CHAPTER II. SHE WHO BUYS—PAYS
CHAPTER III. MONTALVO WINS A TRICK
CHAPTER IV. THREE WAKINGS
CHAPTER V. THE DREAM OF DIRK
CHAPTER VI. THE BETROTHAL OF LYSBETH
CHAPTER VII. HENDRIK BRANT HAS A VISITOR
CHAPTER VIII. THE MARE’S STABLE
BOOK THE SECOND THE RIPENING
CHAPTER IX. ADRIAN, FOY, AND MARTIN THE RED
CHAPTER X. ADRIAN GOES OUT HAWKING
CHAPTER XI. ADRIAN RESCUES BEAUTY IN DISTRESS
CHAPTER XII. THE SUMMONS
CHAPTER XIII. MOTHER’S GIFTS ARE GOOD GIFTS
CHAPTER XIV. SWORD SILENCE RECEIVES THE SECRET
CHAPTER XV. SEÑOR RAMIRO
CHAPTER XVI. THE MASTER
CHAPTER XVII. BETROTHED
CHAPTER XVIII. FOY SEES A VISION
CHAPTER XIX. THE FRAY IN THE SHOT TOWER
CHAPTER XX. IN THE GEVANGENHUIS
CHAPTER XXI. HOW MARTIN TURNED COWARD
CHAPTER XXII. A MEETING AND A PARTING
BOOK THE THIRD THE HARVESTING
CHAPTER XXIII. FATHER AND SON
CHAPTER XXIV. MARTHA PREACHES A SERMON AND TELLS A SECRET
CHAPTER XXV. THE RED MILL
CHAPTER XXVI. THE BRIDEGROOM AND THE BRIDE
CHAPTER XXVII. WHAT ELSA SAW IN THE MOONLIGHT
CHAPTER XXVIII. ATONEMENT
CHAPTER XXIX. ADRIAN COMES HOME AGAIN
CHAPTER XXX. TWO SCENES
DEDICATION
_In token of the earnest reverence of a man of a later generation for
his character, and for that life work whereof we inherit the fruits
to-day, this tale of the times he shaped is dedicated to the memory of
one of the greatest and most noble-hearted beings that the world has
known; the immortal William, called the Silent, of Nassau._
AUTHOR’S NOTE
There are, roughly, two ways of writing an historical romance—the first
to choose some notable and leading characters of the time to be
treated, and by the help of history attempt to picture them as they
were; the other, to make a study of that time and history with the
country in which it was enacted, and from it to deduce the necessary
characters.
In the case of “Lysbeth” the author has attempted this second method.
By an example of the trials, adventures, and victories of a burgher
family of the generation of Philip II. and William the Silent, he
strives to set before readers of to-day something of the life of those
who lived through perhaps the most fearful tyranny that the western
world has known. How did they live, one wonders; how is it that they
did not die of very terror, those of them who escaped the scaffold, the
famine and the pestilence?
This and another—Why were such things suffered to be?—seem problems
worth consideration, especially by the young, who are so apt to take
everything for granted, including their own religious freedom and
personal security. How often, indeed, do any living folk give a
grateful thought to the forefathers who won for us these advantages,
and many others with them?
The writer has sometimes heard travellers in the Netherlands express
surprise that even in an age of almost universal decoration its noble
churches are suffered to remain smeared with melancholy whitewash.
Could they look backward through the centuries and behold with the
mind’s eye certain scenes that have taken place within these very
temples and about their walls, they would marvel no longer. Here we are
beginning to forget the smart at the price of which we bought
deliverance 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 down as
heirlooms to this day, frown at the sight of even the most modest
sacerdotal vestment. Those who are acquainted with the facts of their
history and deliverance 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 Emperor Charles V.
ruled the Netherlands, and our scene the city of Leyden.
Any one who has visited this pleasant town knows that it lies in the
midst of wide, flat meadows, and is intersected 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 city lay buried beneath
a dazzling sheet of snow, while, instead of boats and barges, skaters
glided up and down the frozen surface of the canals, which were swept
for their convenience. Outside the walls of the town, not far from the
Morsch poort, or gate, the surface of the broad moat which surrounded
them presented a sight as gay as it was charming. Just here one of the
branches of the Rhine ran into this moat, and down it came the
pleasure-seekers in sledges, on skates, or afoot. They were dressed,
most of them, in their best attire, for the day was a holiday set apart
for a kind of skating carnival, with sleighing matches, such games as
curling, and other amusements.
