Goorl sat near and watched himdie with those hollow, hungry eyes. The sweatcame upon Adrian’s forehead at the thought, andhe broke into a run, heading for the bank of the greatdyke that pierced the dunes half a mile or so away,which bank must, he knew, lead him to the mill.He reached it and trudged along what had been thetowpath, though now it was overgrown with weeds andrushes. It was not a pleasant journey, for thetwilight had closed in with speed and the thick flakes,that seemed to heap into his face and sting him, turnedit into a darkness mottled with faint white.Still he stumbled forward with bent head and close-wrappedcloak till he judged that he must be near to the mill,and halted staring through the gloom.

Just then the snow ceased for a while and light creptback to the cold face of the earth, showing Adrianthat he had done well to halt. In front of wherehe stood, within a few paces of his feet indeed, fora distance of quite twenty yards the lower part ofthe bank had slipped away, washed from the stone corewith which it was faced at this point, by a slow andneglected percolation of water. Had he walkedon therefore, he would have fallen his own heightor more into a slough of mud, whence he might, ormight not have been able to extricate himself.As it was, however, by such light as remained he couldcrawl upon the coping of the stonework which was stillheld in place with old struts of timber that, untilthey had been denuded by the slow and constant leakage,were buried and supported in the vanished earthwork.It was not a pleasant bridge, for to the right laythe mud-bottomed gulf, and to the left, almost levelwith his feet, were the black and peaty waters ofthe rain-fed dyke pouring onwards to the sea.

“Next flood this will go,” thought Adrianto himself, “and then the marsh must becomea mere which will be bad for whomever happens to beliving in the Red Mill.” He was on firmground again now, and there, looming tall and spectralagainst the gloom, not five hundred yards away, rosethe gaunt sails of the mill. To reach it he walkedon six score paces or more to the little landing-quay,where a raised path ran to the building. As hedrew near to it he was astonished to hear the rattleof oars working in rollocks and a man’s voicesay:

“Steady, here is the place, praise the Saints!Now, then, out passengers and let us be gone.”

Adrian, whom events had made timid, drew beneath theshadow of the bank and watched, while from the dimoutline of the boat arose three figures, or rathertwo figures arose, dragging the third between them.

“Hold her,” said a voice that seemed familiar,“while I give these men their hire,” andthere followed a noise of clinking coin, mingled withsome oaths and grumbling about the weather and thedistance, which were abated with more coin. Thenagain the oars rattled and the boat was pushed off,whereon a sweet voice cried in agonised tones:

“Sirs, you who have wives and daughters, willyou leave me in the hands of these wretches?In the name of God take pity upon my helplessness.”

“It is a shame, and she so fair a maid,”grumbled another thick and raucous voice, but thesteersman cried, “Mind your business, Marsh Jan.We have done our job and got our pay, so leave thegentry to settle their own love affairs. Goodnight to you, passengers; give way, give way,”and the boat swung round and vanished into the gloom.

For a moment Adrian’s heart stood still; thenhe sprang forward to see before him Hague Simon, theButcher, Black Meg his wife, and between them a bundlewrapped in shawls.

“What is this?” he asked.

“You ought to know, Heer Adrian,” answeredBlack Meg with a chuckle, “seeing that thischarming piece of goods has been brought all the wayfrom Leyden, regardless of expense, for your especialbenefit.”

The bundle lifted its head, and the faint light shoneupon the white and terrified face of—­ElsaBrant.

“May God reward you for this evil deed, Adrian,called van Goorl,” said the pitiful voice.

“This deed! What deed?” he stammeredin answer. “I know nothing of it, ElsaBrant.”

“You know nothing of it? Yet it was donein your name, and you are here to receive me, whowas kidnapped as I walked outside Leyden to be draggedhither with force by these monsters. Oh! haveyou no heart and no fear of judgment that you canspeak thus?”

“Free her,” roared Adrian, rushing atthe Butcher to see a knife gleaming in his hand andanother in that of Black Meg.

“Stop your nonsense, Master Adrian, and standback. If you have anything to say, say it toyour father, the Count. Come, let us pass, forwe are cold and weary,” and taking Elsa by theelbows they brushed past him, nor, indeed, even hadhe not been too bewildered to interfere, could Adrianhave stayed them, for he was unarmed. Besides,where would be the use, seeing that the boat had goneand that they were alone on a winter’s nightin the wind-swept wilderness, with no refuge for milessave such as the mill house could afford. So Adrianbent his head, for the snow had begun to fall again,and, sick at heart, followed them along the path.Now he understood at length why they had come to theRed Mill.

Simon opened the door and entered, but Elsa hung backat its ill-omened threshold. She even tried tostruggle a little, poor girl, whereon the ruffianin front jerked her towards him with an oath, so thatshe caught her foot and fell upon her face. Thiswas too much for Adrian. Springing forward hestruck the Butcher full in the mouth with his fist,and next moment they were rolling over and over eachother upon the floor, struggling fiercely for theknife which Simon held.

During all her life Elsa never forgot that scene.Behind her the howling blackness of the night andthe open door, through which flake by flake the snowleapt into the light. In front the large roundroom, fashioned from the basement of the mill, litonly by the great fire of turfs and a single hornlantern, hung from the ceiling that was ribbed withbeams of black and massive oak. And there, inthis forbidding, naked-looking place, that rockedand quivered as the gale caught the tall arms of themill above, seated by the hearth in a rude chair ofwood and sleeping, one man, Ramiro, the Spanish sleuth-hound,who had hunted down her father, he whom above everyother she held in horror and in hate; and two, Adrianand the spy, at death-grips on the floor, between themthe sheen of a naked knife.

Such was the picture.

Ramiro awoke at the noise, and there was fear on hisface as though some ill dream lingered in his brain.Next instant he saw and understood.

“I will run the man through who strikes anotherblow,” he said, in a cold clear voice as hedrew his sword. “Stand up, you fools, andtell me what this means.”

“It means that this brute beast but now threwElsa Brant upon her face,” gasped Adrian ashe rose, “and I punished him.”

“It is a lie,” hissed the other; “Ipulled the minx on, that is all, and so would youhave done, if you had been cursed with such a wild-catfor four-and-twenty hours. Why, when we tookher she was more trouble to hold than any man.”

“Oh! I understand,” interrupted Ramiro,who had recovered his composure; “a little maidenlyreluctance, that is all, my worthy Simon, and as forthis young gentleman, a little lover-like anxiety—­doubtlessin bygone years you have felt the same,” andhe glanced mockingly at Black Meg. “Sodo not be too ready to take offence, good Simon.Youth will be youth.”

“And Youth will get a knife between its ribsif it is not careful,” grumbled Hague Simon,as he spat out a piece of broken tooth.

“Why am I brought here, Senor,” brokein Elsa, “in defiance of laws and justice?”

“Laws! Mejufvrouw, I did not know thatthere were any left in the Netherlands; justice! well,all is fair in love and war, as any lady will admit.And the reason why—­I think you must askAdrian, he knows more about it than I do.”

“He says that he knows nothing, Senor.”

“Does he, the rogue? Does he indeed?Well, it would be rude to contradict him, wouldn’tit, so I for one unreservedly accept his statementthat he knows nothing, and I advise you to do the same.No, no, my boy, do not trouble to explain, we allquite understand. Now, my good dame,” hewent on addressing the serving-woman who had enteredthe place, “take this young lady to the bestroom you have above. And, listen, both of you,she is to be treated with all kindness, do you hear,for if any harm comes to her, either at your handsor her own, by Heaven! you shall pay for it to thelast drop of your blood. Now, no excuses and—­nomistakes.”

The two women, Meg and the other, nodded and motionedto Elsa to accompany them. She considered a moment,looking first at Ramiro and next at Adrian. Thenher head dropped upon her breast, and turning withouta word she followed them up the creaking oaken stairthat rose from a niche near the wall of the ingle-nook.

“Father,” said Adrian when the massivedoor had closed behind her and they were left alone—­“father—­forI suppose that I must call you so.”

“There is not the slightest necessity,”broke in Ramiro; “facts, my dear son, need notalways be paraded in the cold light of day—­fortunately.But, proceed.”

“What does all this mean?”

“I wish I could tell you. It appears tomean, however, that without any effort upon your part,for you seem to me a young man singularly devoid ofresource, your love affairs are prospering beyond expectation.”

“I have had nothing to do with the business;I wash my hands of it.”

“That is as well. Some sensitive peoplemight think they need a deal of washing. Youyoung fool,” he went on, dropping his mockingmanner, “listen to me. You are in lovewith this pink and white piece of goods, and I havebrought her here for you to marry.”

“And I refuse to marry her against her will.”

“As to that you can please yourself. Butsomebody has got to marry her—­you, or I.”

“You—­you!” gasped Adrian.

“Quite so. The adventure is not one, tobe frank, that attracts me. At my age memoriesare sufficient. But material interests must beattended to, so if you decline—­well, Iam still eligible and hearty. Do you see thepoint?”

“No, what is it?”

“It is a sound title to the inheritance of thedeparted Hendrik Brant. That wealth we might,it is true, obtain by artifice or by arms; but howmuch better that it should come into the family ina regular fashion, thereby ousting the claim of theCrown. Things in this country are disturbed atpresent, but they will not always be disturbed, forin the end somebody must give way and order will prevail.Then questions might be asked, for persons in possessionof great riches are always the mark of envy.But if the heiress is married to a good Catholic andloyal subject of the king, who can cavil at rightssanctified by the laws of God and man? Thinkit over, my dear Adrian, think it over. Step-motheror wife—­you can take your choice.”

With impotent rage, with turmoil of heart and tormentof conscience, Adrian did think it over. Allthat night he thought, tossing on his rat-hauntedpallet, while without the snow whirled and the windbeat. If he did not marry Elsa, his father would,and there could be no doubt as to which of these alternativeswould be best and happiest for her. Elsa marriedto that wicked, cynical, devil-possessed, battered,fortune-hunting adventurer with a nameless past!This must be prevented at any cost. With hisfather her lot must be a hell; with himself—­aftera period of storm and doubt perhaps—­it couldscarcely be other than happy, for was he not young,handsome, sympathetic, and—­devoted?Ah! there was the real point. He loved this ladywith all the earnestness of which his nature was capable,and the thought of her passing into the possessionof another man gave him the acutest anguish.That the man should be Foy, his half-brother, was badenough; that it should be Ramiro, his father, wasinsupportable.

At breakfast the following morning, when Elsa didnot appear, the pair met.

“You look pale, Adrian,” said his fatherpresently. “I fear that this wild weatherkept you awake last night, as it did me, although atyour age I have slept through the roar of a battle.Well, have you thought over our conversation?I do not wish to trouble you with these incessantfamily matters, but times presses, and it is necessaryto decide.”

Adrian looked out of the lattice at the snow, whichfell and fell without pause. Then he turned andsaid:

“Yes. Of the two it is best that she shouldmarry me, though I think that such a crime will bringits own reward.”

“Wise young man,” answered his father.“Under all your cloakings of vagary I observethat you have a foundation of common-sense, just asthe giddiest weathercock is bedded on a stone.As for the reward, considered properly it seems tobe one upon which I can heartily congratulate you.”

“Peace to that talk,” said Adrian, angrily;“you forget that there are two parties to sucha contract; her consent must be gained, and I willnot ask it.”

“No? Then I will; a few arguments occurto me. Now look here, friend, we have strucka bargain, and you will be so good as to keep it orto take the consequences—­oh! never mindwhat they are. I will bring this lady to thealtar—­or, rather, to that table, and youwill marry her, after which you can settle mattersjust exactly as you please; live with her as yourwife, or make your bow and walk away, which, I carenothing so long as you are married. Now I amweary of all this talk, so be so good as to leaveme in peace on the subject.”

Adrian looked at him, opened his lips to speak, thenchanged his mind and marched out of the house intothe blinding snow.

“Thank Heaven he is gone at last!” reflectedhis father, and called for Hague Simon, with whomhe held a long and careful interview.

“You understand?” he ended.

“I understand,” answered Simon, sulkily.“I am to find this priest, who should be waitingat the place you name, and to bring him here by nightfallto-morrow, which is a rough job for a Christian manin such weather as this.”

“The pay, friend Simon, remember the pay.”

“Oh! yes, it all sounds well enough, but I shouldlike something on account.”

“You shall have it—­is not such alabourer worthy of his hire?” replied his employerwith enthusiasm, and producing from his pocket thepurse which Lysbeth had given Adrian, with a smileof peculiar satisfaction, for really the thing hada comic side, he counted a handsome sum into the handof this emissary of Venus.

Simon looked at the money, concluded, after some reflection,that it would scarcely do to stand out for more atpresent, pouched it, and having wrapped himself ina thick frieze coat, opened the door and vanishedinto the falling snow.

CHAPTER XXVI

THE BRIDEGROOM AND THE BRIDE

The day passed, and through every hour of it the snowfell incessantly. Night came, and it was stillfalling in large, soft flakes that floated to theearth gently as thistledown, for now there was no wind.Adrian met his father at meals only; the rest of theday he preferred to spend out of doors in the snow,or hanging about the old sheds at the back of themill, rather than endure the society of this terribleman; this man of mocking words and iron purpose, whowas forcing him into the commission of a great crime.

It was at breakfast on the following morning thatRamiro inquired of Black Mag whether the JufvrouwBrant had sufficiently recovered from the fatiguesof her journey to honour them with her presence.The woman replied that she absolutely refused to leaveher room, or even to speak more than was necessary.

“Then,” said Ramiro, “as it is importantthat I should have a few words with her, be so goodas to tell the young lady, with my homage, that Iwill do myself the honour of waiting on her in thecourse of the forenoon.”

Meg departed on her errand, and Adrian looked up suspiciously.

“Calm yourself, young friend,” said hisfather, “although the interview will be private,you have really no cause for jealousy. At present,remember, I am but the second string in the bow-case,the understudy who has learnt the part, a humble position,but one which may prove useful.”

At all of which gibes Adrian winced. But he didnot reply, for by now he had learned that he was nomatch for his father’s bitter wit.

Elsa received the message as she received everythingelse, in silence.

Three days before, as after a fearful illness duringwhich on several occasions she was at the very doorsof death, Lysbeth van Goorl had been declared outof danger, Elsa, her nurse, ventured to leave her fora few hours. That evening the town seemed tostifle her and, feeling that she needed the air ofthe country, she passed the Morsch poort and walkeda little way along the banks of the canal, never noticing,poor girl, that her footsteps were dogged. Whenit began to grow dusk, she halted and stood a whilegazing towards the Haarlemer Meer, letting her heartgo out to the lover who, as she thought and hoped,within a day or two would be at her side.

Then it was that something was thrown over her head,and for a while all was black. She awoke to findherself lying in a boat, and watching her, two wretches,whom she recognised as those who had assailed her whenfirst she came to Leyden from The Hague.

“Why have you kidnapped me, and where am I going?”she asked.

“Because we are paid to do it, and you are goingto Adrian van Goorl,” was the answer.

Then she understood, and was silent.

Thus they brought her to this lonesome, murderous-lookingplace, where sure enough Adrian was waiting for her,waiting with a lie upon his lips. Now, doubtless,the end was at hand. She, who loved his brotherwith all her heart and soul, was to be given forciblyin marriage to a man whom she despised and loathed,the vain, furious-tempered traitor, who, for revenge,jealousy, or greed, she knew not which, had not hesitatedto send his benefactor, and mother’s husband,to perish in the fires of the Inquisition.

What was she to do? Escape seemed out of thequestion, imprisoned as she was on the third storyof a lofty mill standing in a lonely, snow-shroudedwilderness, cut off from the sight of every friendlyface, and spied on hour after hour by two fierce-eyedwomen. No, there was only one escape for her—­throughthe gate of death. Even this would be difficult,for she had no weapon, and day and night the womenkept guard over her, one standing sentinel, whilethe other slept. Moreover, she had no mind todie, being young and healthy, with a love to live for,and from her childhood up she had been taught thatself-slaughter is a sin. No, she would trustin God, and overwhelming though it was, fight herway through this trouble as best she might. Thehelpless find friends sometimes. Therefore, thather strength might be preserved, Elsa rested and ateof her food, and drank the wine which they broughtto her, refusing to leave the room, or to speak morethan she was obliged, but watching everything thatpassed.

On the second morning of her imprisonment Ramiro’smessage reached her, to which, as usual, she madeno answer. In due course also Ramiro himselfarrived, and stood bowing in the doorway.

“Have I your permission to enter, Jufvrouw?”he asked. Then Elsa, knowing that the momentof trial had come, steeled herself for the encounter.

“You are master here,” she answered, ina voice cold as the falling snow without, “whythen do you mock me?”

He motioned to the women to leave the room, and whenthey had gone, replied:

“I have little thought of such a thing, lady;the matter in hand is too serious for smart sayings,”and with another bow he sat himself down on a chairnear the hearth, where a fire was burning. WhereonElsa rose and stood over against him, for upon herfeet she seemed to feel stronger.

