THE BREAKING OF THE PRISON
Black Peter Hals stood grumbling and snarling at the door of the
prison of Amersfort. It was almost sundown, and the outer city ports
were closed at that hour. A crowd of merrymakers had just passed on
their way to sup at a dancing-tavern. They had cried tauntingly to him
as they went by, and the laughing, loose-haired girls had beckoned
tantalizingly with their hands.
"Come, thou grizzled old bunch of keys," cried one of them, in a
voice that tinkled like a bell, "learn to be young again for an hour.
So shalt thou cheat both Father Time, and eke Jack Ketch, thy near
kinsman."
"I am waxing old, indeed, when Bonnibel taunts me unscathed," muttered
Peter Hals, grimly, to himself, as he watched them out of sight; "it is
true there are gray hairs in my poll. But, Lord knows, I have yet in me
the fire of youth. My natural strength is noneways abated. I can stand
on my feet and swig down the sturdy Hollands with any man--aye, even
with a city councillor at a feast of the corporation. But I rust here
and mildew in this God-forsaken prison. 'Tis six o'clock of a morning,
open the doors! Seven o'clock, take about the breakfast! Ten o'clock,
comes a jackanapes spick-and-span officer for inspection! Two o'clock,
a dozen new prisoners, and no cells to put them in! Six o'clock, supper
and complaints! Then click the bolts and rattle the keys--to bed,
sleep, and begin all the pother over again on the morrow! Pshaw!--a
dog's life were livelier, a-scratching for fleas. They at least bite
not twice on the same spot."
Thus Black Peter Hals, discontentedly ruffling his gray badger's
cockscomb on the steps of the prison of Amersfort.
As he watched, a dainty slip of a maid came up the street with a
pitcher of coarse blue delft on her shoulder. In the by-going she
raised her eyes to those of Peter Hals. It was but a single long
glance, yet it sent his ideas every way in a fine scatter, and eke
Peter's hand to his mustache that he might feel whether it were in
order.
At this moment a dog ran against the girl, and the pitcher clattered to
the ground, where it broke into a thousand pieces.
The maid stopped, clasped her hands pitifully, and burst into tears.
"It is all your fault," she cried, looking up at the keeper of the
prison.
Peter ran down the steps and took her by the hand.
"Do not weep, sweet maid," he said, "I will buy thee a pitcher ten
times better, and fill it with the best of white wine or the choicest
oil, only do not cry your pretty eyes all red."
The girl stole a shy glance at Black Peter.
"Are you of the servants of the prince?" said she, bashfully looking at
the orange facing of his tunic.
Black Peter erected himself a little and squared out his chest. It was
the first time that his grim prison uniform had been so distinguished.
"I am indeed the keeper of this castle of the prince," he said, with
dignity.
"It is a fine castle, in truth," said the maid, looking at it up and
down and crossways, with blue, wide-open, most ingenuous eyes.
"You come from the country, perhaps?" asked Peter. For such innocence
was wellnigh impossible to any maid of the city.
"Aye," said the girl, "I have come from La Haye Sainte in the Flemish
country of the West, where they speak French. So, therefore, I do not
know your customs nor yet your speech very well. I bide with my aunt in
the street but one to the right. I was sent to bring home a gallon of
white wine in a new pitcher. And now it is spilled--all with looking up
at you, Sir Officer, standing at the gate of your tower."
And she sped another glance at the castle-keeper from under the dark,
seductive lashes of her almond eyes.
Black Peter stroked his mustache. It was certainly a risk, but, after
all, there was no likelihood that the new provost-marshal would make
that night the first of his visitations. Indeed, it was by no means so
certain that there had been as yet any provost appointed, after the sad
accident which had happened to my Lord of Barra--"whom," said Black
Peter, "may Abraham take to his bosom. For he had no mercy on poor
men, who could not get their sleep for his surprises and inspections.
A meddlesome Scots crow, all in his rusty black, ever croaking of duty
and penalties, as if he were the hangman of Amersfort calling a poor
hussy's crimes at the cart-tail."
"Come thou in by, my girl," said Black Peter, "and in a trice, if so
be you can tell me the name of the shop, I will get thee a new pitcher
full of wine, better far than the first. Deign to wait with me but a
moment here in the castle-hall, where there is a fine fire of sea-coal
and none save ourselves to sit by it."
"I know not if my aunt would approve," said the maid, uncertainly.