Among these merry folk might have been seen a young lady of two or
three and twenty years of age, dressed in a coat of dark green cloth
trimmed with fur, and close-fitting at the waist. This coat opened in
front, showing a broidered woollen skirt, but over the bust it was
tightly buttoned and surmounted by a stiff ruff of Brussels lace. Upon
her head she wore a high-crowned beaver hat, to which the nodding
ostrich feather was fastened by a jewelled ornament of sufficient value
to show that she was a person of some means. In fact, this lady was the
only child of a sea captain and shipowner named Carolus van Hout, who,
whilst still a middle-aged man, had died about a year before, leaving
her heiress to a very considerable fortune. This circumstance, with the
added advantages of a very pretty face, in which were set two deep and
thoughtful grey eyes, and a figure more graceful than was common among
the Netherlander women, caused Lysbeth van Hout to be much sought after
and admired, especially by the marriageable bachelors of Leyden.
On this occasion, however, she was unescorted except by a serving woman
somewhat older than herself, a native of Brussels, Greta by name, who
in appearance was as attractive as in manner she was suspiciously
discreet.
As Lysbeth skated down the canal towards the moat many of the good
burghers of Leyden took off their caps to her, especially the young
burghers, one or two of whom had hopes that she would choose them to be
her cavalier for this day’s fete. Some of the elders, also, asked her
if she would care to join their parties, thinking that, as she was an
orphan without near male relations, she might be glad of their
protection in times when it was wise for beautiful young women to be
protected. With this excuse and that, however, she escaped from them
all, for Lysbeth had already made her own arrangements.
At that date there was living in Leyden a young man of four or five and
twenty, named Dirk van Goorl, a distant cousin of her own. Dirk was a
native of the little town of Alkmaar, and the second son of one of its
leading citizens, a brass founder by trade. As in the natural course of
events the Alkmaar business would descend to his elder brother, their
father appointed him to a Leyden firm, in which, after eight or nine
years of hard work, he had become a junior partner. While he was still
living, Lysbeth’s father had taken a liking to the lad, with the result
that he grew intimate at the house which, from the first, was open to
him as a kinsman. After the death of Carolus van Hout, Dirk had
continued to visit there, especially on Sundays, when he was duly and
ceremoniously received by Lysbeth’s aunt, a childless widow named Clara
van Ziel, who acted as her guardian. Thus, by degrees, favoured with
such ample opportunity, a strong affection had sprung up between these
two young people, although as yet they were not affianced, nor indeed
had either of them said a word of open love to the other.
This abstinence may seem strange, but some explanation of their
self-restraint was to be found in Dirk’s character. In mind he was
patient, very deliberate in forming his purposes, and very sure in
carrying them out. He felt impulses like other men, but he did not give
way to them. For two years or more he had loved Lysbeth, but being
somewhat slow at reading the ways of women he was not quite certain
that she loved him, and above everything on earth he dreaded a rebuff.
Moreover he knew her to be an heiress, and as his own means were still
humble, and his expectations from his father small, he did not feel
justified in asking her in marriage until his position was more
assured. Had the Captain Carolus still been living the case would have
been different, for then he could have gone to him. But he was dead,
and Dirk’s fine and sensitive nature recoiled from the thought that it
might be said of him that he had taken advantage of the inexperience of
a kinswoman in order to win her fortune. Also deep down in his mind he
had a sincerer and quite secret reason for reticence, whereof more in
its proper place.
Thus matters stood between these two. To-day, however, though only with
diffidence and after some encouragement from the lady, he had asked
leave to be his cousin’s cavalier at the ice fete, and when she
consented, readily enough, appointed the moat as their place of
meeting. This was somewhat less than Lysbeth expected, for she wished
his escort through the town. But, when she hinted as much, Dirk
explained that he would not be able to leave the works before three
o’clock, as the metal for a large bell had been run into the casting,
and he must watch it while it cooled.