“Will you be so good as to set out this matter,Senor Ramiro? Am I brought here to be tried forheresy?”

“Even so, for heresy against the god of love,and the sentence of the Court is that you must expiateyour sin, not at the stake, but at the altar.”

“I do not understand.”

“Then I will explain. My son Adrian, aworthy young man on the whole—­you knowthat he is my son, do you not?—­hashad the misfortune, or I should say the good fortune,to fall earnestly in love with you, whereas you havethe bad taste—­or, perhaps, the good taste—­togive your affections elsewhere. Under the circumstances,Adrian, being a youth of spirit and resource, has fallenback upon primitive methods in order to bring hissuit to a successful conclusion. He is here,you are here, and this evening I understand that thepriest will be here. I need not dwell upon theobvious issue; indeed, it is a private matter uponwhich I have no right to intrude, except, of course,as a relative and a well-wisher.”

Elsa made an impatient movement with her hand, asthough to brush aside all this web of words.

“Why do you take so much trouble to force anunhappy girl into a hateful marriage?” she asked.“How can such a thing advantage you?”

“Ah!” answered Ramiro briskly, “Iperceive I have to do with a woman of business, onewho has that rarest of gifts—­common sense.I will be frank. Your esteemed father died possessedof a very large fortune, which to-day is your propertyas his sole issue and heiress. Under the marriagelaws, which I myself think unjust, that fortune willpass into the power of any husband whom you chooseto take. Therefore, so soon as you are made hiswife it will pass to Adrian. I am Adrian’sfather, and, as it happens, he is pecuniarily indebtedto me to a considerable amount, so that, in the upshot,as he himself has pointed out more than once, thisalliance will provide for both of us. But businessdetails are wearisome, so I need not enlarge.”

“The fortune you speak of, Senor Ramiro, islost.”

“It is lost, but I have reason to hope thatit will be found.”

“You mean that this is purely a matter of money?”

“So far as I am concerned, purely. ForAdrian’s feelings I cannot speak, since whoknows the mystery of another’s heart?”

“Then, if the money were forthcoming—­ora clue to it—­there need be no marriage?”

“So far as I am concerned, none at all.”

“And if the money is not forthcoming, and Irefuse to marry the Heer Adrian, or he to marry me—­whatthen?”

“That is a riddle, but I think I see an answerat any rate to half of it. Then the marriagewould still take place, but with another bridegroom.”

“Another bridegroom! Who?”

“Your humble and devoted adorer.”

Elsa shuddered and recoiled a step.

“Ah!” he said, “I should not havebowed, you saw my white hairs—­to the younga hateful sight.”

Elsa’s indignation rose, and she answered:

“It is not your white hair that I shrink from,Senor, which in some would be a crown of honour, but——­”

“In my case suggests to you other reflections.Be gentle and spare me them. In a world of roughactions, what need to emphasise them with rough words?”

For a few minutes there was silence, which Ramiro,glancing out of the lattice, broke by remarking that“The snowfall was extraordinarily heavy forthe time of year.” Then followed anothersilence.

“I understood you just now, dear lady, to makesome sort of suggestion which might lead to an arrangementsatisfactory to both of us. The exact localityof this wealth is at present obscure—­youmentioned some clue. Are you in a position tofurnish such a clue?”

“If I am in a position, what then?”

“Then, perhaps, after a few days visit to aninteresting, but little explored part of Holland,you might return to your friends as you left them—­inshort as a single woman.”

A struggle shook Elsa, and do what she would sometrace of it appeared in her face.

“Do you swear that?” she whispered.

“Most certainly.”

“Do you swear before God that if you have thisclue you will not force me into a marriage with theHeer Adrian, or with yourself—­that you willlet me go, unharmed?”

“I swear it—­before God.”

“Knowing that God will be revenged upon youif you break the oath, you still swear?”

“I still swear. Why these needless repetitions?”

“Then—­then,” and she leanttowards him, speaking in a hoarse whisper, “believingthat you, even you, will not dare to be false to suchan oath, for you, even you, must fear death, a miserabledeath, and vengeance, eternal vengeance, I give youthe clue: It lies in the hilt of the sword Silence.”

“The sword Silence? What sword is that?”

“The great sword of Red Martin.”

Stirred out of his self-control, Ramiro struck hishand upon his knee.

“And to think,” he said, “that forover twelve hours I had it hanging on the wall ofthe Gevangenhuis! Well, I fear that I must askyou to be more explicit. Where is this sword?”

“Wherever Red Martin is, that is all I know.I can tell you no more; the plan of the hiding-placeis there.”

“Or was there. Well, I believe you, butto win a secret from the hilt of the sword of theman who broke his way out of the torture-chamber ofthe Gevangenhuis, is a labour that would have beennot unworthy of Hercules. First, Red Martin mustbe found, then his sword must be taken, which, I think,will cost men their lives. Dear lady, I am obligedfor your information, but I fear that the marriagemust still go through.”

“You swore, you swore,” she gasped, “youswore before God!”

“Quite so, and I shall leave—­thePower you refer to—­to manage the matter.Doubtless He can attend to His own affairs—­Imust attend to mine. I hope that about seveno’clock this evening will suit you, by whichtime the priest and—­a bridegroom will beready.”

Then Elsa broke down.

“Devil!” she cried in the torment of herdespair. “To save my honour I have betrayedmy father’s trust; I have betrayed the secretfor which Martin was ready to die by torment, andgiven him over to be hunted like a wild beast.Oh! God forgive me, and God help me!”

“Doubtless, dear young lady, He will do thefirst, for your temptations were really considerable;I, who have more experience, outwitted you, that wasall. Possibly, also, He may do the second, thoughmany have uttered that cry unheard. For my ownsake, I trust that He was sleeping when you utteredyours. But it is your affair and His; I leaveit to be arranged between you. Till this evening,Jufvrouw,” and he bowed himself from the room.

But Elsa, shamed and broken-hearted, threw herselfupon the bed and wept.

At mid-day she arose, hearing upon the stair the stepof the woman who brought her food, and to hide hertear-stained face went to the barred lattice and lookedout. The scene was dismal indeed, for the windhad veered suddenly, the snow had ceased, and in placeof it rain was falling with a steady persistence.When the woman had gone, Elsa washed her face, andalthough her appetite turned from it, ate of the food,knowing how necessary it was that she should keep herstrength.

Another hour passed, and there came a knock on thedoor. Elsa shuddered, for she thought that Ramirohad returned to torment her. Indeed it was almosta relief when, instead of him, appeared his son.Once glance at Adrian’s nervous, shaken face,yes, and even the sound of his uncertain step broughthope to her heart. Her woman’s instincttold her that now she had no longer to do with themerciless and terrible Ramiro, to whose eyes she wasbut a pretty pawn in a game that he must win, but witha young man who loved her, and whom she held, therefore,at a disadvantage—­with one, moreover, whowas harassed and ashamed, and upon whose conscience,therefore, she might work. She turned upon him,drawing herself up, and although she was short andAdrian was tall, of a sudden he felt as though shetowered over him.

“Your pleasure?” asked Elsa.

In the old days Adrian would have answered with somemagnificent compliment, or far-fetched simile liftedfrom the pages of romancers. In truth he hadthought of several such while, like a half-starveddog seeking a home, he wandered round and round themill-house in the snow. But he was now far beyondall rhetoric or gallantries.

“My father wished,” he began humbly—­“Imean that I have come to speak to you about—­ourmarriage.”

Of a sudden Elsa’s delicate features seemedto turn to ice, while, to his fancy at any rate, herbrown eyes became fire.

“Marriage,” she said in a strange voice.“Oh! what an unutterable coward you must beto speak that word. Call what is proposed by anyfoul title which you will, but at least leave theholy name of marriage undefiled.”

“It is not my fault,” he answered sullenly,but shrinking beneath her words. “You know,Elsa, that I wished to wed you honourably enough.”

“Yes,” she broke in, “and becauseI would not listen, because you do not please me,and you could not win me as a man wins a maid, you—­youlaid a trap and kidnapped me, thinking to get by bruteforce that which my heart withheld. Oh! in allthe Netherlands lives there another such an abjectas Adrian called van Goorl, the base-born son of Ramirothe galley slave?”

“I have told you that it is false,” hereplied furiously. “I had nothing to dowith your capture. I knew nothing of it till Isaw you here.”

Elsa laughed a very bitter laugh. “Spareyour breath,” she said, “for if you sworeit before the face of the recording Angel I would notbelieve you. Remember that you are the man whobetrayed your brother and your benefactor, and thenguess, if you can, what worth I put upon your words.”

In the bitterness of his heart Adrian groaned aloud,and from that groan Elsa, listening eagerly, gatheredsome kind of hope.

“Surely,” she went on, with a changedand softened manner, “surely you will not dothis wickedness. The blood of Dirk van Goorl lieson your head; will you add mine to his? For besure of this, I swear it by my Maker, that beforeI am indeed a wife to you I shall be dead—­ormayhap you will be dead, or both of us. Do youunderstand?”

“I understand, but——­”

“But what? Where is the use of this wickedness?For your soul’s sake, refuse to have aught todo with such a sin.”

“But if so, my father will marry you.”

It was a chance arrow, but it went home, for of asudden Elsa’s strength and eloquence seemedto leave her. She ran to him with her hands clasped,she flung herself upon her knees.

“Oh! help me to escape,” she moaned, “andI will bless you all my life.”

“It is impossible,” he answered.“Escape from this guarded place, through thoseleagues of melting snow? I tell you that it isimpossible.”

“Then,” and her eyes grew wild, “thenkill him and free me. He is a devil, he is yourevil genius; it would be a righteous deed. Killhim and free me.”

“I should like to,” answered Adrian; “Inearly did once, but, for my soul’s sake, Ican’t put a sword through my own father; it isthe most horrible of crimes. When I confessed——­”

“Then,” she broke in, “if this farce,this infamy must be gone through, swear at least thatyou will treat it as such, that you will respect me.”

“It is a hard thing to ask of a husband wholoves you more than any woman in the world,”he answered turning aside his head.

“Remember,” she went on, with anotherflash of defiant spirit, “that if you do not,you will soon love me better than any woman out ofthe world, or perhaps we shall both settle what liesbetween us before the Judgment Seat of God. Willyou swear?”

He hesitated.

Oh! she reflected, what if he should answer—­“Ratherthan this I hand you over to Ramiro”? Whatif he should think of that argument? Happilyfor her, at the moment he did not.

“Swear,” she implored, “swear,”clinging with her hands to the lappet of his coatand lifting to him her white and piteous face.

“I make it an offering in expiation of my sins,”he groaned, “you shall go free of me.”

Elsa uttered a sigh of relief. She put no faithwhatever in Adrian’s promises, but at the worstit would give her time.

“I thought that I should not appeal in vain——­”

“To so amusing and egregious a donkey,”said Ramiro’s mocking voice speaking from thegloom of the doorway, which now Elsa observed for thefirst time had swung open mysteriously.

“My dear son and daughter-in-law, how can Ithank you sufficiently for the entertainment withwhich you have enlivened one of the most dreary afternoonsI remember. Don’t look dangerous, my boy;recall what you have just told this young lady, thatthe crime of removing a parent is one which, thoughagreeable, is not lightly to be indulged. Then,as to your future arrangements, how touching!The soul of a Diana, I declare, and the self-sacrificeof a—­no, I fear that the heroes of antiquitycan furnish no suitable example. And now, adieu,I go to welcome the gentleman you both of you so eagerlyexpect.”

He went, and a minute later without speaking, forthe situation seemed beyond words, Adrian crept downthe stairs after him, more miserable and crushed eventhan he had crept up them half an hour before.

Another two hours went by. Elsa was in her apartmentwith Black Meg for company, who watched her as a catwatches a mouse in a trap. Adrian had taken refugein the place where he slept above. It was a dreary,vacuous chamber, that once had held stones and othermachinery of the mill now removed, the home of spidersand half-starved rats, that a lean black cat huntedcontinually. Across its ceiling ran great beams,whereof the interlacing ends, among which sharp draughtswhistled, lost themselves in gloom, while, with anendless and exasperating sound, as of a knuckle upona board, the water dripped from the leaky roof.

In the round living-chamber below Ramiro was alone.No lamp had been lit, but the glow from the greatturf fire played upon his face as he sat there, watching,waiting, and scheming in the chair of black oak.Presently a noise from without caught his quick ear,and calling to the serving woman to light the lamp,he went to the door, opened it, and saw a lanternfloating towards him through the thick steam of fallingrain. Another minute and the bearer of the lantern,Hague Simon, arrived, followed by two other men.

“Here he is,” said Simon, nodding at thefigure behind him, a short round figure wrapped ina thick frieze cloak, from which water ran. “Theother is the head boatman.”

“Good,” said Ramiro. “Tellhim and his companions to wait in the shed without,where liquor will be sent to them; they may be wantedlater on.”

Then followed talk and oaths, and at length the manretreated grumbling.

“Enter, Father Thomas,” said Ramiro; “youhave had a wet journey, I fear. Enter and giveus your blessing.”

Before he answered the priest threw off his dripping,hooded cape of Frisian cloth, revealing a coarse,wicked face, red and blear-eyed from intemperance.

“My blessing?” he said in a raucous voice.“Here it is, Senor Ramiro, or whatever you callyourself now. Curse you all for bringing out aholy priest upon one of your devil’s errandsin weather which is only fit for a bald-headed cootto travel through. There is going to be a flood;already the water is running over the banks of thedam, and it gathers every moment as the snow melts.I tell you there is going to be such a flood as wehave not seen for years.”

“The more reason, Father, for getting throughthis little business quickly; but first you will wishfor something to drink.”

Father Thomas nodded, and Ramiro filling a small mugwith brandy, gave it to him. He gulped it off.

“Another,” he said. “Don’tbe afraid. A chosen vessel should also be a seasonedvessel; at any rate this one is. Ah! that’sbetter. Now then, what’s the exact job?”

Ramiro took him apart and they talked together fora while.

“Very good,” said the priest at length,“I will take the risk and do it, for where hereticsare concerned such things are not too closely inquiredinto nowadays. But first down with the money;no paper or promises, if you please.”

“Ah! you churchmen,” said Ramiro, witha faint smile, “in things spiritual or temporalhow much have we poor laity to learn of you!”With a sigh he produced the required sum, then pausedand added, “No; with your leave we will seethe papers first. You have them with you?”

“Here they are,” answered the priest,drawing some documents from his pocket. “Butthey haven’t been married yet; the rule is, marryfirst, then certify. Until the ceremony is actuallyperformed, anything might happen, you know.”

“Quite so, Father. Anything might happeneither before or after; but still, with your leave,I think that in this case we may as well certify first;you might want to be getting away, and it will saveso much trouble later. Will you be so kind asto write your certificate?”

Father Thomas hesitated, while Ramiro gently clinkedthe gold coins in his hand and murmured,

“I should be sorry to think, Father, that youhad taken such a rough journey for nothing.”

“What trick are you at now?” growled thepriest. “Well, after all it is a mere form.Give me the names.”

Ramiro gave them; Father Thomas scrawled them down,adding some words and his own signature, then said,“There you are, that will hold good againstanyone except the Pope.”

“A mere form,” repeated Ramiro, “ofcourse. But the world attaches so much importanceto forms, so I think that we will have this one witnessed—­No,not by myself, who am an interested party—­bysomeone independent,” and calling Hague Simonand the waiting-woman he bade them set their namesat the foot of the documents.

“Papers signed in advance—­fees paidin advance!” he went on, handing over the money,“and now, just one more glass to drink the healthof the bride and bridegroom, also in advance.You will not refuse, nor you, worthy Simon, nor you,most excellent Abigail. Ah! I thought not,the night is cold.”

“And the brandy strong,” muttered thepriest thickly, as this third dose of raw spirit tookeffect upon him. “Now get on with the business,for I want to be out of this hole before the floodcomes.”

“Quite so. Friends, will you be so goodas to summon my son and the lady? The lady first,I think—­and all three of you might go toescort her. Brides sometimes consider it rightto fain a slight reluctance—­you understand?On second thoughts, you need not trouble the SenorAdrian. I have a new words of ante-nuptial adviceto offer, so I will go to him.”

A minute later father and son stood face to face.Adrian leaped up; he shook his fist, he raved andstormed at the cold, impassive man before him.

“You fool, you contemptible fool!” saidRamiro when he had done. “Heavens! to thinkthat such a creature should have sprung from me, ahuman jackass only fit to bear the blows and burdensof others, to fill the field with empty brayings,and wear himself out by kicking at the air. Oh!don’t twist up your face at me, for I am yourmaster as well as your father, however much you mayhate me. You are mine, body and soul, don’tyou understand; a bond-slave, nothing more. Youlost the only chance you ever had in the game whenyou got me down at Leyden. You daren’tdraw a sword on me again for your soul’s sake,dear Adrian, for your soul’s sake; and if youdared, I would run you through. Now, are youcoming?”

