WHAT ELSA SAW IN THE MOONLIGHT
It will be remembered that some weeks before Elsa’s forced marriage in
the Red Mill, Foy, on their escape from the Gevangenhuis, had been
carried upon the naked back of Martin to the shelter of Mother Martha’s
lair in the Haarlemer Meer. Here he lay sick many days, for the sword
cut in his thigh festered so badly that 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 enough for him to visit, since the Spaniards were
driven from the town.
How his young heart swelled as, still limping a little and somewhat
pale from recent illness, he approached the well-known house in the
Bree Straat, the home that sheltered his mother and his love. Presently
he would see them again, for the news had been brought to him that
Lysbeth was out of danger and Elsa must still be nursing her.
Lysbeth he found indeed, turned into an old woman by grief and sore
sickness, but Elsa he did not find. She had vanished. On the previous
night she had gone out to take the air, and returned no more. What had
become of her none could say. All the town talked of it, and his mother
was half-crazed with anxiety and fear, fear of the worst.
Hither and thither they went inquiring, seeking, tracking, but no trace
of Elsa could they discover. She had been seen to pass the Morsch
poort; then she disappeared. For a while Foy was mad. At length he grew
calmer and began to think. Drawing from his pocket the letter which
Martha had brought to him on the night of the church-burning, he
re-read it in the hope of finding a clue, since it was just possible
that for private reasons Elsa might have set out on some journey of her
own. It was a very sweet letter, telling him of her deep joy and
gratitude at his escape; of the events that had happened in the town;
of the death of his father in the Gevangenhuis, and ending thus:
“Dear Foy, my betrothed, I cannot come to you because of your mother’s
sickness, for I am sure that it would be your wish, as it is my desire
and duty, that I should stay to nurse her. Soon, however, I hope that
you will be able to come to her and me. Yet, in these dreadful times
who can tell what may happen? Therefore, Foy, whatever chances, I am
sure you will remember that in life or in death I am yours only—yes, to
you, dead or living, you dead and I living, or you living and I dead,
while or wherever I have sense or memory, I will be true; through life,
through death, through whatever may lie beyond our deaths, I will be
true as woman may be to man. So, dear Foy, for this present fare you
well until we meet again in the days to come, or after all earthly days
are done with for you and me. My love be with you, the blessing of God
be with you, and when you lie down at night and when you wake at morn,
think of me and put up a 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 been taken it must be
without Elsa’s own consent.
“Martin, what do you make of it?” asked Foy, staring at him with
anxious, hollow eyes.
“Ramiro—Adrian—stolen away—” answered Martin.
“Why do you say that?”
“Hague Simon was seen hanging about outside the town yesterday, and
there was a strange boat upon the river. Last night the Jufvrouw went
through the Morsch poort. The rest you can guess.”
“Why would they take her?” asked Foy hoarsely.
“Who can tell?” said Martin shrugging his great shoulders. “Yet I see
two reasons. Hendrik Brant’s wealth is supposed to be hers when it can
be found; therefore, being a thief, Ramiro would want her. Adrian is in
love with her; therefore, being a man, of course he would want her.
These seem 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 got to find them—and her,
which is the same thing.”
“How, Martin, how?”
“I don’t know.”
“Can’t you think, man?”
“I am trying to, master; it’s you who don’t think. You talk too much.
Be silent a while.”
“Well,” asked Foy thirty seconds later, “have you finished thinking?”
“No, master, it’s no use, there is nothing to think about. We must
leave this and go back to Martha. If anyone can track her out she can.
Here we can learn no more.”
So they returned to the Haarlemer Meer and told Martha their sad tale.
“Bide here a day or two and be patient,” she said; “I will go out and
search.”
“Never,” answered Foy, “we will come with you.”
“If you choose, but it will make matters more difficult. Martin, get
ready the big boat.”
Two nights had gone by, and it was an hour or more past noon on the
third day, the day of Elsa’s forced marriage. The snow had ceased
falling and the rain had come instead, rain, pitiless, bitter and
continual. Hidden in a nook at the north end of the Haarlemer Meer and
almost buried beneath bundles of reeds, partly as a protection from the
weather and partly to escape the eyes of Spaniards, of whom companies
were gathering from every direction to besiege Haarlem, lay the big
boat. In it were Red Martin and Foy van Goorl. Mother Martha was not
there for she had gone alone to an inn at a distance, to gather
information if she could. To hundreds of the boers in these parts she
was a known and trusted friend, although many of them might not choose
to recognise 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’s whereabouts.