So, followed only by her maid, Greta, Lysbeth glided lightly as a bird
down the ice path on to the moat, and across it, through the narrow
cut, to the frozen mere beyond, where the sports were to be held and
the races run. There the scene was very beautiful.
Behind her lay the roofs of Leyden, pointed, picturesque, and covered
with sheets of snow, while above them towered the bulk of the two great
churches of St. Peter and St. Pancras, and standing on a mound known as
the Burg, the round tower which is supposed to have been built by the
Romans. In front stretched the flat expanse of white meadows, broken
here and there by windmills with narrow waists and thin tall sails, and
in the distance, by the church towers of other towns and villages.
Immediately before her, in strange contrast to this lifeless landscape,
lay the peopled mere, fringed around with dead reeds standing so still
in the frosty air that they might have been painted things. On this
mere half the population of Leyden seemed to be gathered; at least
there were thousands of them, shouting, laughing, and skimming to and
fro in their bright garments like flocks of gay-plumaged birds. Among
them, drawn by horses with bells tied to their harness, glided many
sledges of wickerwork and wood mounted upon iron runners, their
fore-ends fashioned to quaint shapes, such as the heads of dogs or
bulls, or Tritons. Then there were vendors of cakes and sweetmeats,
vendors of spirits also, who did a good trade on this cold day. Beggars
too were numerous, and among them deformities, who, nowadays, would be
hidden in charitable homes, slid about in wooden boxes, which they
pushed along with crutches. Lastly many loafers had gathered there with
stools for fine ladies to sit on while the skates were bound to their
pretty feet, and chapmen with these articles for sale and straps
wherewith to fasten them. To complete the picture the huge red ball of
the sun was sinking to the west, and opposite to it the pale full 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 from the shock of her beloved father’s
death, light-hearted, ceased her forward movement and poised herself
upon her skates to watch it for a space. While she stood thus a little
apart, a woman came towards her from the throng, not as though she were
seeking her, but aimlessly, much as a child’s toy-boat is driven by
light, contrary winds upon the summer surface of a pond.
She was a remarkable-looking woman of about thirty-five years of age,
tall and bony in make, with deep-set eyes, light grey of colour, that
seemed now to flash fiercely and now to waver, as though in memory of
some great dread. From beneath a coarse woollen cap 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-spread nostrils and prominent white teeth, whence the lips had
strangely sunk away, gave the whole countenance a more or less equine
look which this falling lock seemed to heighten. For the rest the woman
was poorly and not too plentifully clad in a gown of black woollen,
torn and stained as though with long use and 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. Presently she seemed to recognise her, for she
said in a quick, low voice, the voice of one who lives in terror of
being overheard:—
“That’s a pretty dress of yours, Van Hout’s daughter. Oh, yes, I know
you; your father used to play with me when I was a child, and once he
kissed me on the ice at just such a fete as this. Think of it! Kissed
me, Martha the Mare,” and she laughed hoarsely, and went on: “Yes,
well-warmed and well-fed, and, without doubt, waiting for a gallant to
kiss you”; here she turned and waved her hand towards the people—“all
well-warmed and well-fed, and all with lovers and husbands and children
to kiss. But I tell you, Van Hout’s daughter, as I have dared to creep
from my hiding hole in the great lake to tell all of them who will
listen, that unless they cast out the cursed Spaniard, a day shall come
when the folk of Leyden must perish by thousands of hunger behind those
walls. Yes, yes, unless they cast out the cursed Spaniard and his
Inquisition. Oh, I know him, I know him, for did they not make me carry
my own husband to the stake upon my back? And have you heard why, Van
Hout’s daughter? Because what I had suffered in their torture-dens had
made my face—yes, mine that once was so beautiful—like the face of a
horse, and they said that ‘a horse ought to be ridden.’”
Now, while this poor excited creature, one of a whole class of such
people who in those sad days might be found wandering about the
Netherlands crazy with their griefs and sufferings, and living only for
revenge, poured out these broken sentences, Lysbeth, terrified, shrank
back before her. As she shrank the other followed, till presently
Lysbeth saw her expression of rage and hate change to one of terror. In
another instant, muttering something about a request for alms which she
did not wait to receive, the woman had wheeled round and fled away as
fast as her skates would carry her—which was very fast indeed.