“No,” answered Adrian.

“Think a minute. If you don’t marryher I shall, and before she is half an hour older;also—­” and he leant forward and whisperedinto his son’s ear.

“Oh! you devil, you devil!” Adrian gasped;then he moved towards the door.

“What? Changed your mind, have you, Mr.Weathercock? Well, it is the prerogative of allfeminine natures—­but, your doublet is awry,and allow me to suggest that you should brush yourhair. There, that’s better; now, come on.No, you go first, if you please, I’d rather haveyou in front of me.”

When they reached the room below the bride was alreadythere. Gripped on either side by Black Meg andthe other woman, white as death and trembling, butstill defiant, stood Elsa.

“Let’s get through with this,” growledthe half-drunken, ruffian priest. “I takethe willingness of the parties for granted.”

“I am not willing,” cried Elsa. “Ihave been brought here by force. I call everyonepresent to witness that whatever is done is againstmy will. I appeal to God to help me.”

The priest turned upon Ramiro.

“How am I to marry them in the face of this?”he asked. “If only she were silent it mightbe done——­”

“The difficulty has occurred to me,” answeredRamiro. He made a sign, whereon Simon seizedElsa’s wrists, and Black Meg, slipping behindher, deftly fastened a handkerchief over her mouthin such fashion that she was gagged, but could stillbreathe through the nostrils.

Elsa struggled a little, then was quiet, and turnedher piteous eyes on Adrian, who stepped forward andopened his lips.

“You remember the alternative,” said hisfather in a low voice, and he stopped.

“I suppose,” broke in Father Thomas, “thatwe may at any rate reckon upon the consent, or atleast upon the silence of the Heer bridegroom.”

“You may reckon on his silence, Father Thomas,”replied Ramiro.

Then the ceremony began. They dragged Elsa tothe table. Thrice she flung herself to the ground,and thrice they lifted her to her feet, but at length,weary of the weight of her body, suffered her to restupon her knees, where she remained as though in prayer,gagged like some victim on the scaffold. It wasa strange and brutal scene, and every detail of itburned itself into Adrian’s mind. The round,rude room, with its glowing fire of turfs and itsrough, oaken furniture, half in light and half indense shadow, as the lamp-rays chanced to fall; thedeath-like, kneeling bride, with a white cloth acrossher tortured face; the red-chopped, hanging-lippedhedge priest gabbling from a book, his back almostturned that he might not see her attitude and struggles;the horrible, unsexed women; the flat-faced villain,Simon, grinning by the hearth; Ramiro, cynical, mocking,triumphant, and yet somewhat anxious, his one brighteye fixed in mingled contempt and amusement upon him,Adrian—­those were its outlines. Therewas something else also that caught and oppressedhis sense, a sound which at the time Adrian thoughthe heard in his head alone, a soft, heavy sound witha moan in it, not unlike that of the wind, which grewgradually to a dull roar.

It was over. A ring had been forced on to Elsa’sunwilling hand, and, until the thing was undone bysome competent and authorised Court, she was in namethe wife of Adrian. The handkerchief was unbound,her hands were loosed, physically, Elsa was free again,but, in that day and land of outrage, tied, as thepoor girl knew well, by a chain more terrible thanany that hemp or steel could fashion.

“Congratulations! Senora,” mutteredFather Thomas, eyeing her nervously. “Ifear you felt a little faint during the service, buta sacrament——­”

“Cease your mockings, you false priest,”cried Elsa. “Oh! let the swift vengeanceof God fall upon every one of you, and first of allupon you, false priest.”

Drawing the ring from her finger, as she spoke shecast it down upon the oaken table, whence it sprangup to drop again and rattle itself to silence.Then with one tragic motion of despair, Elsa turnedand fled back to her chamber.

The red face of Father Thomas went white, and hisyellow teeth chattered. “A virgin’scurse,” he muttered, crossing himself.“Misfortune always follows, and it is sometimesdeath—­yes, by St. Thomas, death. Andyou, you brought me here to do this wickedness, youdog, you galley slave!”

“Father,” broke in Ramiro, “youknow I have warned you against it before at The Hague;sooner or later it always breaks up the nerves,”and he nodded towards the flagon of spirits.“Bread and water, Father, bread and water forforty days, that is what I prescribe, and——­”

As he spoke the door was burst open, and two men rushedin, their eyes starting, their very beards bristlingwith terror.

“Come forth!” they cried.

“What has chanced?” screamed the priest.

“The great dyke has burst—­hark, hark,hark! The floods are upon you, the mill willbe swept away.”

God in Heaven—­it was true! Now throughthe open doorway they heard the roar of waters, whosenote Adrian had caught before, yes, and in the gloomappeared their foaming crest as they rushed throughthe great and ever-widening breach in the lofty dykedown upon the flooded lowland.

Father Thomas bounded through the door yelling, “Theboat, the boat!” For a moment Ramiro thought,considering the situation, then he said:

“Fetch the Jufvrouw. No, not you, Adrian;she would die rather than come with you. You,Simon, and you, Meg. Swift, obey.”

They departed on their errand.

“Men,” went on Ramiro, “take thisgentleman and lead him to the boat. Hold himif he tries to escape. I will follow with thelady. Go, you fool, go, there is not a secondto be lost,” and Adrian, hanging back and protesting,was dragged away by the boatmen.

Now Ramiro was alone, and though, as he had said,there was little time to spare, again for a few momentshe thought deeply. His face flushed and wentpale; then entered into it a great resolve. “Idon’t like doing it, for it is against my vow,but the chance is good. She is safely married,and at best she would be very troublesome hereafter,and might bring us to justice or to the galleys sinceothers seek her wealth,” he muttered with ashiver, adding, “as for the spies, we are wellrid of them and their evidence.” Then,with swift resolution, stepping to the door at thefoot of the stairs, Ramiro shut it and shot the greatiron bolt!

He ran from the mill; the raised path was alreadythree feet deep in water; he could scarcely make hisway along it. Ah! there lay the boat. Nowhe was in it, and now they were flying before the crestof a huge wave. The dam of the cutting had givenaltogether, and fed from sea and land at once, bysnow, by rain, and by the inrush of the high tide,its waters were pouring in a measureless volume overthe doomed marshes.

“Where is Elsa?” screamed Adrian.

“I don’t know. I couldn’t findher,” answered Ramiro. “Row, row foryour lives! We can take her off in the morning,and the priest too, if he won back.”

At length the cold winter sun rose over the waterywaste, calm enough now, for the floods were out, inplaces ten and fifteen feet deep. Through themists that brooded on the face of them Ramiro and hiscrew groped their way back to where the Red Mill shouldbe. It was gone!

There stood the brick walls of the bottom story risingabove the flood level, but the wooden upper part hadsnapped before the first great wave when the bankwent bodily, and afterwards been swept away by therushing current, swept away with those within.

“What is that?” said one of the boatmen,pointing to a dark object which floated among thetangled debris of sere weeds and woodwork collectedagainst the base of the mill.

They rowed to the thing. It was the body of FatherThomas, who must have missed his footing as he ranalong the pathway, and fallen into deep water.

“Um!” said Ramiro, “‘a virgin’scurse.’ Observe, friends, how the merestcoincidences may give rise to superstition. Allowme,” and, holding the dead man by one hand,he felt in his pockets with the other, till, witha smile of satisfaction, he found the purse containingthe gold which he had paid him on the previous evening.

“Oh! Elsa, Elsa,” moaned Adrian.

“Comfort yourself, my son,” said Ramiroas the boat put about, leaving the dead Father Thomasbobbing up and down in the ripple; “you haveindeed lost a wife whose temper gave you little prospectof happiness, but at least I have your marriage papersduly signed and witnessed, and—­you areher heir.”

He did not add that he in turn was Adrian’s.But Adrian thought of it, and even in the midst ofhis shame and misery wondered with a shiver how longhe who was Ramiro’s next of kin was likely toadorn this world.

Till he had something that was worth inheriting, perhaps.

CHAPTER XXVII

WHAT ELSA SAW IN THE MOONLIGHT

It will be remembered that some weeks before Elsa’sforced marriage in the Red Mill, Foy, on their escapefrom the Gevangenhuis, had been carried upon the nakedback of Martin to the shelter of Mother Martha’slair in the Haarlemer Meer. Here he lay sick manydays, for the sword cut in his thigh festered so badlythat at one time his life was threatened by gangrene,but, in the end, his own strength and healthy constitution,helped with Martha’s simples, cured him.So soon as he was strong again, accompanied by Martin,he travelled into Leyden, which now it was safe enoughfor him to visit, since the Spaniards were drivenfrom the town.

How his young heart swelled as, still limping a littleand somewhat pale from recent illness, he approachedthe well-known house in the Bree Straat, the homethat sheltered his mother and his love. Presentlyhe would see them again, for the news had been broughtto him that Lysbeth was out of danger and Elsa muststill be nursing her.

Lysbeth he found indeed, turned into an old womanby grief and sore sickness, but Elsa he did not find.She had vanished. On the previous night she hadgone out to take the air, and returned no more.What had become of her none could say. All thetown talked of it, and his mother was half-crazedwith anxiety and fear, fear of the worst.

Hither and thither they went inquiring, seeking, tracking,but no trace of Elsa could they discover. Shehad been seen to pass the Morsch poort; then she disappeared.For a while Foy was mad. At length he grew calmerand began to think. Drawing from his pocket theletter which Martha had brought to him on the nightof the church-burning, he re-read it in the hope offinding a clue, since it was just possible that forprivate reasons Elsa might have set out on some journeyof her own. It was a very sweet letter, tellinghim of her deep joy and gratitude at his escape; ofthe events that had happened in the town; of the deathof his father in the Gevangenhuis, and ending thus:

“Dear Foy, my betrothed, I cannot come to youbecause of your mother’s sickness, for I amsure that it would be your wish, as it is my desireand duty, that I should stay to nurse her. Soon,however, I hope that you will be able to come to herand me. Yet, in these dreadful times who cantell what may happen? Therefore, Foy, whateverchances, I am sure you will remember that in lifeor in death I am yours only—­yes, to you,dead or living, you dead and I living, or you livingand I dead, while or wherever I have sense or memory,I will be true; through life, through death, throughwhatever may lie beyond our deaths, I will be trueas woman may be to man. So, dear Foy, for thispresent fare you well until we meet again in the daysto come, or after all earthly days are done with foryou and me. My love be with you, the blessingof God be with you, and when you lie down at nightand when you wake at morn, think of me and put upa prayer for me as your true lover Elsa does for you.Martha waits. Most loved, most dear, most desired,fare you well.”

Here was no hint of any journey, so if such had beentaken it must be without Elsa’s own consent.

“Martin, what do you make of it?” askedFoy, staring at him with anxious, hollow eyes.

“Ramiro—­Adrian—­stolenaway—­” answered Martin.

“Why do you say that?”

“Hague Simon was seen hanging about outsidethe town yesterday, and there was a strange boat uponthe river. Last night the Jufvrouw went throughthe Morsch poort. The rest you can guess.”

“Why would they take her?” asked Foy hoarsely.

“Who can tell?” said Martin shrugginghis great shoulders. “Yet I see two reasons.Hendrik Brant’s wealth is supposed to be herswhen it can be found; therefore, being a thief, Ramirowould want her. Adrian is in love with her; therefore,being a man, of course he would want her. Theseseem enough, the pair being what they are.”

“When I find them I will kill them both,”said Foy, grinding his teeth.

“Of course, so will I, but first we have gotto find them—­and her, which is the samething.”

“How, Martin, how?”

“I don’t know.”

“Can’t you think, man?”

“I am trying to, master; it’s you whodon’t think. You talk too much. Besilent a while.”

“Well,” asked Foy thirty seconds later,“have you finished thinking?”

“No, master, it’s no use, there is nothingto think about. We must leave this and go backto Martha. If anyone can track her out she can.Here we can learn no more.”

So they returned to the Haarlemer Meer and told Marthatheir sad tale.

“Bide here a day or two and be patient,”she said; “I will go out and search.”

“Never,” answered Foy, “we willcome with you.”

“If you choose, but it will make matters moredifficult. Martin, get ready the big boat.”

Two nights had gone by, and it was an hour or morepast noon on the third day, the day of Elsa’sforced marriage. The snow had ceased fallingand the rain had come instead, rain, pitiless, bitterand continual. Hidden in a nook at the northend of the Haarlemer Meer and almost buried beneathbundles of reeds, partly as a protection from theweather and partly to escape the eyes of Spaniards,of whom companies were gathering from every directionto besiege Haarlem, lay the big boat. In it wereRed Martin and Foy van Goorl. Mother Martha wasnot there for she had gone alone to an inn at a distance,to gather information if she could. To hundredsof the boers in these parts she was a known and trustedfriend, although many of them might not choose torecognise her openly, and from among them, unless,indeed, she had been taken right away to Flanders,or even to Spain, she hoped to gather tidings of Elsa’swhereabouts.

For two weary nights and days the Mare had been employedthus, but as yet without a shadow of success.Foy and Martin sat in the boat staring at each othergloomily; indeed Foy’s face was piteous to see.

“What are you thinking of, master?” askedMartin presently.

“I am thinking,” he answered, “thateven if we find her now it will be too late; whateverwas to be done, murder or marriage, will be done.”

“Time to trouble about that when we have foundher,” said Martin, for he knew not what elseto say, and added, “listen, I hear footsteps.”

Foy drew apart two of the bundles of reeds and lookedout into the driving rain.

“All right,” he said, “it is Marthaand a man.”

Martin let his hand fall from the hilt of the swordSilence, for in those days hand and sword must benear together. Another minute and Martha andher companion were in the boat.

“Who is this man?” asked Foy.

“He is a friend of mine named Marsh Jan.”

“Have you news?”

“Yes, at least Marsh Jan has.”

“Speak, and be swift,” said Foy, turningon the man fiercely.

“Am I safe from vengeance?” asked MarshJan, who was a good fellow enough although he haddrifted into evil company, looking doubtfully at Foyand Martin.

“Have I not said so,” answered Martha,“and does the Mare break her word?”

Then Marsh Jan told his tale: How he was oneof the party that two nights before had rowed Elsa,or at least a young woman who answered to her description,to the Red Mill, not far from Velzen, and how she wasin the immediate charge of a man and a woman who couldbe no other than Hague Simon and Black Meg. Alsohe told of her piteous appeal to the boatmen in thenames of their wives and daughters, and at the tellingof it Foy wept with fear and rage, and even Marthagnashed her teeth. Only Martin cast off the boatand began to punt her out into deep water.

“Is that all?” asked Foy.

“That is all, Mynheer, I know nothing more,but I can explain to you where the place is.”

“You can show us, you mean,” said Foy.

The man expostulated. The weather was bad, therewould be a flood, his wife was ill and expected him,and so forth. Then he tried to get out of theboat, whereon, catching hold of him suddenly, Martinthrew him into the stern-sheets, saying:

“You could travel to this mill once taking withyou a girl whom you knew to be kidnapped, now youcan travel there again to get her out. Sit stilland steer straight, or I will make you food for fishes.”

Then Marsh Jan professed himself quite willing tosail to the Red Mill, which he said they ought toreach by nightfall.

All that afternoon they sailed and rowed, till, withthe darkness, before ever the mill was in sight, thegreat flood came down upon them and drove them hitherand thither, such a flood as had not been seen inthose districts for a dozen years. But Marsh Janknew his bearings well; he had the instinct of localitythat is bred in those whose forefathers for generationshave won a living from the fens, and through it allhe held upon a straight course.

Once Foy thought that he heard a voice calling forhelp in the darkness, but it was not repeated andthey went forward. At last the sky cleared andthe moon shone out upon such a waste of waters as Noahmight have beheld from the ark. Only there werethings floating in them that Noah would scarcely haveseen; hayricks, dead and drowning cattle, householdfurniture, and once even a coffin washed from somegraveyard, while beyond stretched the dreary outlineof the sand dunes.

“The mill should be near,” said MarshJan, “let us put about.” So theyturned, rowing with weary arms, for the wind had fallen.

Let us go back a little. Elsa, on escaping fromthe scene of her mock marriage, fled to her room andbolted its door. A few seconds later she heardhands hammering at it, and the voices of Hague Simonand Black Meg calling to her to open. She tookno note, the hammering ceased, and then it was thatfor the first time she became aware of a dreadful,roaring noise, a noise of many waters. Time passedas it passes in a nightmare, till suddenly, abovethe dull roar, came sharp sounds as of wood crackingand splitting, and Elsa felt that the whole fabricof the mill had tilted. Beneath the pressureof the flood it had given where it was weakest, atits narrow waist, and now its red cap hung over likea wind-laid tree.