"But, after all, you are most wondrously like my brother, who is a
baker of bread at La Haye Sainte. Ah," she continued, clasping her
hands, innocently, "at this time o' night he will be unharnessing
Herminius (that is our market-dog) and bringing in the white flour and
the brown flour and the little parcel of salt."
So poignant was the recollection that the maid was compelled to put her
hands to her eyes and begin to sob.
"Weep not," said Black Peter, coming down and putting one hand on her
shoulder, and with the other drawing gently her fingers from her face,
"I will be as your brother. Deign but to step within my castle, and I
will send a servant for the jar of wine. You shall only bide with me a
matter of ten short minutes, sufficient to tell me of the good brother
and of Herminius, your market-dog."
The pretty country girl let her eyes slowly rise to his face, and again
the bewitching innocence of the appeal sent Peter's hand complacently
to his beard. He stroked it as he regarded her.
"This is what it is to have a way with women. It hath been like this
all my life," he confided to himself, with a sigh.
"Then I will come with you," she said, suddenly, "and that gladly, for
you are wonderfully like my brother John. His beard also is handsome
and of the fine tissue. It is the very moral of yours."
Peter led the way up the steps.
Then he inquired from his new acquaintance the name of the wine-shop
and the brand of the wine.
He put his hand to his side and rattled a little alarm shaped like a
triangle. In a trice a young beardless youth appeared, all whose body
incessantly wriggled and squirmed, like a puppy's which fears the rod
or desires the milk-pail.
"Here, restless one!" cried Black Peter Hals, "go swiftly to the Inn of
the Gouda Cheese, and bring from thence a jar of the wine of Hochheim.
And, hark ye, also a couple of bottles of Hollands of the best brands.
Here is money for thee to pay for all."
He went to the door with the wriggler.
"Now, do you understand?" he said, in a loud tone. And then, under his
breath, he added, "Come not too soon back. An you so much as show your
ugly face here for an hour and a half, with the buckle of a belly-band
I will thrash the soul out of your miserable, whimpering body."
"I would as lief stop by the fire and watch," said the object, casting
a sheep's-glance at the country-maid, who stood warming her toes, one
pretty foot held up to the blaze; "if, perchance, it might be Mynheer
Peter's desire to refresh himself at the sign of the Gouda Cheese for
an hour, as is his custom of a night."
"Out with thee, wastrel!" cried Peter, angrily, kicking him down the
steps; "and mind, come not back for an hour on the peril of your life,
and the flaying off of thy skin in handbreadths."
So saying, Peter went back into the wide stone hall. He found his
dainty new friend sweeping up the fireplace and setting the sticks for
kindling in order at the back.
"We always do it so in our village," she said, simply, "but the men in
cities and in great castles like this have, of course, no time for such
trifles."
"What is your name, pretty maiden?" asked Peter, standing up beside her
as she knelt and swept vigorously, raising a rare dust--and, to any
eyes but those of a man, doing the work most awkwardly.
"I am called 'the Little Marie,'" said the girl, demurely, "but, of
course, among those who are not my friends I am called by another name."
"Then I will call you 'the Little Marie'!" said Black Peter, in high
delight, "and never so much as ask that other name, which is but for
strangers."
He went to a cupboard in the wall which was labelled in large letters
"Holy Bibles and Catechisms for the Use of the Prisoners." The jailer
opened this most respectable and necessary receptacle, and took from
it a square black bottle, short-necked and square-shouldered, a few
hard biscuits such as seamen use, and two large, wide-mouthed glasses
of twisted Venetian glass.
He came back with all these in his arms, and set them down together on
the table. "Now," he said, coaxingly, "sit you down, Little Marie, and
I will bring some water from the pitcher behind the door there. A glass
of fine Hollands will keep out the chills of this night, for the wind
is both shrewd and snell."
"Let me bring the water!" cried the Little Marie, gayly, clapping
her hands ingenuously. "This is just like keeping house to John, my
brother. Did I tell you his beard was like yours? See, I will stroke
it. Even so does it fall so gracefully on brother John's breast!"
And as she tripped away with the tall jug in her hand to the pail
behind the door, the jailer devoutly hoped that it would be much more
than an hour and a half before his deputy should return.
The Little Marie was a long time in finding the proper water-pail, and
it was not till Peter was half across the floor on his way to assist
her that she appeared, carrying the beaker of water in one hand and a
small earthenware cup in the other.
"A big, big jug for the mickle great cat,
And a little wee jug for the kitten."