Turning about to find what had frightened her, Lysbeth saw standing on
the bank of the mere, so close that she must have overheard every word,
but behind the screen of a leafless bush, a tall, forbidding-looking
woman, who held in her hand some broidered caps which apparently she
was offering for sale. These caps she began to slowly fold up and place
one by one in a hide satchel that was hung about her shoulders. All
this while she was watching Lysbeth with her keen black eyes, except
when from time to time she took them off her to follow the flight of
that person who had called herself the Mare.
“You keep ill company, lady,” said the cap-seller in a harsh voice.
“It was none of my seeking,” answered Lysbeth, astonished into making a
reply.
“So much the better for you, lady, although she seemed to know you and
to know also that you would listen to her song. Unless my eyes deceived
me, which is not often, that woman is an evil-doer and a worker of
magic like her dead husband Van Muyden; a heretic, a blasphemer of the
Holy Church, a traitor to our Lord the Emperor, and one,” she added
with a snarl, “with a price upon her head that before night will, I
hope, be in Black Meg’s pocket.” Then, walking with long firm steps
towards a fat man who seemed to be waiting for her, the tall,
black-eyed pedlar passed with him into the throng, where Lysbeth lost
sight of them.
Lysbeth watched them go, and shivered. To her knowledge she had never
seen this woman before, but she knew enough of the times they lived in
to be sure that she was a spy of the priests. Already there were such
creatures moving about in every gathering, yes, and in many a private
place, who were paid to obtain evidence against suspected heretics.
Whether they won it by fair means or by foul mattered not, provided
they could find something, and it need be little indeed, to justify the
Inquisition in getting to its work.
As for the other woman, the Mare, doubtless she was one of those wicked
outcasts, accursed by God and man, who were called heretics; people who
said dreadful things about the Pope and the Church and God’s priests,
having been misled and stirred up thereto by 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—and then that dreadful story—no, she could not
bear to think of it. But of course heretics deserved all these things;
of that there could be no doubt whatever, for had not her father
confessor told her that thus alone might their souls be saved from the
grasp of the Evil One?
The thought was comforting, still Lysbeth felt upset, and not a little
rejoiced when she saw Dirk van Goorl skating towards her accompanied by
another young man, also a cousin of her own on her mother’s side who
was destined in days to come to earn himself an immortal renown—young
Pieter van de Werff. The two took off their bonnets to her, Dirk van
Goorl revealing in the act a head of fair hair beneath which his steady
blue eyes shone in a rather thick-set, self-contained face. Lysbeth’s
temper, always somewhat quick, was ruffled, and she showed it in her
manner.
“I thought, cousins, that we were to meet at three, and the kirk clock
yonder has just chimed half-past,” she said, addressing them both, but
looking—not too sweetly—at Dirk van Goorl.
“That’s right, cousin,” answered Pieter, a pleasant-faced and alert
young man, “look at _him_, scold _him_, for he is to blame. Ever since
a quarter past two have I—I who must drive a sledge in the great race
and am backed to win—been waiting outside that factory in the snow,
but, upon my honour, he did not appear until seven minutes since. Yes,
we have done the whole distance in seven minutes, and I call that very
good skating.”
“I thought as much,” said Lysbeth. “Dirk can only keep an appointment
with a church bell or a stadhuis chandelier.”
“It was not my fault,” broke in Dirk in his 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 and sledge
races.”
“So I suppose that you stopped to blow on it, cousin. Well, the result
is that, being quite unescorted, I have been obliged to listen to
things which I did not wish to hear.”
“What do you mean?” asked Dirk, taking fire at once.
Then she told them something of what the woman who called herself the
Mare had said to her, adding, “Doubtless the poor creature is a heretic
and deserves all that has 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 which was 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 can happen
to her? I have heard of this poor creature who is called Mother Martha,
or the Mare, although I have never seen her myself. She was noble-born,
much better born than any of us three, and very fair—once they called
her the Lily of Brussels—when she was the Vrouw van Muyden, and she has
suffered dreadfully, for one reason only, because she and hers did not
worship God as you worship Him.”
“As we worship Him,” broke in Van de Werff with a cough.