Terror took hold of Elsa, and running to the doorshe opened it hoping to escape down the stairs.Behold! water was creeping up them, she could seeit by the lantern in her hand—­her retreatwas cut off. But there were other stairs leadingto the top storey of the mill that now lay at a steepangle, and along these she climbed, since the waterwas pouring through her doorway and there was nowhereelse to go. In the very roof of the place wasa manhole with a rotten hatch. She passed throughthis, to find herself upon the top of the mill justwhere one of the great naked arms of the sails projectedfrom it. Her lantern was blown out by now, butshe clung to the arm, and became aware that the woodencap of the structure, still anchored to its brickfoundation, lay upon its side rocking to and fro likea boat upon an angry sea. The water was nearher; that she knew by its seethe and rush, althoughshe could not see it, but as yet it did not even wether feet.

The hours went by, how many, she never learned, tillat length the clouds cleared; the moon became visible,and by its light she saw an awful scene. Everywherearound was water; it lapped within a yard, and itwas rising still. Now Elsa saw that in the greatbeam she clasped were placed short spokes for theuse of those who set the sails above. Up theseshe climbed as best she might, till she was able topass her body between two of the vanes and supporther breast upon the flat surface of one of them, asa person does who leans out of a window. Fromher window there was something to see. Quite nearto her, but separated by fifteen or twenty feet ofyellow frothing water, a little portion of the swellingshape of the mill stood clear of the flood. Tothis foam-lapped island clung two human beings—­HagueSimon and Black Meg. They saw her also and screamedfor help, but she had none to give. Surely itwas a dream—­nothing so awful could happenoutside a dream.

The fabric of the mill tilted more and more; the spaceto which the two vile creatures hung grew less andless. There was no longer room for both of them.They began to quarrel, to curse and jibber at eachother, their fierce, bestial faces not an inch apartas they crouched there on hands and knees. Thewater rose a little, they were kneeling in it now,and the man, putting down his bald head, butted atthe woman, almost thrusting her from her perch.But she was strong and active, she struggled backagain; she did more, with an eel-like wriggle she climbedupon his back, weighing him down. He strove toshake her off but could not, for on that heaving,rolling surface he dared not loose his hand-grip,so he turned his flat and florid face, and, seizingher leg between his teeth, bit and worried at it.In her pain and rage Meg screeched aloud—­thatwas the cry which Foy had heard. Then suddenlyshe drew a knife from her bosom—­Elsa sawit flash in the moonlight—­and stabbed downwardsonce, twice, thrice.

Elsa shut her eyes. When she opened them againthe woman was alone upon the little patch of red boarding,her body splayed out over it like that of a dead frog.So she lay a while till suddenly the cap of the RedMill dipped slowly like a lady who makes a Court curtsey,and she vanished. It rose again and Meg was stillthere, moaning in her terror and water running fromher dress. Then again it dipped, this time moredeeply, and when the patch of rusty boarding slowlyreappeared, it was empty. No, not quite, forclinging to it, yowling and spitting, was the half-wildblack cat which Elsa had seen wandering about the mill.But of Black Meg there was no trace.

It was dreadfully cold up there hanging to the sail-bar,for now that the rain had finished, it began to freeze.Indeed, had it not chanced that Elsa was dressed inher warm winter gown with fur upon it, and dry fromher head to her feet, it is probable that she wouldhave fallen off and perished in the water. Asit was gradually her body became numb and her sensesfaded. She seemed to know that all this matterof her forced marriage, of the flood, and of the endof Simon and Meg, was nothing but a dream, a veryevil nightmare from which she would awake presentlyto find herself snug and warm in her own bed in theBree Straat. Of course it must be a nightmare,for look, there, on the bare patch of boarding beneath,the hideous struggle repeated itself. There layHague Simon gnawing at his wife’s foot, onlyhis fat, white face was gone, and in place of it hewore the head of a cat, for she, the watcher, couldsee its glowing eyes fixed upon her. And Meg—­lookhow her lean limbs gripped him round the body.Listen to the thudding noise as the great knife fellbetween his shoulders. And now, see—­shewas growing tall, she had become a giantess, her faceshot across the gulf of water and swam upwards throughthe shadows till it was within a foot of her.

Oh! she must fall, but first she would scream forhelp—­surely the dead themselves could hearthat cry. Better not have uttered it, it mightbring Ramiro back; better go to join the dead.What did the voice say, Meg’s voice, but howchanged? That she was not to be afraid? Thatthe thudding was the sound of oars not of knife thrusts?This would be Ramiro’s boat coming to seizeher. Of him and Adrian she could bear no more;she would throw herself into the water and trust toGod. One, two, three—­then utter darkness.

Elsa became aware that light was shining about her,also that somebody was kissing her upon the face andlips. A horrible doubt struck her that it mightbe Adrian, and she opened her eyes ever so little tolook. No, no, how very strange, it was not Adrian,it was Foy! Well, doubtless this must be allpart of her vision, and as in dream or out of it Foyhad a perfect right to kiss her if he chose, she sawno reason to interfere. Now she seemed to heara familiar voice, that of Red Martin, asking someonehow long it would take them to make Haarlem with thiswind, to which another voice answered, “Aboutthree-quarters of an hour.”

It was very odd, and why did he say Haarlem and notLeyden? Next the second voice, which also seemedfamiliar, said:

“Look out, Foy, she’s coming to herself.”Then someone poured wine down her throat, whereupon,unable to bear this bewilderment any longer, Elsasat up and opened her eyes wide, to see before herFoy, and none other than Foy in the flesh.

She gasped, and began to sink back again with joyand weakness, whereon he cast his arms about her anddrew her to his breast. Then she remembered everything.

“Oh! Foy, Foy,” she cried, “youmust not kiss me.”

“Why not?” he asked.

“Because—­because I am married.”

Of a sudden his happy face became ghastly. “Married!”he stammered. “Who to?”

“To—­your brother, Adrian.”

He stared at her in amazement, then asked slowly:

“Did you run away from Leyden to marry him?”

“How dare you ask such a question?” repliedElsa with a flash of spirit.

“Perhaps, then, you would explain?”

“What is there to explain? I thought thatyou knew. They dragged me away, and last night,just before the flood burst, I was gagged and marriedby force.”

“Oh! Adrian, my friend,” groanedFoy, “wait till I catch you, my friend Adrian.”

“To be just,” explained Elsa, “Idon’t think Adrian wanted to marry me much,but he had to choose between marrying me himself orseeing his father Ramiro marry me.”

“So he sacrificed himself—­the good,kind-hearted man,” interrupted Foy, grindinghis teeth.

“Yes,” said Elsa.

“And where is your self-denying—­oh!I can’t say the word.”

“I don’t know. I suppose that heand Ramiro escaped in the boat, or perhaps he wasdrowned.”

“In which case you are a widow sooner than youcould have expected,” said Foy more cheerfully,edging himself towards her.

But Elsa moved a little away and Foy saw with a sinkingof the heart that, however distasteful it might beto her, clearly she attached some weight to this marriage.

“I do not know,” she answered, “howcan I tell? I suppose that we shall hear sometime,and then, if he is still alive, I must set to workto get free of him. But, till then, Foy,”she added, warningly, “I suppose that I am hiswife in law, although I will never speak to him again.Where are we going?”

“To Haarlem. The Spaniards are closingin upon the city, and we dare not try to break throughtheir lines. Those are Spanish boats behind us.But eat and drink a little, Elsa, then tell us yourstory.”

“One question first, Foy. How did you findme?”

“We heard a woman scream twice, once far awayand once near at hand, and rowing to the sound, sawsomeone hanging to the arm of an overturned windmillonly three or four feet above the water. Of coursewe knew that you had been taken to the mill; thatman there told us. Do you remember him?But at first we could not find it in the darkness andthe flood.”

Then, after she had swallowed something, Elsa toldher story, while the three of them clustered roundher forward of the sail, and Marsh Jan managed thehelm. When she had finished it, Martin whisperedto Foy, and as though by a common impulse all fourof them kneeled down upon the boards in the bottomof the boat, and returned thanks to the Almighty thatthis maiden, quite unharmed, had been delivered outof such manifold and terrible dangers, and this bythe hands of her own friends and of the man to whomshe was affianced. When they had finished theirservice of thanksgiving, which was as simple as itwas solemn and heartfelt, they rose, and now Elsadid not forbid that Foy should hold her hand.

“Say, sweetheart,” he asked, “isit true that you think anything of this forced marriage?”

“Hear me before you answer,” broke inMartha. “It is no marriage at all, fornone can be wed without the consent of their own will,and you gave no such consent.”

“It is no marriage,” echoed Martin, “andif it be, and I live, then the sword shall cut itsknot.”

“It is no marriage,” said Foy, “foralthough we have not stood together before the altar,yet our hearts are wed, so how can you be made thewife of another man?”

“Dearest,” replied Elsa, when they hadall spoken, “I too am sure that it is no marriage,yet a priest spoke the marriage words over me, anda ring was thrust upon my hand, so, to the law, ifthere be any law left in the Netherlands, I am perhapsin some sort a wife. Therefore, before I canbecome wife to you these facts must be made public,and I must appeal to the law to free me, lest in daysto come others should be troubled.”

“And if the law cannot, or will not, Elsa, whatthen?”

“Then, dear, our consciences being clean, wewill be a law to ourselves. But first we mustwait a while. Are you satisfied now, Foy?”

“No,” answered Foy sulkily, “forit is monstrous that such devil’s work shouldkeep us apart even for an hour. Yet in this, asin all, I will obey you, dear.”

“Marrying and giving in marriage!” brokein Martha in a shrill voice. “Talk no moreof such things, for there is other work before us.Look yonder, girl, what do you see?” and shepointed to the dry land. “The hosts ofthe Amalekites marching in their thousands to slaughterus and our brethren, the children of the Lord.Look behind you, what do you see? The ships ofthe tyrant sailing up to encompass the city of thechildren of the Lord. It is the day of death anddesolation, the day of Armageddon, and ere the sunsets red upon it many a thousand must pass throughthe gates of doom, we, mayhap, among them. Thenup with the flag of freedom; out with the steel oftruth, gird on the buckler of righteousness, and snatchthe shield of hope. Fight, fight for the libertyof the land that bore you, for the memory of Christ,the King who died for you, for the faith to whichyou are born; fight, fight, and when the fray is done,then, and not before, think of peace and love.

“Nay, children, look not so fearful, for I,the mad mere-wife, tell you, by the Grace of God,that you have naught to fear. Who preserved youin the torture den, Foy van Goorl? What handwas it that held your life and honour safe when yousojourned among devils in the Red Mill yonder andkept your head above the waters of the flood, ElsaBrant? You know well, and I, Martha, tell youthat this same hand shall hold you safe until theend. Yes, I know it, I know it; thousands shallfall upon your right hand and tens of thousands uponyour left, but you shall live through the hunger;the arrows of pestilence shall pass you by, the swordof the wicked shall not harm you. For me it isotherwise, at length my doom draws near and I am wellcontent; but for you twain, Foy and Elsa, I foretellmany years of earthly joy.”

Thus spoke Martha, and it seemed to those who watchedher that her wild, disfigured face shone with a lightof inspiration, nor did they who knew her story, andstill believed that the spirit of prophecy could openthe eyes of chosen seers, deem it strange that visionof the things to be should visit her. At theleast they took comfort from her words, and for awhile were no more afraid.

Yet they had much to fear. By a fateful accidentthey had been delivered from great dangers only tofall into dangers greater still, for as it chanced,on this tenth of December, 1572, they sailed straightinto the grasp of the thousands of the Spanish armieswhich had been drawn like a net round the doomed cityof Haarlem. There was no escape for them; nothingthat had not wings could pass those lines of shipsand soldiers. Their only refuge was the city,and in that city they must bide till the struggle,one of the most fearful of all that hideous war, wasended. But at least they had this comfort, theywould face the foe together, and with them were twowho loved them, Martha, the “Spanish Scourge,”and Red Martin, the free Frisian, the mighty man ofwar whom God had appointed to them as a shield ofdefence.

So they smiled on each other, these two lovers oflong ago, and sailed bravely on to the closing gatesof Haarlem.

CHAPTER XXVIII

ATONEMENT

Seven months had gone by, seven of the most dreadfulmonths ever lived through by human beings. Forall this space of time, through the frosts and snowsand fogs of winter, through the icy winds of spring,and now deep into the heart of summer, the city ofHaarlem had been closely beleaguered by an army ofthirty thousand Spaniards, most of them veteran troopsunder the command of Don Frederic, the son of Alva,and other generals. Against this disciplinedhost were opposed the little garrison of four thousandHollanders and Germans aided by a few Scotch and Englishsoldiers, together with a population of about twentythousand old men, women and children. From dayto day, from week to week, from month to month, thestruggle was waged between these unequal forces, markedon either side by the most heroic efforts and by crueltiesthat would strike our age as monstrous. For inthose times the captive prisoner of war could expectno mercy; indeed, he was fortunate if he was not hungfrom a gibbet by the leg to die slowly within eyeshotof his friends.

There were battles without number, men perished inhecatombs; among the besieging armies alone over twelvethousand lost their lives, so that the neighbourhoodof Haarlem became one vast graveyard, and the fishin the lake were poisoned by the dead. Assault,sortie, ambuscade, artifice of war; combats to thedeath upon the ice between skate-shod soldiers; desperatesea fights, attempts to storm; the explosion of minesand counter-mines that brought death to hundreds—­allthese became the familiar incidents of daily life.

Then there were other horrors; cold from insufficientfuel, pestilences of various sorts such as alwaysattend a siege, and, worse of all for the beleaguered,hunger. Week by week as the summer aged, the foodgrew less and less, till at length there was nothing.The weeds that grew in the street, the refuse of tanneries,the last ounce of offal, the mice and the cats, allhad been devoured. On the lofty steeple of St.Bavon for days and days had floated a black flag totell the Prince of Orange in Leyden that below itwas despair as black. The last attempt at succourhad been made. Batenburg had been defeated andslain, together with the Seigneurs of Clotingen andCarloo, and five or six hundred men. Now therewas no more hope.

Desperate expedients were suggested: That thewomen, children, aged and sick should be left in thecity, while the able-bodied men cut a way throughthe battalions of their besiegers. On these non-combatantsit was hoped that the Spaniard would have mercy—­asthough the Spaniard could have mercy, he who afterwardsdragged the wounded and the ailing to the door ofthe hospital and there slaughtered them in cold blood;aye, and here and elsewhere, did other things too dreadfulto write down. Says the old chronicler, “Butthis being understood by the women, they assembledall together, making the most pitiful cries and lamentationsthat could be heard, the which would have moved a heartof flint, so as it was not possible to abandon them.”

Next another plan was formed: that all the femalesand helpless should be set in the centre of a squareof the fighting men, to march out and give battleto the foe till everyone was slain. Then the Spaniardshearing this and growing afraid of what these desperatemen might do, fell back on guile. If they wouldsurrender, the citizens of Haarlem were told, andpay two hundred and forty thousand florins, no punishmentshould be inflicted. So, having neither food norhope, they listened to the voice of the tempter andsurrendered, they who had fought until their garrisonof four thousand was reduced to eighteen hundred men.

It was noon and past on the fatal twelfth of July.The gates were open, the Spaniards, those who wereleft alive of them, Don Frederic at their head, withdrums beating, banners flying, and swords sharpenedfor murder, were marching into the city of Haarlem.In a deep niche between two great brick piers of thecathedral were gathered four people whom we know.War and famine had left them all alive, yet they hadborne their share of both. In every enterprise,however desperate, Foy and Martin had marched, orstood, or watched side by side, and well did the Spaniardsknow the weight of the great sword Silence and thered-headed giant who wielded it. Mother Martha,too, had not been idle. Throughout the siegeshe had served as the lieutenant of the widow Hasselaer,who with a band of three hundred women fought dayand night alongside of their husbands and brothers.Even Elsa, who although she was too delicate and bynature timid and unfitted to go out to battle, haddone her part, for she laboured at the digging ofmines and the building of walls till her soft handswere rough and scarred.

How changed they were. Foy, whose face had beenso youthful, looked now like a man on the wrong sideof middle age. The huge Martin might have beena great skeleton on which hung clothes, or rather ragsand a rent bull’s hide, with his blue eyes shiningin deep pits beneath the massive, projecting skull.Elsa too had become quite small, like a child.Her sweet face was no longer pretty, only pitiful,and all the roundness of her figure had vanished—­shemight have been an emaciated boy. Of the fourof them Martha the Mare, who was dressed like a man,showed the least change. Indeed, except that nowher hair was snowy, that her features were rathermore horse-like, that the yellow, lipless teeth projectedeven further, and the thin nervous hands had becomealmost like those of an Egyptian mummy, she was muchas she always had been.

Martin leaned upon the great sword and groaned.“Curses on them, the cowards,” he muttered;“why did they not let us go out and die fighting?Fools, mad fools, who would trust to the mercy of theSpaniard.”