So she chanted, to the tune of a Flanders nursery rhyme. Then she
laughed merrily. And the amorous Black Peter, subdued to the soles of
his boots, vowed that he had never heard anything half so prettily
witty in all his life.
Then the Little Marie poured out a full tumbler of the Hollands and
water from the jug which she had brought for him, and also adjusted a
tiny portion for herself.
"Milk for the kitten," she said; "taste it," and she offered to feed
him with a spoonful--"nice, nice--is it not, brother John?"
And brother John smiled and tasted.
"Now drink, great black cat!" she commanded, stamping her foot. And,
nothing loath, Peter drank her health--once, twice, and thrice. He
would have come about the table to mix another, and, mayhap, to take
the Little Marie by the waist. But even as he rose he began to see a
flock of Little Maries, and he put his hand hard on the oaken settle.
"I think I will sit down," he said; "drink thou to my health, Little
Marie!" And with his eyes drooping with leaden sleep, Peter watched a
regiment of country girls drinking his health out of tall green glasses
with twisted stems. The last words his ears caught, ere the drowsy,
lisping ocean of infinite sleep swelled up and drowned everything,
were, "Kittens' milk, brother John--only nice sweet milk for pretty
innocent kittens."
And then Black Peter's chin sank on his breast.
* * * * *
So soon as the jailer's head fell and his eyes finally closed, an
instantaneous change passed over the face of the Little Marie. The
wayward mirth and provocation died out of it. A haggard, anxious
expression came into her eyes. She ran forward and grasped the bundle
of keys that swung at Peter's girdle. She tried with all her might
to pull them away, but they were locked to a strong steel band which
passed about his waist.
The girl stood a moment in despair. Then she thrust a quick hand
into all his pockets and pulled out many trifles such as men
carry--love-tokens, buttons, coins, and the like, mixed with ends of
string and stray scraps of tobacco.
These she flung down instantly. She was at her wits' end. But suddenly
she saw peeping out from under the beard which had reminded her of
brother John's, a tiny bit of yellow chain. She ran her hand along it,
and out of Black Peter's bosom there leaped a key.
Without the loss of a moment Marie fitted it into the padlock which
secured the great bunch to his waistband of steel. In another instant
they were in her possession. Then, opening the door on the left, which
had been left unlocked, when she brought the water-pitcher, she sped
down the passage in the direction of the round tower, in which she knew
Wat to be confined.
But when she thought that she must be approaching the place, she found
a number of cell-doors. Marie felt that it would not do to make any
mistake. Once more her quick wits aided her, as they had already done
that night to some purpose.
"Visiting rounds!" she cried, in a hoarse voice, as she had heard the
guard do at the posts; "the name of the prisoner detained within?"
But she had tried quite a dozen before she heard the welcome sound of
Wat Gordon's voice, speaking from the pallet on which he had been lying
thinking of Kate, weary and sleepless.
Swiftly she tried key after key. The fourth grated in the lock and
stuck. But the Little Marie thrust the stem of a larger key through the
handle, and, setting her knee to the panel and putting all her strength
into her hands, she turned the wards of the lock. The door swung to the
wall of its own accord, and there lay Wat on his bed.
He leaped to his feet with a startled exclamation when he saw her.
"Marie!" he cried, "what do you here?"
"Hush!" she said, "I am here to save you. Come!"
And carefully locking the door of the cell behind them, they stole
along the passage. Black Peter still slept in the outer hall, nodding
and swaying stertorously on the settle, and there was no other sound
save the breathing of the resting prisoners. Without, the street was
still, Peter's lieutenant being busy carrying out his instructions at
the excellent Hostel of the Cheese of Gouda.
Marie opened the huge bolted door, closed and locked it, threw the key
into the canal, and the pair glided silently and unmolested down the
street.
"Have you anywhere to go where you will be safe?" asked Marie.
"Nowhere," said Wat. "I should indeed like to find my comrade, John
Scarlett, but if he be not in his lodgings, I dare not go to the camp
to seek him."
"Come with me," said Little Marie. "I will hide you safe and bring your
friend to you. For I also am your friend, though you think it not--and,
indeed, care not even if you did believe it."
"But indeed, and in God's truth, I do count you my friend," said Wat;
"for who but you, Little Marie, during all these black days, has so
much as thought upon poor Wat Gordon?"
At his kind words Marie bent her head, and for the first time in
her life her heart was filled with the fresh spring-water of purest
pleasure. And what wonder if a little of it overflowed into her eyes?