“No,” answered Dirk sullenly, “as our Cousin Lysbeth van Hout worships
Him. For that reason only they killed her husband and her little son,
and drove her mad, so that she lives among the reeds 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 rather cold standing here?”
interrupted Pieter van de Werff before she could answer. “Look, the
sledge races are just beginning. Come, cousin, give me your hand,” and,
taking Lysbeth by the arm, he skated off into the throng, followed at a
distance by Dirk and the serving-maid, Greta.
“Cousin,” he whispered as he went, “this is not my place, it is Dirk’s
place, but I pray you as you love him—I beg your pardon—as you esteem a
worthy relative—do not enter into 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 that it is not safe.”
In the centre of the mere the great event of the day, the sledge races,
were now in progress. As the competitors were many these must be run in
heats, the winners of each heat standing on one side to compete in the
final contest. Now these victors had a pretty prerogative not unlike
that accorded to certain dancers in the cotillion of modern days. Each
driver of a sledge was bound to carry a passenger in the little car in
front of him, his own place being on the seat behind, whence he
directed the horse by means of reins supported upon a guide-rod so
fashioned that it lifted them above the head of the traveller in the
car. This passenger he could select from among the number of ladies who
were present at the games; unless, indeed, the gentleman in charge of
her chose to deny him in set form; namely, by stepping forward and
saying in the appointed phrase, “No, for this happy hour she is mine.”
Among the winners of these heats was a certain Spanish officer, the
Count Don Juan de Montalvo, who, as it chanced, in the absence on leave
of his captain, was at 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 the usual Castilian fashion. That is
to say, he was tall, of a graceful figure, dark-eyed, strong-featured,
with a somewhat humorous expression, and of very good if exaggerated
address. As he had but recently come to Leyden, very little was known
about this attractive cavalier beyond that he was well spoken of by the
priests and, according to report, a favourite with the Emperor. Also
the ladies admired him much.
For the rest everything about him was handsome like his person, as
might be expected in the case of a man reputed to be as rich as he was
noble. Thus his sledge was shaped and coloured to resemble a great
black wolf rearing itself up to charge. The wooden head was covered in
wolf skin and adorned by eyes of yellow glass and great fangs of ivory.
Round the neck also ran a gilded collar hung with a silver shield,
whereon were painted the arms of its owner, a knight striking the
chains from off a captive Christian saint, and the motto of the
Montalvos, “Trust to God and me.” His black horse, too, of the best
breed, imported from Spain, glittered in harness decorated with
gilding, and bore a splendid plume of dyed feathers rising from the
head-band.
Lysbeth happened to be standing near to the spot where this gallant had
halted after his first victory. She was in the company of Dirk van
Goorl alone—for as he was the driver of one of the competing sledges,
her other cousin, Pieter van de Werff, had now been summoned away.
Having nothing else to do at the moment, she approached and not
unnaturally admired this brilliant equipage, although in truth it was
the sledge and the horse rather than their driver which attracted her
attention. As for the Count himself she knew him slightly, having been
introduced to and danced a measure with him at a festival given by a
grandee of the town. On that occasion he was courteous to her in the
Spanish fashion, rather too courteous, she thought, but as this was the
manner of Castilian dons when dealing with burgher maidens she paid no
more attention to the matter.
The Captain Montalvo saw Lysbeth among the throng and recognised her,
for he lifted his plumed hat and bowed to her with just that touch of
condescension which in those days a Spaniard showed when greeting one
whom he considered his inferior. In the sixteenth century it was
understood that all the world were the inferiors to those whom God had
granted to be born in Spain, the English who rated themselves at a
valuation of their own—and were careful to announce the fact—alone
excepted.
An hour or so later, after the last heat had been run, a steward of the
ceremonies called aloud to the remaining competitors to select their
passengers and prepare for the final contest. Accordingly each Jehu,
leaving his horse in charge of an attendant, stepped up to some young
lady who evidently was waiting for him, and led her by the hand to his
sledge. While Lysbeth was watching this ceremony with amusement—for
these selections were always understood to show a strong preference on
behalf of the chooser for the chosen—she was astonished to hear a
well-trained voice addressing her, and on looking up to see Don Juan de
Montalvo bowing almost to the ice.