“Oh! Foy,” said Elsa, throwing herthin arms about his neck, “you will not letthem take me, will you? If it comes to the worst,you will kill me, won’t you? OtherwiseI must kill myself, and Foy, I am a coward, I am afraid—­todo that.”

“I suppose so,” he answered in a harsh,unnatural voice, “but oh! God, if Thouart, have pity upon her. Oh! God have pity.”

“Blaspheme not, doubt not!” broke in theshrill voice of Martha. “Has it not beenas I told you last winter in the boat? Have younot been protected, and shall you not be protectedto the end? Only blaspheme not, doubt not!”

The niche in which they were standing was out of sightof the great square and those who thronged it, butas Martha spoke a band of victorious Spaniards, sevenor eight of them, came round the corner and caughtsight of the party in the nook.

“There’s a girl,” said the sergeantin command of them, “who isn’t bad looking.Pull her out, men.”

Some fellows stepped forward to do his bidding.Now Foy went mad. He did not kill Elsa as shehad prayed him, he flew straight at the throat ofthe brute who had spoken, and next instant his swordwas standing out a foot behind his neck. Thenafter him, with a kind of low cry, came Martin, plyingthe great blade Silence, and Martha after him withher long knife. It was all over in a minute,but before it was done there were five men down, threedead and two sore wounded.

“A tithe and an offering!” muttered Marthaas, bounding forward, she bent over the wounded men,and their comrades fled round the corner of the cathedral.

There was a minute’s pause. The brightsummer sunlight shone upon the faces and armour ofthe dead Spaniards, upon the naked sword of Foy, whostood over Elsa crouched to the ground in a cornerof the niche, her face hidden in her hands, upon theterrible blue eyes of Martin alight with a dreadfulfire of rage. Then there came the sound of marchingmen, and a company of Spaniards appeared before them,and at their head—­Ramiro and Adrian calledvan Goorl.

“There they are, captain,” said a soldier,one of those who had fled; “shall we shoot them?”

Ramiro looked, carelessly enough at first, then againa long, scrutinising look. So he had caught themat last! Months ago he had learned that Elsahad been rescued from the Red Mill by Foy and Martin,and now, after much seeking, the birds were in hisnet.

“No,” he said, “I think not.Such desperate characters must be reserved for separatetrial.”

“Where can they be kept, captain?” askedthe sergeant sulkily.

“I observed, friend, that the house which myson and I have taken as our quarters has excellentcellars; they can be imprisoned there for the present—­thatis, except the young lady, whom the Senor Adrian willlook after. As it chances, she is his wife.”

At this the soldiers laughed openly.

“I repeat—­his wife, for whom he hasbeen searching these many months,” said Ramiro,“and, therefore, to be respected. Do youunderstand, men?”

Apparently they did understand, at least no one madeany answer. Their captain, as they had found,was not a man who loved argument.

“Now, then, you fellows,” went on Ramiro,“give up your arms.”

Martin thought a while. Evidently he was wonderingwhether it would not be best to rush at them and diefighting. At that moment, as he said afterwardsindeed, the old saying came into his mind, “Agame is not lost until it is won,” and rememberingthat dead men can never have another chance of winninggames, he gave up the sword.

“Hand that to me,” said Ramiro. “Itis a curious weapon to which I have taken a fancy.”

So sword Silence was handed to him, and he slung itover his shoulder. Foy looked at the kneelingElsa, and he looked at his sword. Then an ideastruck him, and he looked at the face of Adrian, hisbrother, whom he had last seen when the said Adrianran to warn him and Martin at the factory, for thoughhe knew that he was fighting with his father amongthe Spaniards, during the siege they had never met.Even then, in that dire extremity, with a sudden flashof thought he wondered how it happened that Adrian,being the villain that he was, had taken the troubleto come and warn them yonder in Leyden, thereby givingthem time to make a very good defence in the shottower.

Foy looked up at his brother. Adrian was dressedin the uniform of a Spanish officer, with a breast-plateover his quilted doublet, and a steel cap, from thefront of which rose a frayed and weather-worn plumeof feathers. The face had changed; there was noneof the old pomposity about those handsome features;it looked worn and cowed, like that of an animal whichhas been trained to do tricks by hunger and the useof the whip. Yet, through all the shame and degradation,Foy seemed to catch the glint of some kind of light,a light of good desire shining behind that piteousmask, as the sun sometimes shines through a sullen

cloud. Could it be that Adrian was not quiteso bad after all? That he was, in fact, the Adrianthat he, Foy, had always believed him to be, vain,silly, passionate, exaggerated, born to be a tool andthink himself the master, but beneath everything,well-meaning? Who could say? At the worst,too, was it not better that Elsa should become thewife of Adrian than that her life should cease thereand then, and by her lover’s hand?

These things passed through his brain as the lightningpasses through the sky. In an instant his mindwas made up and Foy flung down his sword at the feetof a soldier. As he did so his eyes met the eyesof Adrian, and to his imagination they seemed to befull of thanks and promise.

They took them all; with gibes and blows the soldiershaled them away through the tumult and the agony ofthe fallen town and its doomed defenders. Outof the rich sunlight they led them into a house thatstill stood not greatly harmed by the cannon-shot,but a little way from the shattered Ravelin and thegate which had been the scene of such fearful conflict—­ahouse that was the home of one of the wealthiest merchantsin Haarlem. Here Foy and Elsa were parted.She struggled to his arms, whence they tore her anddragged her away up the stairs, but Martin, Marthaand Foy were thrust into a dark cellar, locked in andleft.

A while later the door of the cellar was unbarredand some hand, they could not see whose, passed throughit water and food, good food such as they had nottasted for months; meat and bread and dried herrings,more than they could eat of them.

“Perhaps it is poisoned,” said Foy, smellingat it hungrily.

“What need to take the trouble to poison us?”answered Martin. “Let us eat and drink,for to-morrow we die.”

So like starving animals they devoured the food withthankfulness and then they slept, yes, in the midstof all their misery and doubts they slept.

It seemed but a few minutes later—­in factit was eight hours—­when the door openedagain and there entered Adrian carrying a lantern inhis hand.

“Foy, Martin,” he said, “get upand follow me if you would save your lives.”

Instantly they were wide awake.

“Follow you—­you?” stammeredFoy in a choked voice.

“Yes,” Adrian answered quietly. “Ofcourse you may not escape, but if you stop here whatchance have you? Ramiro, my father, will be backpresently and then——­”

“It is madness to trust ourselves to you,”interrupted Martin, and Adrian seemed to wince atthe contempt in his voice.

“I knew that you would think that,” heanswered humbly, “but what else is to be done?I can pass you out of the city, I have made a boatready for you to escape in, all at the risk of myown life; what more can I do? Why do you hesitate?”

“Because we do not believe you,” saidFoy; “besides, there is Elsa. I will notgo without Elsa.”

“I have thought of that,” answered Adrian.“Elsa is here. Come, Elsa, show yourself.”

Then from the stairs Elsa crept into the cellar, anew Elsa, for she, too, had been fed, and in her eyesthere shone a light of hope. A wild jealousyfilled Foy’s heart. Why did she look thus?But she, she ran to him, she flung her arms abouthis neck and kissed him, and Adrian did nothing, heonly turned his head aside.

“Foy,” she gasped, “he is honestafter all; he has only been unfortunate. Comequickly, there is a chance for us; come before thatdevil returns. Now he is at a council of the officerssettling with Don Frederic who are to be killed, butsoon he will be back, and then——­”

So they hesitated no more, but went.

They passed out of the house, none stopping them—­theguard had gone to the sack. At the gate by theruined Ravelin there stood a sentry, but the man wascareless, or drunken, or bribed, who knows? Atleast, Adrian gave him a pass-word, and, nodding hishead, he let them by. A few minutes later theywere at the Mere side, and there among some reeds laythe boat.

“Enter and be gone,” said Adrian.

They scrambled into the boat and took the oars, whileMartha began to push off.

“Adrian,” said Elsa, “what is tobecome of you?”

“Why do you trouble about that?” he askedwith a bitter laugh. “I go back to my death,my blood is the price of your freedom. Well, Iowe it to you.”

“Oh! no,” she cried, “come withus.”

“Yes,” echoed Foy, although again thatbitter pang of jealousy gripped his heart, “comewith us—­brother.”

“Do you really mean it?” Adrian asked,hesitating. “Think, I might betray you.”

“If so, young man, why did you not do it before?”growled Martin, and stretching out his great, bonyarm he gripped him by the collar and dragged him intothe boat.

Then they rowed away.

“Where are we going?” asked Martin.

“To Leyden, I suppose,” said Foy, “ifwe can get there, which, without a sail or weapons,seems unlikely.”

“I have put some arms in the boat,” interruptedAdrian, “the best I could get,” and froma locker he drew out a common heavy axe, a coupleof Spanish swords, a knife, a smaller axe, a cross-bowand some bolts.

“Not so bad,” said Martin, rowing withhis left hand as he handled the big axe with his right,“but I wish that I had my sword Silence, whichthat accursed Ramiro took from me and hung about hisneck. I wonder why he troubled himself with thething? It is too long for a man of his inches.”

“I don’t know,” said Adrian, “butwhen last I saw him he was working at its hilt witha chisel, which seemed strange. He always wantedthat sword. During the siege he offered a largereward to any soldier who could kill you and bringit to him.”

“Working at the hilt with a chisel?” gaspedMartin. “By Heaven, I had forgotten!The map, the map! Some wicked villain must havetold him that the map of the treasure was there—­thatis why he wanted the sword.”

“Who could have told him?” asked Foy.“It was only known to you and me and Martha,and we are not of the sort to tell. What?Give away the secret of Hendrik Brant’s treasurewhich he could die for and we were sworn to keep,to save our miserable lives? Shame upon the thought!”

Martha heard, and looked at Elsa, a questioning lookbeneath which the poor girl turned a fiery red, thoughby good fortune in that light none could see her blushes.Still, she must speak lest the suspicion should lieon others.

“I ought to have told you before,” shesaid in a low voice, “but I forgot—­Imean that I have always been so dreadfully ashamed.It was I who betrayed the secret of the sword Silence.”

“You? How did you know it?” askedFoy.

“Mother Martha told me on the night of the churchburning after you escaped from Leyden.”

Martin grunted. “One woman to trust another,and at her age too; what a fool!”

“Fool yourself, you thick-brained Frisian,”broke in Martha angrily, “where did you learnto teach your betters wisdom? I told the Jufvrouwbecause I knew that we might all of us be swept away,and I thought it well that then she should know whereto look for a key to the treasure.”

“A woman’s kind of reason,” answeredMartin imperturbably, “and a bad one at that,for if we had been finished off she must have foundit difficult to get hold of the sword. But allthis is done with. The point is, why did theJufvrouw tell Ramiro?”

“Because I am a coward,” answered Elsawith a sob. “You know, Foy, I always wasa coward, and I never shall be anything else.I told him to save myself.”

“From what?”

“From being married.”

Adrian winced palpably, and Foy, noting it, couldnot resist pushing the point.

“From being married? But I understand—­doubtlessAdrian will explain the thing,” he added grimly—­“thatyou were forced through some ceremony.”

“Yes,” answered Elsa feebly, “I—­I—­was.I tried to buy myself off by telling Ramiro the secret,which will show you all how mad I was with terrorat the thought of this hateful marriage”—­herea groan burst from the lips of Adrian, and somethinglike a chuckle from those of Red Martin. “Oh!I am so sorry,” went on Elsa in confusion; “Iam sure that I did not wish to hurt Adrian’sfeelings, especially after he has been so good tous.”

“Never mind Adrian’s feelings and hisgoodness, but go on with the story,” interruptedFoy.

“There isn’t much more to tell. Ramiroswore before God that if I gave him the clue he wouldlet me go, and then—­then, well, then, afterI had fallen into the pit and disgraced myself, hesaid that it was not sufficient, and that the marriagemust take place.”

At this point Foy and Martin laughed outright.Yes, even there they laughed.

“Why, you silly child,” said Foy, “whatelse did you expect him to say?”

“Oh! Martin, do you forgive me?”said Elsa. “Immediately after I had doneit I knew how shameful it was, and that he would tryto hunt you down, and that is why I have been afraidto tell you ever since. But I pray you believeme; I only spoke because, between shame and fear, Idid not know right from wrong. Do you forgiveme?”

“Lady,” answered the Frisian, smilingin his slow fashion, “if I had been there unknownto Ramiro, and you had offered him this head of mineon a dish as a bribe, not only would I have forgivenyou but I would have said that you did right.You are a maid, and you had to protect yourself froma very dreadful thing; therefore who can blame you?”

“I can,” said Martha. “Ramiromight have torn me to pieces with red-hot pincersbefore I told him.”

“Yes,” said Martin, who felt that he hada debt to pay, “Ramiro might, but I doubt whetherhe would have gone to that trouble to persuade youto take a husband. No, don’t be angry.’Frisian thick of head, Frisian free of speech,’goes the saying.”

Not being able to think of any appropriate rejoinder,Martha turned again upon Elsa.

“Your father died for that treasure,”she said, “and Dirk van Goorl died for it, andyour lover and his serving-man there went to the torture-denfor it, and I—­well, I have done a thingor two. But you, girl, why, at the first pinch,you betray the secret. But, as Martin says, Iwas fool enough to tell you.”

“Oh! you are hard,” said Elsa, beginningto weep under Martha’s bitter reproaches; “butyou forget that at least none of you were asked tomarry—­oh! I mustn’t say that.I mean to become the wife of one man;” thenher eyes fell upon Foy and an inspiration seized her;here, at least, was one of whom she could make a friend—­“whenyou happen to be very much in love with another.”

“Of course not,” said Foy, “thereis no need for you to explain.”

“I think there is a great deal to explain,”went on Martha, “for you cannot fool me withpretty words. But now, hark you, Foy van Goorl,what is to be done? We have striven hard to savethat treasure, all of us; is it to be lost at thelast?”

“Aye,” echoed Martin, growing very serious,“is it to be lost at the last? Rememberwhat the worshipful Hendrik Brant said to us yonderon that night at The Hague—­that he believedthat in a day to come thousands and tens of thousandsof our people would bless the gold he entrusted tous.”

“I remember it all,” answered Foy, “andother things too; his will, for instance,” andhe thought of his father and of those hours which Martinand he had spent in the Gevangenhuis. Then helooked up at Martha and said briefly: “Mother,though they call you mad, you are the wisest amongus; what is your counsel?”

She pondered awhile and answered: “Thisis certain, that so soon as Ramiro finds that we haveescaped, having the key to it, he will take boat andsail to the place where the barrels are buried, knowingwell that otherwise we shall be off with them.Yes, I tell you that by dawn, or within an hour ofit, he will be there,” and she stopped.

“You mean,” said Foy, “that we oughtto be there before him.”

Martha nodded and answered, “If we can, butI think that at best there must be a fight for it.”

“Yes,” said Martin, “a fight.Well, I should like another fight with Ramiro.That fork-tongued adder has got my sword, and I wantto get it back again.”

“Oh!” broke in Elsa, “is there tobe more fighting? I hoped that at last we weresafe, and going straight to Leyden, where the Princeis. I hate this bloodshed; I tell you, Foy, itfrightens me to death; I believe that I shall dieof it.”

“You hear what she says?” asked Foy.

“We hear,” answered Martha. “Takeno heed of her, the child has suffered much, she isweak and squeamish. Now I, although I believethat my death lies before me, I say, go on and fearnot.”

“But I do take heed,” said Foy. “Notfor all the treasures in the world shall Elsa be putin danger again if she does not wish it; she shalldecide, and she alone.”

“How good you are to me,” she murmured,then she mused a moment. “Foy,” shesaid, “will you promise something to me?”

“After your experience of Ramiro’s oathsI wonder that you ask,” he answered, tryingto be cheerful.

“Will you promise,” she went on, takingno note, “that if I say yes and we go, not toLeyden, but to seek the treasure, and live throughit, that you will take me away from this land of bloodshedand murder and torments, to some country where folkmay live at peace, and see no one killed, except itbe now and again an evil-doer? It is much to ask,but oh! Foy, will you promise?”

“Yes, I promise,” said Foy, for he, too,was weary of this daily terror. Who would nothave been that had passed through the siege of Haarlem?

Foy was steering, but now Martha slipped aft and tookthe tiller from his hand. For a moment she studiedthe stars that grew clearer in the light of the sinkingmoon, then shifted the helm a point or two to portand sat still.

“I am hungry again,” said Martin presently;“I feel as though I could eat for a week withoutstopping.”

Adrian looked up from over his oar, at which he waslabouring dejectedly, and said:

“There are food and wine in the locker.I hid them there. Perhaps Elsa could serve themto those who wish to eat.”

So Elsa, who was doing nothing, found the drink andvictuals, and handed them round to the rowers, whoate and drank as best they might with a thankful heart,but without ceasing from their task. To men whohave starved for months the taste of wholesome provenderand sound wine is a delight that cannot be writtenin words.

When at length they had filled themselves, Adrianspoke.

“If it is your good will, brother,” hesaid, addressing Foy, “as we do not know whatlies in front, nor how long any of us have to live,I, who am an outcast and a scorn among you, wish totell you a story.”

“Speak on,” said Foy.

So Adrian began from the beginning, and told themall his tale. He told them how at the first hehad been led astray by superstitions, vanity, andlove; how his foolish confidences had been writtendown by spies; how he had been startled and terrifiedinto signing them with results of which they knew.Then he told them how he was hunted like a mad dogthrough the streets of Leyden after his mother hadturned him from her door; how he took refuge in theden of Hague Simon, and there had fought with Ramiroand been conquered by the man’s address and hisown horror of shedding a father’s blood.He told them of his admission into the Roman faith,of the dreadful scene in the church when Martha haddenounced him, of their flight to the Red Mill.He told them of the kidnapping of Elsa, and how hehad been quite innocent of it although he loved herdearly; of how at last he was driven into marryingher, meaning her no harm, to save her from the gripof Ramiro, and knowing at heart that it was no marriage;of how, when the flood burst upon them, he had beenhustled from the mill where, since she could no longerbe of service to him and might work him injury, ashe discovered afterwards, Ramiro had left Elsa toher fate. Lastly, in a broken voice, he toldthem of his life during the long siege which, so hesaid, was as the life of a damned spirit, and of how,when death thinned the ranks of the Spaniards, hehad been made an officer among them, and by the specialmalice of Ramiro forced to conduct the executions andmurders of such Hollanders as they took.

Then at last his chance had come. Ramiro, thinkingthat now he could never turn against him, had givenhim Elsa, and left him with her while he went abouthis duties and to secure a share of the plunder, meaningto deal with his prisoners on the morrow. So he,Adrian, a man in authority, had provided the boatand freed them. That was all he had to say, exceptto renounce any claim upon her who was called his wife,and to beg their forgiveness.

Foy listened to the end. Then, dropping his oarfor a moment, he put his arm about Adrian’swaist and hugged him, saying in his old cheery voice:

“I was right after all. You know, Adrian,I always stood up for you, notwithstanding your temperand queer ways. No, I never would believe thatyou were a villain, but neither could I ever have believedthat you were quite such an ass.”

To this outspoken estimate of his character, so fallenand crushed was he, his brother had not the spiritto reply. He could merely tug at his oar andgroan, while the tears of shame and repentance randown his pale and handsome face.

“Never mind, old fellow,” said Foy consolingly.“It all went wrong, thanks to you, and thanksto you I believe that it will all come right again.So we will cry quits and forget the rest.”

Poor Adrian glanced up at Foy and at Elsa sittingon the thwart of the boat by his side.

“Yes, brother,” he answered, “foryou and Elsa it may come right, but not for me inthis world, for I—­I have sold myself tothe devil and—­got no pay.”

After that for a while no one spoke; all felt thatthe situation was too tragic for speech; even thefollies, and indeed the wickedness, of Adrian werecovered up, were blotted out in the tragedy of hisutter failure, yes, and redeemed by the depth of hisatonement.

The grey light of the summer morning began to growon the surface of the great inland sea. Far behindthem they beheld the sun’s rays breaking uponthe gilt crown that is set above the tower of St. Bavon’sChurch, soaring over the lost city of Haarlem andthe doomed patriots who lay there presently to meettheir death at the murderer’s sword. Theylooked and shuddered. Had it not been for Adrianthey would be prisoners now, and what that meant theyknew. If they had been in any doubt, what theysaw around must have enlightened them, for here andthere upon the misty surface of the lake, or strandedin its shallows, were the half-burnt out hulls ofships, the remains of the conquered fleet of Williamthe Silent; a poor record of the last desperate effortto relieve the starving city. Now and again,too, something limp and soft would cumber their oars,the corpse of a drowned or slaughtered man still cladperchance in its armour.

At length they passed out of these dismal remainsof lost men, and Elsa could look about her withoutshuddering. Now they were in fleet water, andin among the islands whereon the lush summer growthof weeds and the beautiful marsh flowers grew as greenlyand bloomed as bright as though no Spaniard had trampledtheir roots under foot during all those winter monthsof siege and death. These islets, scores and hundredsof them, appeared on every side, but between themall Martha steered an unerring path. As the sunrose she stood up in the boat, and shading her eyeswith her hand to shut out its level rays, looked beforeher.

“There is the place,” she said, pointingto a little bulrush-clad isle, from which a kind ofnatural causeway, not more than six feet wide, projectedlike a tongue among muddy shallows peopled by cootsand water-hens with their red-beaked young.

Martin rose too. Then he looked back behind himand said;

“I see the cap of a sail upon the skyline.It is Ramiro.”

“Without doubt,” answered Martha calmly.“Well, we have the half of an hour to work in.Pull, bow oar, pull, we will go round the island andbeach her in the mud on the further side. Theywill be less likely to see us there, and I know aplace whence we can push off in a hurry.”

CHAPTER XXIX

ADRIAN COMES HOME AGAIN

They landed on the island, wading to it through themud, which at this spot had a gravelly bottom; allof them except Elsa, who remained on the boat to keepwatch. Following otter-paths through the thickrushes they came to the centre of the islet, somethirty yards away. Here, at a spot which Marthaascertained by a few hurried pacings, grew a densetuft of reeds. In the midst of these reeds wasa duck’s nest with the young just hatching out,off which the old bird flew with terrified quackings.

Beneath this nest lay the treasure, if it were stillthere.

“At any rate the place has not been disturbedlately,” said Foy. Then, even in his frantichaste, lifting the little fledglings—­forhe loved all things that had life, and did not wishto see them hurt—­he deposited them wherethey might be found again by the mother.

“Nothing to dig with,” muttered Martin,“not even a stone.” Thereon Marthapushed her way to a willow bush that grew near, andwith the smaller of the two axes, which she held inher hand, cut down the thickest of its stems and ranback with them. By the help of these sharpenedstakes, and with their axes, they began to dig furiously,till at length the point of Foy’s implementstruck upon the head of a barrel.

“The stuff is still here, keep to it, friends,”he said, and they worked on with a will till threeof the five barrels were almost free from the mud.

“Best make sure of these,” said Martin.“Help me, master,” and between them oneby one they rolled them to the water’s edge,and with great efforts, Elsa aiding them, lifted theminto the boat. As they approached with the thirdcask they found her staring white-faced over the topsof the feathery reeds.

“What is it, sweet?” asked Foy.

“The sail, the following sail,” she answered.

They rested the barrel of gold upon the gunwale andlooked back across the little island. Yes, thereit came, sure enough, a tall, white sail not eighthundred yards away and bearing down straight upon theplace. Martin rolled the barrel into position.

“I hoped that they would not find it,”he said, “but Martha draws maps well, too well.Once, before she married, she painted pictures, andthat is why.”

“What is to be done?” asked Elsa.

“I don’t know,” he answered, andas he spoke Martha ran up, for she also had seen theboat. “You see,” he went on, “ifwe try to escape they will catch us, for oars can’trace a sail.”

“Oh!” said Elsa, “must we be takenafter all?”

“I hope not, girl,” said Martha, “butit is as God wills. Listen, Martin,” andshe whispered in his ear.

“Good,” he said, “if it can be done,but you must watch your chance. Come, now, thereis no time to lose. And you, lady, come also,for you can help to roll the last two barrels.”

Then they ran back to the hole, whence Foy and Adrian,with great toil, had just dragged the last of thetubs. For they, too, had seen the sail, and knewthat time was short.

“Heer, Adrian,” said Martin, “youhave the cross-bow and the bolts, and you used tobe the best shot of all three of us; will you helpme to hold the causeway?”

Now Adrian knew that Martin said this, not becausehe was a good shot with the cross-bow, but becausehe did not trust him, and wished to have him closeto his hand, but he answered:

“With all my heart, as well as I am able.”

“Very good,” said Martin. “Nowlet the rest of you get those two casks into the boat,leaving the Jufvrouw hidden in the reeds to watch byit, while you, Foy and Martha, come back to help us.Lady, if they sail round the island, call and letus know.”

So Martin and Adrian went down to the end of the littlegravelly tongue and crouched among the tall meadow-sweetand grasses, while the others, working furiously,rolled the two barrels to the water-edge and shippedthem, throwing rushes over them that they might notcatch the eye of the Spaniards.

The sailing boat drew on. In the stern-sheetsof it sat Ramiro, an open paper, which he was studying,upon his knee, and still slung about his body thegreat sword Silence.

“Before I am half an hour older,” reflectedMartin, for even now he did not like to trust histhoughts to Adrian, “either I will have thatsword back again, or I shall be a dead man. Butthe odds are great, eleven of them, all tough fellows,and we but three and two women.”

Just then Ramiro’s voice reached them acrossthe stillness of the water.

“Down with the sail,” he cried cheerily,“for without a doubt that is the place—­thereare the six islets in a line, there in front the otherisland shaped like a herring, and there the littlepromontory marked ‘landing place.’How well this artist draws to be sure!”

The rest of his remarks were lost in the creakingof the blocks as the sail came down.

“Shallow water ahead, Senor,” said a manin the bows sounding with a boat hook.

“Good,” answered Ramiro, throwing outthe little anchor, “we will wade ashore.”

As he spoke the Spanish soldier with the boat-hooksuddenly pitched head first into the water, a quarrelfrom Adrian’s crossbow through his heart.

“Ah!” said Ramiro, “so they arehere before us. Well, there can’t be manyof them. Now then, prepare to land.”

Another quarrel whistled through the air and stuckin the mast, doing no hurt. After this no morebolts came, for in his eagerness Adrian had brokenthe mechanism of the bow by over-winding it, so thatit became useless. They leaped into the water,Ramiro with them, and charged for the land, when ofa sudden, almost at the tip of the little promontory,from among the reeds rose the gigantic shape of RedMartin, clad in his tattered jerkin and bearing inhis hand a heavy axe, while behind him appeared Foyand Adrian.

“Why, by the Saints!” cried Ramiro, “there’smy weather-cock son again, fighting against us thistime. Well, Weather-cock, this is your last veer,”then he began to wade towards the promontory.“Charge,” he cried, but not a man wouldadvance within reach of that axe. They stood hereand there in the water looking at it doubtfully, foralthough they were brave enough, there was none ofthem but knew of the strength and deeds of the redFrisian giant, and half-starved as he was, feared tomeet him face to face. Moreover, he had a positionof advantage, of that there could be no doubt.

“Can I help you to land, friends?” saidMartin, mocking them. “No, it is no uselooking right or left, the mud there is very deep.”

“An arquebus, shoot him with an arquebus!”shouted the men in front; but there was no such weaponin the boat, for the Spaniards, who had left in ahurry, and without expecting to meet Red Martin, hadnothing but their swords and knives.

Ramiro considered a moment, for he saw that to attemptto storm this little landing-place would cost manylives, even if it were possible. Then he gavean order, “Back aboard.” The men obeyedwith alacrity. “Out oars and up anchor!”he cried.

“He is clever,” said Foy; “he knowsthat our boat must be somewhere, and he is going toseek for it.”

Martin nodded, and for the first time looked afraid.Then, as soon as Ramiro had begun to row round theislet, leaving Martha to watch that he did not returnand rush the landing-stage, they crossed through thereeds to the other side and climbed into their boat.Scarcely were they there, when Ramiro and his menappeared, and a shout announced that they were discovered.

On crept the Spaniards as near as they dared, thatis to within a dozen fathoms of them, and anchored,for they were afraid to run their own heavy sailingcutter upon the mud lest they might be unable to gether off again. Also, for evident reasons, beingwithout firearms and knowing the character of thedefenders, they feared to make a direct attack.The position was curious and threatened to be prolonged.At last Ramiro rose and addressed them across thewater.

“Gentlemen and lady of the enemy,” hesaid, “for I think that I see my little captiveof the Red Mill among you, let us take counsel together.We have both of us made this expedition for a purpose,have we not—­namely, to secure certain filthylucre which, after all, would be of slight value todead men? Now, as you, or some of you, know, Iam a man opposed to violence; I wish to hurry theend of none, nor even to inflict suffering, if itcan be avoided. But there is money in the question,to secure which I have already gone through a greatdeal of inconvenience and anxiety, and, to be brief,that money I must have, while you, on the other handare doubtless anxious to escape hence with your lives.So I make you an offer. Let one of our party comeunder safe conduct on board your boat and search it,just to see if anything lies beneath those rushesfor instance. Then, if it is found empty, we willwithdraw to a distance and let you go, or the sameif full, that is, upon its contents being unladeninto the mud.”

“Are those all your terms?” asked Foy.

“Not quite all, worthy Heer van Goorl.Among you I observe a young gentleman whom doubtlessyou have managed to carry off against his will, towit, my beloved son, Adrian. In his own interests,for he will scarcely be a welcome guest in Leyden,I ask that, before you depart, you should place thisnoble cavalier ashore in a position where we can seehim. Now, what is your answer?”

“That you may go back to hell to look for it,”replied Martin rudely, while Foy added:

“What other answer do you expect from folk whohave escaped out of your clutches in Haarlem?”

As he said the words, at a nod from Martin, Martha,who by now had crept up to them, under cover of hisgreat form and of surrounding reeds, let go the sternof the boat and vanished.

“Plain words from plain, uncultivated people,not unnaturally irritated by the course of politicalevents with which, although Fortune has mixed me upin them, I have nothing whatever to do,” answeredRamiro. “But once more I beg of you toconsider. It is probable that you have no foodupon your boat, whereas we have plenty. Also,in due course, darkness will fall, which must giveus a certain advantage; moreover, I have reason tohope for assistance. Therefore, in a waiting gamelike this the cards are with me, and as I think yourpoor prisoner, Adrian, will tell you, I know how toplay a hand at cards.”

About eight yards from the cutter, in a thick patchof water-lilies, just at this moment an otter roseto take air—­an old dog-otter, for it wasgrey-headed. One of the Spaniards in the boatcaught sight of the ring it made, and picking up astone from the ballast threw it at it idly. Theotter vanished.

“We have been seeking each other a long while,but have never come to blows yet, although, beinga brave man, I know you would wish it,” saidRed Martin modestly. “Senor Ramiro, willyou do me the honour to overlook my humble birth andcome ashore with me for a few minutes, man againstman. The odds would be in your favour, for youhave armour and I have nothing but a worn bull’shide, also you have my good sword Silence and I onlya wood-man’s axe. Still I will risk it,and, what is more, trusting to your good faith, weare willing to wager the treasure of Hendrik Brantupon the issue.”

So soon as they understood this challenge a roar oflaughter went up from the Spaniards in the boat, inwhich Ramiro himself joined heartily. The ideaof anyone voluntarily entering upon a single combatwith the terrible Frisian giant, who for months hadbeen a name of fear among the thousands that beleagueredHaarlem, struck them as really ludicrous.

But of a sudden they ceased laughing, and one andall stared with a strange anxiety at the bottom oftheir boat, much as terrier dogs stare at the earthbeneath which they hear invisible vermin on the move.Then a great shouting arose among them, and they lookedeagerly over the gunwales; yes, and began to stabat the water with their swords. But all the whilethrough the tumult and voices came a steady, regularsound as of a person knocking heavily on the furtherside of a thick door.

“Mother of Heaven!” screamed someone inthe cutter, “we are scuttled,” and theybegan to tear at the false bottom of their boat, whileothers stabbed still more furiously at the surfaceof the Mere.

Now, rising one by one to the face of that quiet water,could be seen bubbles, and the line of them ran fromthe cutter towards the rowing boat. Presently,within six feet of it, axe in hand, rose the strangeand dreadful figure of a naked, skeleton-like womancovered with mud and green weeds, and bleeding fromgreat wounds in the back and sides.

There it stood, shaking an axe at the terror-strickenSpaniards, and screaming in short gasps,

“Paid back! paid back, Ramiro! Now sinkand drown, you dog, or come, visit Red Martin on theshore.”

“Well done, Martha,” roared Martin, ashe dragged her dying into the boat. While hespoke, lo! the cutter began to fill and sink.

“There is but one chance for it,” criedRamiro, “overboard and at them. It is notdeep,” and springing into the water, which reachedto his neck, he began to wade towards the shore.

“Push off,” cried Foy, and they thrustand pulled. But the gold was heavy, and theirboat had settled far into the mud. Do what theymight, she would not stir. Then uttering somestrange Frisian oath, Martin sprang over her stern,and putting out all his mighty strength thrust atit to loose her. Still she would not move.The Spaniards came up, now the water reached onlyto their thighs, and their bright swords flashed inthe sunlight.

“Cut them down!” yelled Ramiro. “Atthem for your lives’ sake.”

The boat trembled, but she would not stir.