“Señora,” he said in Castilian, a tongue which Lysbeth understood well
enough, although she only spoke it when obliged, “unless my ears
deceived me, I heard you admiring my horse and sledge. Now, with the
permission of your cavalier,” and he bowed courteously to Dirk, “I name
you as my passenger for the great race, knowing that you will bring me
fortune. Have I your leave, Señor?”
Now if there was a people on earth whom Dirk van Goorl hated, the
Spaniards were that people, and if there lived a cavalier who he would
prefer should not take his cousin Lysbeth for a lonely drive, that
cavalier was the Count Juan de Montalvo. But as a young man, Dirk was
singularly diffident and so easily confused that on the spur of the
moment it was quite possible for a person of address to make him say
what he did not mean. Thus, on the present occasion, when he saw this
courtly Spaniard bowing low to him, a humble Dutch tradesman, he was
overwhelmed, and mumbled in reply, “Certainly, certainly.”
If a glance could have withered him, without doubt Dirk would
immediately have been shrivelled to nothing. To say that Lysbeth was
angry is too little, for in truth she was absolutely furious. She did
not like this Spaniard, and hated the idea of a long interview with him
alone. Moreover, she knew that among her fellow townspeople there was a
great desire that the Count should not win this race, which in its own
fashion was the event of the year, whereas, if she appeared as his
companion it would be supposed that she was anxious for his success.
Lastly—and this was the chiefest sore—although in theory the
competitors had a right to ask any one to whom they took a fancy to
travel in their sledges, in practise they only sought the company of
young women with whom they were on the best of terms, and who were
already warned of their intention.
In an instant these thoughts flashed through her mind, but all she did
was to murmur something about the Heer van Goorl——
“Has already given his consent, like an unselfish gentleman,” broke in
Captain Juan tendering her his hand.
Now, without absolutely making a scene, which then, as to-day, ladies
considered an ill-bred thing to do, there was no escape, since half
Leyden gathered at these “sledge choosings,” and many eyes were on her
and the Count. Therefore, because she must, Lysbeth took the proferred
hand, and was led to the sledge, catching, as she passed to it through
the throng, more than one sour look from the men and more 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 sullen or
ridiculous, she began to enter into the spirit of the adventure, and
smiled graciously while the Captain Montalvo wrapped a magnificent
apron of wolf skins about her knees.
When all was ready her charioteer took the reins and settled himself
upon the little seat behind the sleigh, which was then led into line by
a soldier servant.
“Where is the course, Señor?” Lysbeth asked, 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 island in the middle of it,
and back to this spot, something over a league in all. Now, Señora,
speak to me no more at present, but hold fast and have no fear, for at
least I drive well, and my horse is sure-footed and roughed for ice.
This is a race that I would give a hundred gold pieces to win, since
your countrymen, who contend against me, have sworn that I shall lose
it, and I tell you at once, Señora, that grey horse will press me
hard.”
Following the direction of his glance, Lysbeth’s eye lit upon the next
sledge. It was small, fashioned and painted to resemble a grey badger,
that silent, stubborn, and, if molested, savage brute, which will not
loose its grip until the head is hacked from off its body. The horse,
which matched it well in colour, was of Flemish breed; rather a
raw-boned animal, with strong quarters and an ugly head, but renowned
in Leyden for its courage and staying power. What interested Lysbeth
most, however, was to discover that the charioteer was none other than
Pieter van de Werff, though now when she thought of it, she remembered
he had told her that his sledge was named the Badger. In his choice of
passenger she noted, too, not without a smile, that he showed his
cautious character, disdainful of any immediate glory, so long as the
end in view could be attained. For there in the sleigh sat no fine
young lady, decked out in brave attire, who might be supposed to look
at him with tender eyes, but a little fair-haired mate aged nine, who
was in fact his sister. As he explained afterwards, the rules 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 a voice that every one might hear, called
out the conditions of 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 if all were ready, he dropped a little
flag, whereon the horses were loosed and away they went.