“Too heavy in the bows,” screamed Martha,and struggling to her feet, with one wild scream shelaunched herself straight at the throat of the nearestSpaniard. She gripped him with her long arms,and down they went together. Once they rose,then fell again, and through a cloud of mud mightbe seen struggling upon the bottom of the Mere tillpresently they lay still, both of them.

The lightened boat lifted, and in answer to Martin’smighty efforts glided forward through the clingingmud. Again he thrust, and she was clear.

“Climb in, Martin, climb in,” shoutedFoy as he stabbed at a Spaniard.

“By heaven! no,” roared Ramiro splashingtowards him with the face of a devil.

For a second Martin stood still. Then he bent,and the sword-cut fell harmless upon his leather jerkin.Now very suddenly his great arms shot out; yes, heseized Ramiro by the thighs and lifted, and there wasseen the sight of a man thrown into the air as thoughhe were a ball tossed by a child at play, to fallheadlong upon the casks of treasure in the skiff prowwhere he lay still.

Martin sprang forward and gripped the tiller withhis outstretched hand as it glided away from him.

“Row, master, row,” he cried, and Foyrowed madly until they were clear of the last Spaniard,clear by ten yards. Even Elsa snatched a rollock,and with it struck a soldier on the hand who triedto stay them, forcing him to loose his grip; a deedof valour she boasted of with pride all her life through.Then they dragged Martin into the boat.

“Now, you Spanish dogs,” the great manroared back at them as he shook the water from hisflaming hair and beard, “go dig for Brant’streasure and live on ducks’ eggs here till DonFrederic sends to fetch you.”

The island had melted away into a mist of other islands.No living thing was to be seen save the wild creaturesand birds of the great lake, and no sound was to beheard except their calling and the voices of the windand water. They were alone—­alone andsafe, and there at a distance towards the skylinerose the church towers of Leyden, for which they headed.

“Jufvrouw,” said Martin presently, “thereis another flagon of wine in that locker, and we shouldbe glad of a pull at it.”

Elsa, who was steering the boat, rose and found thewine and a horn mug, which she filled and handed firstto Foy.

“Here’s a health,” said Foy as hedrank, “to the memory of Mother Martha, whosaved us all. Well, she died as she would havewished to die, taking a Spaniard for company, andher story will live on.”

“Amen,” said Martin. Then a thoughtstruck him, and, leaving his oars for a minute, forhe rowed two as against Foy’s and Adrian’sone, he went forward to where Ramiro lay strickensenseless on the kegs of specie and jewels in thebows, and took from him the great sword Silence.But he strapped the Spaniard’s legs togetherwith his belt.

“That crack on the head keeps him quiet enough,”he said in explanation, “but he might come toand give trouble, or try to swim for it, since suchcats have many lives. Ah! Senor Ramiro, Itold you I would have my sword back before I was halfan hour older, or go where I shouldn’t wantone.” Then he touched the spring in thehilt and examined the cavity. “Why,”he said, “here’s my legacy left in it safeand sound. No wonder my good angel made me madto get that sword again.”

“No wonder,” echoed Foy, “especiallyas you got Ramiro with it,” and he glanced atAdrian, who was labouring at the bow oar, looking,now that the excitement of the fight had gone by,most downcast and wretched. Well he might, seeingthe welcome that, as he feared, awaited him in Leyden.

For a while they rowed on in silence. All thatthey had gone through during the last four and twentyhours and the seven preceding months of war and privation,had broken their nerve. Even now, although theyhad escaped the danger and won back the buried gold,capturing the arch-villain who had brought them somuch death and misery, and their home, which, forthe present moment at any rate, was a strong placeof refuge, lay before them, still they could not beat ease. Where so many had died, where the riskshad been so fearful, it seemed almost incredible thatthey four should be living and hale, though weary,with a prospect of continuing to live for many years.

That the girl whom he loved so dearly, and whom hehad so nearly lost, should be sitting before him safeand sound, ready to become his wife whensoever hemight wish it, seemed to Foy also a thing too goodto be true. Too good to be true was it, moreover,that his brother, the wayward, passionate, weak, poetical-mindedAdrian, made by nature to be the tool of others, andbear the burden of their evil doing, should have beendragged before it was over late, out of the net ofthe fowler, have repented of his sins and follies,and, at the risk of his own life, shown that he wasstill a man, no longer the base slave of passion andself-love. For Foy always loved his brother, andknowing him better than any others knew him, had foundit hard to believe that however black things mightlook against him, he was at heart a villain.

Thus he thought, and Elsa too had her thoughts, whichmay be guessed. They were silent all of them,till of a sudden, Elsa seated in the stern-sheets,saw Adrian suddenly let fall his oar, throw his armswide, and pitch forward against the back of Martin.Yes, and in place of where he had sat appeared thedreadful countenance of Ramiro, stamped with a grinof hideous hate such as Satan might wear when soulsescape him at the last. Ramiro recovered andsitting up, for to his feet he could not rise becauseof the sword strap, in his hand a thin, deadly-lookingknife.

“Habet!” he said with a short laugh,“habes, Weather-cock!” and he turnedthe knife against himself.

But Martin was on him, and in five more seconds helay trussed like a fowl in the bottom of the boat.

“Shall I kill him?” said Martin to Foy,who with Elsa was bending over Adrian.

“No,” answered Foy grimly, “lethim take his trial in Leyden. Oh! what accursedfools were we not to search him!”

Ramiro’s face turned a shade more ghastly.

“It is your hour,” he said in a hoarsevoice, “you have won, thanks to that dog ofa son of mine, who, I trust, may linger long beforehe dies, as die he must. Ah! well, this is whatcomes of breaking my oath to the Virgin and againlifting my hand against a woman.” He lookedat Elsa and shuddered, then went on: “Itis your hour, make an end of me at once. I donot wish to appear thus before those boors.”

“Gag him,” said Foy to Martin, “lestour ears be poisoned,” and Martin obeyed withgood will. Then he flung him down, and there theman lay, his back supported by the kegs of treasurehe had worked so hard and sinned so deeply to win,making, as he knew well, his last journey to deathand to whatever may lie beyond that solemn gate.

They were passing the island that, many years ago,had formed the turning post of the great sledge racein which his passenger had been the fair Leyden heiress,Lysbeth van Hout. Ramiro could see her now asshe was that day; he could see also how that race,which he just failed to win, had been for him an auguryof disaster. Had not the Hollander again beatenhim at the post, and that Hollander—­Lysbeth’sown son by another father—­helped to itby her son born of himself, who now lay there death-strickenby him that gave him life. . . . They would takehim to Lysbeth, he knew it; she would be his judge,that woman against whom he had piled up injury afterinjury, whom, even when she seemed to be in his power,he had feared more than any living being. . . .And after he had met her eyes for the last time, thenwould come the end. What sort of an end wouldit be for the captain red-handed from the siege ofHaarlem, for the man who had brought Dirk van Goorlto his death, for the father who had just planteda dagger between the shoulders of his son because,at the last, that son had chosen to be true to hisown people, and to deliver them from a dreadful doom?. . . Why did it come back to him, that horribledream which had risen in his mind when, for the firsttime after many years, he met Lysbeth face to facethere in the Gevangenhuis, that dream of the pitifullittle man falling, falling through endless space,and at the bottom of the gulf two great hands, handshideous and suggestive, reaching through the shadowsto receive him?

Like his son, Adrian, Ramiro was superstitious; more,his intellect, his reading, which in youth had beenconsiderable, his observation of men and women, allled him to the conclusion that death is a wall withmany doors in it; that on this side of the wall wemay not linger or sleep, but must pass each of usthrough his appointed portal straight to the domainprepared for us. If so, what would be his lot,and who would be waiting to greet him yonder?Oh! terrors may attend the wicked after death, butin the case of some they do not tarry until death;they leap forward to him whom it is decreed must die,forcing attention with their eager, craving hands,with their obscure and ominous voices. . . . Abouthim the sweet breath of the summer afternoon, the skimmingswallows, the meadows starred with flowers; withinhim every hell at which the imagination can so muchas hint.

Before he passed the gates of Leyden, in those fewshort hours, Ramiro, to Elsa’s eyes, had agedby twenty years.

Their little boat was heavy laden, the wind was againstthem, and they had a dying man and a prisoner aboard.So it came about that the day was closing before thesoldiers challenged them from the watergate, askingwho they were and whither they went. Foy stoodup and said:

“We are Foy van Goorl, Red Martin, Elsa Brant,a wounded man and a prisoner, escaped from Haarlem,and we go to the house of Lysbeth van Goorl in theBree Straat.”

Then they let them through the watergate, and there,on the further side, were many gathered who thankedGod for their deliverance, and begged tidings of them.

“Come to the house in the Bree Straat and wewill tell you from the balcony,” answered Foy.

So they rowed from one cut and canal to another tillat last they came to the private boat-house of thevan Goorls, and entered it, and thus by the smalldoor into the house.

Lysbeth van Goorl, recovered from her illness now,but aged and grown stern with suffering, sat in anarmchair in the great parlour of her home in the BreeStraat, the room where as a girl she had cursed Montalvo;where too not a year ago, she had driven his son, thetraitor Adrian, from her presence. At her sidewas a table on which stood a silver bell and two brassholders with candles ready to be lighted. Sherang the bell and a woman-servant entered, the samewho, with Elsa, had nursed her in the plague.

“What is that murmuring in the street?”Lysbeth asked. “I hear the sound of manyvoices. Is there more news from Haarlem?”

“Alas! yes,” answered the woman.“A fugitive says that the executioners thereare weary, so now they tie the poor prisoners backto back and throw them into the mere to drown.”

A groan burst from Lysbeth’s lips. “Foy,my son, is there,” she muttered, “andElsa Brant his affianced wife, and Martin his servant,and many another friend. Oh! God, how long,how long?” and her head sank upon her bosom.

Soon she raised it again and said, “Light thecandles, woman, this place grows dark, and in itsgloom I see the ghosts of all my dead.”

They burned up—­two stars of light in thegreat room.

“Whose feet are those upon the stairs?”asked Lysbeth, “the feet of men who bear burdens.Open the large doors, woman, and let that enter whichit pleases God to send us.”

So the doors were flung wide, and through them camepeople carrying a wounded man, then following himFoy and Elsa, and, lastly, towering above them all,Red Martin, who thrust before him another man.Lysbeth rose from her chair to look.

“Do I dream?” she said, “or, sonFoy, hath the Angel of the Lord delivered you outof the hell of Haarlem?”

“We are here, mother,” he answered.

“And whom,” she said, pointing to thefigure covered with a cloak, “do you bring withyou?”

“Adrian, mother, who is dying.”

“Then, son Foy, take him hence; alive, dying,or dead, I have done with——­”Here her eyes fell upon Red Martin and the man he held,“Martin the Frisian,” she muttered, “butwho——­”

Martin heard, and by way of answer lifted up his prisonerso that the fading light from the balcony windowsfell full upon his face.

“What!” she cried. “Juan deMontalvo as well as his son Adrian, and in this room——­”Then she checked herself and added, “Foy, tellme your story.”

In few words and brief he told it, or so much as sheneed know to understand. His last words were:“Mother, be merciful to Adrian; from the firsthe meant no ill; he saved all our lives, and he liesdying by that man’s dagger.”

“Lift him up,” she said.

So they lifted him up, and Adrian, who, since theknife pierced him had uttered no word, spoke for thefirst and last time, muttering hoarsely:

“Mother, take back your words and forgive me—­beforeI die.”

Now the sorrow-frozen heart of Lysbeth melted, andshe bent over him and said, speaking so that all mighthear:

“Welcome to your home again, Adrian. Youwho once were led astray, have done bravely, and Iam proud to call you son. Though you have leftthe faith in which you were bred, here and hereaftermay God bless you and reward you, beloved Adrian!”Then she bent down and kissed his dying lips.Foy and Elsa kissed him also in farewell before theybore him, smiling happily to himself, to the chamber,his own chamber, where within some few hours deathfound him.

Adrian had been borne away, and for a little whilethere was silence. Then, none commanding him,but as though an instinct pushed him forward, RedMartin began to move up the length of the long room,half dragging, half carrying his captive Ramiro.It was as if some automaton had suddenly been putin motion, some machine of gigantic strength thatnothing could stop. The man in his grip set hisheels in the floor and hung back, but Martin scarcelyseemed to heed his resistance. On he came, andthe victim with him, till they stood together beforethe oaken chair and the stern-faced, white-hairedwoman who sat in it, her cold countenance lit by thelight of the two candles. She looked and shuddered.Then she spoke, asking:

“Why do you bring this man to me, Martin?”

“For judgment, Lysbeth van Goorl,” heanswered.

“Who made me a judge over him?” she asked.

“My master, Dirk van Goorl, your son, Adrian,and Hendrik Brant. Their blood makes you judgeof his blood.”

“I will have none of it,” Lysbeth saidpassionately, “let the people judge him.”As she spoke, from the crowd in the street below thereswelled a sudden clamour.

“Good,” said Martin, “the peopleshall judge,” and he began to turn towards thewindow, when suddenly, by a desperate effort, Ramirowrenched his doublet from his hand, and flung himselfat Lysbeth’s feet and grovelled there.

“What do you seek?” she asked, drawingback her dress so that he should not touch it.

“Mercy,” he gasped.

“Mercy! Look, son and daughter, this manasks for mercy who for many a year has given none.Well, Juan de Montalvo, take your prayer to God andto the people. I have done with you.”

“Mercy, mercy!” he cried again.

“Eight months ago,” she said, “Iuttered that prayer to you, begging of you in theName of Christ to spare the life of an innocent man,and what was your answer, Juan de Montalvo?”

“Once you were my wife,” he pleaded; “beinga woman, does not that weigh with you?”

“Once he was my husband, being a man did thatweigh with you? The last word is said. Takehim, Martin, to those who deal with murderers.”

Then that look came upon Montalvo which twice or thricebefore Lysbeth has seen written in his face—­oncewhen the race was run and lost, and once when in afteryears she had petitioned for the life of her husband.Lo! it was no longer the face of a man, but such acountenance as might have been worn by a devil ora beast. The eyeball started, the grey moustachecurled upwards, the cheek-bones grew high and sharp.

“Night after night,” he gasped, “youlay at my side, and I might have killed you, as Ihave killed that brat of yours—­and I sparedyou, I spared you.”

“God spared me, Juan de Montalvo, that He mightbring us to this hour; let Him spare you also if Hewill. I do not judge. He judges and thepeople,” and Lysbeth rose from her chair.

“Stay!” he cried, gnashing his teeth.

“No, I stay not, I go to receive the last breathof him you have murdered, my son and yours.”

He raised himself upon his knees, and for a momenttheir eyes met for the last time.

“Do you remember?” she said in a quietvoice, “many years ago, in this very room, afteryou had bought me at the cost of Dirk’s life,certain words I spoke to you? Now I do not thinkthat it was I who spoke, Juan de Montalvo.”

And she swept past him and though the wide doorway.

Red Martin stood upon the balcony gripping the manRamiro. Beneath him the broad street was packedwith people, hundreds and thousands of them, a densemass seething in the shadows, save here and again wherea torch or a lantern flared showing their white faces,for the moon, which shone upon Martin and his captive,scarcely reached those down below. As gaunt,haggard, and long-haired, he stepped upon the balcony,they saw him and his burden, and there went up sucha yell as shook the very roofs of Leyden. Martinheld up his hand, and there was silence, deep silence,through which the breath of all that multitude rosein sighs, like the sighing of a little wind.

“Citizens my Leyden, my masters,” theFrisian cried, in a great, deep voice that echoeddown the street, “I have a word to say to you.This man here—­do you know him?”

Back came an answering yell of “Aye!”

“He is a Spaniard,” went on Martin, “thenoble Count Juan de Montalvo, who many years pastforced one Lysbeth van Hout of this city into a falsemarriage, buying her at the price of the life of heraffianced husband, Dirk van Goorl, that he might winher fortune.”

“We know it,” they shouted.

“Afterwards he was sent to the galleys for hiscrimes. He came back, and was made Governor ofthe Gevangenhuis by the bloody Alva, where he broughtto death your brother and past burgomaster, Dirk vanGoorl. Afterwards he kidnapped the person ofElsa Brant, the daughter of Hendrik Brant, whom theInquisition murdered at The Hague. We rescuedher from him, my master, Foy van Goorl, and I. Afterwardshe served with the Spaniards as a captain of theirforces in the siege of Haarlem yonder—­Haarlemthat fell three days ago, and whose citizens they aremurdering to-night, throwing them two by two to drownin the waters of the Mere.”

“Kill him! Cast him down!” roaredthe mob. “Give him to us, Red Martin.”

Again the Frisian lifted his hand and again therewas silence; a sudden, terrible silence.