Before a minute had passed, forgetting all her doubts and annoyances,
Lysbeth was lost in the glorious excitement of the moment. Like birds
in the heavens, cleaving the keen, crisp air, they sped forward over
the smooth ice. The gay throng vanished, the dead reeds and stark
bushes seemed to fly away from them. The only sounds in their ears were
the rushing of the wind, the swish of the iron runners, and the hollow
tapping of the hooves of their galloping horses. Certain sledges drew
ahead in the first burst, but the 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 with a constrained and
awkward stride. When, passing from the little mere, they entered the
straight of the canal, these two were respectively fourth and fifth. Up
the course they sped, through a deserted snow-clad country, past the
church of the village of Alkemaade. Now, half a mile or more away
appeared the Quarkel Mere, and in the centre of it the island which
they must 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 third and fourth in the race, some one having dropped
behind. Half a mile more and they were second and third; another half
mile and they were first and second with perhaps a mile to go. Then the
fight began.
Yard by yard the speed increased, and yard by yard the black stallion
drew ahead. Now in front of them lay a furlong or more of bad ice
encumbered with lumps 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 whip upon the haunches
of his horse, which answered gallantly. But still the Badger came up.
The grey was the stronger beast, and had begun to put out his strength.
Presently his ugly head was behind them, for Lysbeth felt the breath
from his nostrils blowing on her, and saw their steam. Then it was
past, for the steam blew back into her face; yes, and she could see the
eager eyes of the child in the grey sledge. Now they were neck and
neck, and the rough ice was done with. Six hundred yards away, not
more, lay the goal, and all about them, outside the line of the course,
were swift skaters travelling so fast that their heads were bent
forward and down to within three feet of the ice.
Van de Werff called to his horse, and the grey began to gain. Montalvo
lashed the stallion, and once more 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 shrill voice rose upon the air, the voice of
the little girl in the other sledge.
“Take care, brother,” it cried, “he will overthrow us.”
True enough, in another moment the black would have struck the grey
sideways. Lysbeth saw Van de Werff rise from his seat and throw his
weight backward, dragging the grey on to his haunches. By an inch—not
more—the Wolf sleigh missed the gelding. Indeed, one runner of it
struck his hoof, and the high 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 speeding forward, but now the black had a lead of at least ten
yards, for the grey must find his stride again. They were in the
straight; the course was lined with hundreds of witnesses, and from the
throats of every one of them arose a great cry, or rather two cries.
“The Spaniard, the Spaniard wins!” said the first cry that was answered
by another and a deeper roar.
“No, Hollander, the Hollander! The Hollander comes up!”
Then in the midst of the fierce excitement—bred of the excitement
perhaps—some curious spell 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 them was present a dream, a spiritual
interpretation such as the omens and influences of the times she lived
in might well inspire. What did she seem to see?
She saw the Spaniard and the Hollander striving for victory, but not a
victory of horses. She saw the black Spanish Wolf, at first triumphant,
outmatch the Netherland Badger. Still, the Badger, the dogged Dutch
badger, held on.
Who would win? The fierce beast or the patient beast? Who would be the
master in this fight? There was death in it. Look, the whole snow was
red, the roofs of Leyden were red, and red the heavens; in the deep
hues of the sunset they seemed bathed in blood, while about her the
shouts of the backers and factions transformed themselves into a fierce
cry as of battling peoples. All voices mingled in that cry—voices of
hope, of agony, and of despair; but she could not interpret them.
Something told her that the interpretation and the issue were in the
mind of God alone.
Perhaps she swooned, perhaps she slept and dreamed this dream; perhaps
the sharp rushing air overcame her. At the least Lysbeth’s eyes closed
and her mind gave way. When they opened and it returned again their
sledge was rushing past the winning post. But in front of it travelled
another sledge, drawn by a gaunt grey horse, which galloped so hard
that its belly seemed to lie upon the ice, a horse driven by a young
man whose face was set like steel and whose lips were as the lips of a
trap.
Could that be the face of her cousin Pieter van de Werff, and, if so,
what passion had stamped that strange seal thereon? She turned herself
in her seat and 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 the white of them to be seen; the lips curled, and, between, two
lines of shining fangs; the lifted points of the mustachios touching
the high cheekbones. No—no, it was neither a spirit nor a man, she knew
now what it was; it was the very type and incarnation of the Spanish
Wolf.
Once more she seemed to faint, while in her ears there rang the
cry—“The Hollander! Outstayed! Outstayed! Conquered is the accursed
Spaniard!”
Then Lysbeth knew that it was over, and again the faintness overpowered
her.