“This man had a son; my mistress, Lysbeth vanGoorl, to her shame and sorrow, was the mother ofhim. That son, repenting, saved us from the sackof Haarlem, yea, through him the three of us, Foy vanGoorl, Elsa Brant, and I, Martin Roos, their servant,are alive to-night. This man and his Spaniardsovertook us on the lake, and there we conquered himby the help of Martha the Mare, Martha whom they madeto carry her own husband to the fire. We conqueredhim, but she—­she died in the fray; theystabbed her to death in the water as men stab an otter.Well, that son, the Heer Adrian, he was murdered inthe boat with a knife-blow given by his own fatherfrom behind, and he lies here in this house dead ordying.

“My master and I, we brought this man, who to-dayis called Ramiro, to be judged by the woman whosehusband and son he slew. But she would not judgehim; she said, ‘Take him to the people, let themjudge.’ So judge now, ye people,”and with an effort of his mighty strength Martin swungthe struggling body of Ramiro over the parapet of thebalcony and let him hang there above their heads.

They yelled, they screamed in their ravenous hateand rage; they leapt up as hounds leap at a wolf upona wall.

“Give him to us, give him to us!” thatwas their cry.

Martin laughed aloud. “Take him then,”he said; “take him, ye people, and judge himas you will,” and with one great heave he hurledthe thing that writhed between his hands far out intothe centre of the street.

The crowd below gathered themselves into a heap likewater above a boat sinking in the heart of a whirlpool.For a minute or more they snarled and surged and twisted.Then they broke up and went away, talking in short,eager sentences. And there, small and dreadfulon the stones, lay something that once had been aman.

Thus did the burghers of Leyden pass judgment andexecute it upon that noble Spaniard, the Count Juande Montalvo.

CHAPTER XXX

TWO SCENES

Scene the First

Some months had gone by, and Alkmaar, that heroiclittle city of the north, had turned the flood ofSpanish victory. Full of shame and rage, thearmies of Philip and of Valdez marched upon Leyden,and from November, 1573, to the end of March, 1574,the town was besieged. Then the soldiers werecalled away to fight Louis of Nassau, and the leaguerwas raised till, on the fatal field of Mook Heath,the gallant Louis, with his brother Henry and fourthousand of their soldiers, perished, defeated byD’Avila. Now once more the victorious Spaniardsthreatened Leyden.

In a large bare room of the Stadthuis of that city,at the beginning of the month of May, a man of middle-agemight have been seen one morning walking up and down,muttering to himself as he walked. He was nota tall man and rather thin in figure, with brown eyesand beard, hair tinged with grey, and a wide browlined by thought. This was William of Orange,called the Silent, one of the greatest and most nobleof human beings who ever lived in any age; the mancalled forth by God to whom Holland owes its liberties,and who for ever broke the hideous yoke of religiousfanaticism among the Teuton races.

Sore was his trouble on this May morning. Butlast month two more of his brothers had found deathbeneath the sword of the Spaniard, and now this sameSpaniard, with whom he had struggled for all theseweary years, was marching in his thousands upon Leyden.

“Money,” he was muttering to himself.“Give me money, and I will save the city yet.With money ships can be built, more men can be raised,powder can be bought. Money, money, money—­andI have not a ducat! All gone, everything, evento my mother’s trinkets and the plate upon mytable. Nothing is left, no, not the credit tobuy a dozen geldings.”

As he thought thus one of his secretaries enteredthe room.

“Well, Count,” said the Prince, “haveyou been to them all?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And with what success?”

“The burgomaster, van de Werff, promises todo everything he can, and will, for he is a man tolean on, but money is short. It has all leftthe country and there is not much to get.”

“I know it,” groaned Orange, “youcan’t make a loaf from the crumbs beneath thetable. Is the proclamation put up inviting allgood citizens to give or lend in this hour of theircountry’s need?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Thank you, Count, you can go; there is nothingmore to do. We will ride for Delft to-night.”

“Sir,” said the secretary, “thereare two men in the courtyard who wish to see you.”

“Are they known?”

“Oh yes, perfectly. One is Foy van Goorl,who went through the siege of Haarlem and escaped,the son of the worthy burgher, Dirk van Goorl, whomthey did to death yonder in the Gevangenhuis; and theother a Friesland giant of a man called Red Martin,his servant, of whose feats of arms you may have heard.The two of them held a shot tower in this town againstforty or fifty Spaniards, and killed I don’tknow how many.”

The Prince nodded. “I know. This RedMartin is a Goliath, a brave fellow. What dothey want?”

“I am not sure,” said the secretary witha smile, “but they have brought a herring-carthere, the Frisian in the shafts for a horse, and theHeer van Goorl pushing behind. They say thatit is laden with ammunition for the service of theircountry.”

“Then why do they not take it to the Burgomaster,or somebody in authority?”

“I don’t know, but they declare that theywill only deliver it to you in person.”

“You are sure of your men, Count? You know,”he added, with a smile, “I have to be careful.”

“Quite, they were identified by several of thepeople in the other room.”

“Then admit them, they may have something tosay.”

“But, sir, they wish to bring in their cart.”

“Very well, let them bring it in if it willcome through the door,” answered the Prince,with a sigh, for his thoughts were far from theseworthy citizens and their cart.

Presently the wide double doors were opened, and RedMartin appeared, not as he was after the siege ofHaarlem, but as he used to be, well-covered and bland,with a beard even longer and more fiery than of yore.At the moment he was strangely employed, for acrosshis great breast lay the broad belly-band of a horse,and by its means, harnessed between the shafts, hedragged a laden cart covered with an old sail.Moreover the load must have been heavy, for notwithstandinghis strength and that of Foy, no weakling, who pushedbehind, they had trouble in getting the wheels upa little rise at the threshold.

Foy shut the doors, then they trundled their cartinto the middle of the great room, halted and saluted.So curious was the sight, and so inexplicable, thatthe Prince, forgetting his troubles for a minute,burst out laughing.

“I daresay it looks strange, sir,” saidFoy, hotly, the colour rising to the roots of hisfair hair, “but when you have heard our storyI am not sure that you will laugh at us.”

“Mynheer van Goorl,” said the Prince withgrave courtesy, “be assured that I laugh atno true men such as yourself and your servant, Martinthe Frisian, and least of all at men who could holdyonder shot tower against fifty Spaniards, who couldescape out of Haarlem and bring home with them thegreatest devil in Don Frederic’s army. Itwas your equipage I laughed at, not yourselves,”and he bowed slightly first to the one and then tothe other.

“His Highness thinks perhaps,” said Martin,“that the man who does an ass’s work mustnecessarily be an ass,” at which sally the Princelaughed again.

“Sir,” said Foy, “I crave your patiencefor a while, and on no mean matter. Your Highnesshas heard, perhaps, of one Hendrik Brant, who perishedin the Inquisition.”

“Do you mean the goldsmith and banker who wassaid to be the richest man in the Netherlands?”

“Yes, sir, the man whose treasure was lost.”

“I remember—­whose treasure was lost—­thoughit was reported that some of our own people got awaywith it,” and his eyes wandered wonderinglyto the sail which hid the burden on the cart.

“Sir,” went on Foy, “you heard right;Red Martin and I, with a pilot man who was killed,were they who got away with it, and by the help ofthe waterwife, who now is dead, and who was knownas Mother Martha, or the Mare, we hid it in HaarlemerMeer, whence we recovered it after we escaped fromHaarlem. If you care to know how, I will tellyou later, but the tale is long and strange.Elsa Brant was with us at the time——­”

“She is Hendrik Brant’s only child, andtherefore the owner of his wealth, I believe?”interrupted the Prince.

“Yes, sir, and my affianced wife.”

“I have heard of the young lady, and I congratulateyou. Is she in Leyden?”

“No, sir, her strength and mind were much brokenby the horrors which she passed through in the siegeof Haarlem, and by other events more personal to her.Therefore, when the Spaniards threatened their firstleaguer of this place, I sent her and my mother toNorwich in England, where they may sleep in peace.”

“You were wise indeed, Heer van Goorl,”replied the Prince with a sigh, “but it seemsthat you stopped behind?”

“Yes, sir, Martin and I thought it our dutyto see this war out. When Leyden is safe fromthe Spaniards, then we go to England, not before.”

“When Leyden is safe from the Spaniards——­”and again the Prince sighed, adding, “well,you have a true heart, young sir, and a right spirit,for which I honour both of you. But I fear thatthings being thus the Jufvrouw cannot sleep so verypeacefully in Norwich after all.”

“We must each bear our share of the basket,”answered Foy sadly; “I must do the fightingand she the watching.”

“It is so, I know it, who have both fought andwatched. Well, I hope that a time will come whenyou will both of you do the loving. And now forthe rest of the story.”

“Sir, it is very short. We read your proclamationin the streets this morning, and learned from it forcertain what we have heard before, that you are insore want of money for the defence of Leyden and thewar at large. Therefore, hearing that you werestill in the city, and believing this proclamationof yours to be the summons and clear command for whichwe waited, we have brought you Hendrik Brant’streasure. It is there upon the cart.”

The Prince put his hand to his forehead and reeledback a step.

“You do not jest with me, Foy van Goorl?”he said.

“Indeed no.”

“But stay; this treasure is not yours to give,it belongs to Elsa Brant.”

“Sir, the legal title to it is in myself, formy father was Brant’s lawful heir and executor,and I inherit his rights. Moreover, althougha provision for her is charged upon it, it is Elsa’sdesire—­I have it written here under herhand and witnessed—­that the money shouldbe used, every ducat of it, for the service of thecountry in such way as I might find good. Lastly,her father, Hendrik Brant, always believed that thiswealth of his would in due season be of such service.Here is a copy of his will, in which he directs thatwe are to apply the money ’for the defence ofour country, the freedom of religious Faith, and thedestruction of the Spaniards in such fashion and atsuch time or times as God shall reveal to us.’When he gave us charge of it also, his words to mewere: ’I am certain that thousands and tensof thousands of our folk will live to bless the goldof Hendrik Brant.’ On that belief too,thinking that God put it into his mind, and would revealHis purpose in His own hour, we have acted all ofus, and therefore for the sake of this stuff we havegone to death and torture. Now it has come aboutas Brant foretold; now we understand why all thesethings have happened, and why we live, this man andI, to stand before you, sir, to-day, with the hoardunminished by a single florin, no, not even by Martin’slegacy.”

“Man, you jest, you jest!” said Orange.

Foy made a sign, and Martin going to the cart, pulledoff the sail-cloth, revealing the five mud-stainedbarrels painted, each of them, with the mark B. There,too, ready for the purpose, were a hammer, mallet,and chisel. Resting the shafts of the cart upona table, Martin climbed into it, and with a few greatblows of the mallet, drove in the head of a cask selectedat hazard. Beneath appeared wool, which he removed,not without fear lest there might be some mistake;then, as he could wait no longer, he tilted the barrelup and shot its contents out upon the floor.

As it chanced this was the keg that contained thejewels into which, foreseeing troublous days, fromtime to time Brant had converted the most of his vastwealth. Now in one glittering stream of red andwhite and blue and green, breaking from their casesand wrappings that the damp had rotted, save for thosepearls, the most valuable of them all, which werein the watertight copper box—­they fell jinglingto the open floor, where they rolled hither and thitherlike beans shot from a sack in the steading.

“I think there is only this one tub of jewels,”said Foy quietly; “the rest, which are muchheavier, are full of gold coin. Here, sir, isthe inventory so that you may check the list and seethat we have kept back nothing.”

But William of Orange heeded him not, only he lookedat the priceless gems and muttered, “Fleetsof ships, armies of men, convoys of food, means tobribe the great and buy goodwill—­aye, andthe Netherlands themselves wrung from the grip ofSpain, the Netherlands free and rich and happy!O God! I thank Thee Who thus hast moved the heartsof men to the salvation of this Thy people from soredanger.”

Then in the sudden ecstasy of relief and joy, thegreat Prince hid his face in his hands and wept.

Thus it came about that the riches of Hendrik Brant,when Leyden lay at her last gasp, paid the soldiersand built the fleets which, in due time, driven bya great wind sent suddenly from heaven across theflooded meadows, raised the dreadful siege and signedthe doom of Spanish rule in Holland. Thereforeit would seem that not in vain was Hendrik Brant stubbornand foresighted, that his blood and the blood of Dirkvan Goorl were not shed in vain; that not in vain alsodid Elsa suffer the worst torments of a woman’sfear in the Red Mill on the marshes; and Foy and Martinplay their parts like men in the shot-tower, the Gevangenhuisand the siege, and Mother Martha the Sword find a graveand rest in the waters of the Haarlem Meer.

There are other morals to this story also, applicable,perhaps, to our life to-day, but the reader is leftto guess them.

Scene the Second

Leyden is safe at last, and through the broken dykesFoy and Martin, with the rescuing ships, have sailed,shouting and red-handed, into her famine-strickenstreets. For the Spaniards, those that are leftof them, are broken and have fled away from theirforts and flooded trenches.

So the scene changes from warring, blood-stained,triumphant Holland to the quiet city of Norwich anda quaint gabled house in Tombland almost beneath theshadow of the tall spire of the cathedral, which nowfor about a year had been the home of Lysbeth vanGoorl and Elsa Brant. Here to Norwich they hadcome in safety in the autumn of 1573 just before thefirst siege of Leyden was begun, and here they haddwelt for twelve long, doubtful, anxious months.News, or rather rumours, of what was passing in theNetherlands reached them from time to time; twice eventhere came letters from Foy himself, but the last ofthese had been received many weeks ago just as theiron grip of the second leaguer was closing roundthe city. Then Foy and Martin, so they learnedfrom the letter, were not in the town but with thePrince of Orange in Delft, working hard at the fleetwhich was being built and armed for its relief.

After this there was a long silence, and none couldtell what had happened, although a horrible reportreached them that Leyden had been taken, sacked, andburnt, and all its inhabitants massacred. Theylived in comfort here in Norwich, for the firm ofMunt and Brown, Dirk van Goorl’s agents, werehonest, and the fortune which he had sent over whenthe clouds were gathering thick, had been well investedby them and produced an ample revenue. But whatcomfort could there be for their poor hearts thusagonised by doubts and sickening fears?

One evening they sat in the parlour on the groundfloor of the house, or rather Lysbeth sat, for Elsaknelt by her, her head resting upon the arm of thechair, and wept.

“Oh! it is cruel,” she sobbed, “itis too much to bear. How can you be so calm,mother, when perhaps Foy is dead?”

“If my son is dead, Elsa, that is God’sWill, and I am calm, because now, as many a time before,I resign myself to the Will of God, not because Ido not suffer. Mothers can feel, girl, as wellas sweethearts.”

“Would that I had never left him,” moanedElsa.

“You asked to leave, child; for my part I shouldhave bided the best or the worst in Leyden.”

“It is true, it is because I am a coward; alsohe wished it.”

“He wished it, Elsa, therefore it is for thebest; let us await the issue in patience. Come,our meal is set.”

They sat themselves down to eat, these two lonelywomen, but at their board were laid four covers asthough they expected guests. Yet none were bidden—­onlythis was Elsa’s fancy.

“Foy and Martin might come,” shesaid, “and be vexed if it seemed that we didnot expect them.” So for the last threemonths or more she had always set four covers at thetable, and Lysbeth did not gainsay her. In herheart she too hoped that Foy might come.

That very night Foy came, and with him Red Martin,the great sword Silence still strapped about his middle.

“Hark!” said Lysbeth suddenly, “Ihear my son’s footsteps at the door. Itseems, Elsa, that, after all, the ears of a motherare quicker than those of a lover.”

But Elsa never heard her, for now—­now atlength, she was wrapped in the arms of Foy; the sameFoy, but grown older and with a long pale scar acrosshis forehead.

“Yet,” went on Lysbeth to herself, witha faint smile on her white and stately face, “theson’s lips are for the lover first.”

An hour later, or two, or three, for who reckonedtime that night when there was so much to hear andtell, while the others knelt before her, Foy and Elsahand in hand, and behind them Martin like a guardiangiant, Lysbeth put up her evening prayer of praiseand thanksgiving.

“Almighty God,” she said in her slow,sonorous voice, “Thy awful Hand that by my ownfaithless sin took from me my husband, hath given backhis son and mine who shall be to this child a husband,and for us as for our country over sea, out of thenight of desolation is arisen a dawn of peace.Above us throughout the years is Thy Everlasting Will,beneath us when our years are done, shall by Thy EverlastingArms. So for the bitter and the sweet, for theevil and the good, for the past and for the present,we, Thy servants, render Thee glory, thanks, and praise,O God of our fathers, That fashioneth us and all accordingto Thy desire, remembering those things which we haveforgotten and foreknowing those things which are notyet. Therefore to Thee, Who through so many dreadfuldays hast led us to this hour of joy, be glory andthanks, O Lord of the living and the dead. Amen.”

And the others echoed “To Thee be glory andthanks, O Lord of the living and the dead. Amen.”

Then, their prayer ended, the living rose, and, withseparations done and fears appeased at last, leanttowards each other in the love and hope of their beautifulyouth.

But Lysbeth sat silent in the new home, far from theland where she was born, and turned her stricken hearttowards the dead.

FINIS