For two weary nights and days the Mare had been employed thus, but as
yet without a shadow of success. Foy and Martin sat in the boat staring
at each other gloomily; indeed Foy’s face was piteous to see.
“What are you thinking of, master?” asked Martin presently.
“I am thinking,” he answered, “that even if we find her now it will be
too late; whatever was to be done, murder or marriage, will be done.”
“Time to trouble about that when we have found her,” said Martin, for
he knew not what else to say, and added, “listen, I hear footsteps.”
Foy drew apart two of the bundles of reeds and looked out into the
driving rain.
“All right,” he said, “it is Martha and a man.”
Martin let his hand fall from the hilt of the sword Silence, for in
those days hand and sword must be near together. Another minute and
Martha and her 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, turning on the man fiercely.
“Am I safe from vengeance?” asked Marsh Jan, who was a good fellow
enough although he had drifted into evil company, looking doubtfully at
Foy and Martin.
“Have I not said so,” answered Martha, “and does the Mare break her
word?”
Then Marsh Jan told his tale: How he was one of 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 was
in the immediate charge of a man and a woman who could be no other than
Hague Simon and Black Meg. Also he told of her piteous appeal to the
boatmen in the names of their wives and daughters, and at the telling
of it Foy wept with fear and rage, and even Martha gnashed her teeth.
Only Martin cast off the boat and 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, there would be a flood, his
wife was ill and expected him, and so forth. Then he tried to get out
of the boat, whereon, catching hold of him suddenly, Martin threw him
into the stern-sheets, saying:
“You could travel to this mill once taking with you a girl whom you
knew to be kidnapped, now you can travel there again to get her out.
Sit still and steer straight, or I will make you food for fishes.”
Then Marsh Jan professed himself quite willing to sail to the Red Mill,
which he said they ought to reach by nightfall.
All that afternoon they sailed and rowed, till, with the darkness,
before ever the mill was in sight, the great flood came down upon them
and drove them hither and thither, such a flood as had not been seen in
those districts for a dozen years. But Marsh Jan knew his bearings
well; he had the instinct of locality that is bred in those whose
forefathers for generations have won a living from the fens, and
through it all he held upon a straight course.
Once Foy thought that he heard a voice calling for help in the
darkness, but it was not repeated and they went forward. At last the
sky cleared and the moon shone out upon such a waste of waters as Noah
might have beheld from the ark. Only there were things floating in them
that Noah would scarcely have seen; hayricks, dead and drowning cattle,
household furniture, and once even a coffin washed from some graveyard,
while beyond stretched the dreary outline of the sand dunes.
“The mill should be near,” said Marsh Jan, “let us put about.” So they
turned, rowing with weary arms, for the wind had fallen.
Let us go back a little. Elsa, on escaping from the scene of her mock
marriage, fled to her room and bolted its door. A few seconds later she
heard hands hammering at it, and the voices of Hague Simon and Black
Meg calling to her to open. She took no note, the hammering ceased, and
then it was that for the first time she became aware of a dreadful,
roaring noise, a noise of many waters. Time passed as it passes in a
nightmare, till suddenly, above the dull roar, came sharp sounds as of
wood cracking and splitting, and Elsa felt that the whole fabric of the
mill had tilted. Beneath the pressure of the flood it had given where
it was weakest, at its narrow waist, and now its red cap hung over like
a wind-laid tree.
Terror took hold of Elsa, and running to the door she opened it hoping
to escape down the stairs. Behold! water was creeping up them, she
could see it by the lantern in her hand—her retreat was cut off. But
there were other stairs leading to the top storey of the mill that now
lay at a steep angle, and along these she climbed, since the water was
pouring through her doorway and there was nowhere else to go. In the
very roof of the place was a manhole with a rotten hatch. She passed
through this, to find herself upon the top of the mill just where one
of the great naked arms of the sails projected from it. Her lantern was
blown out by now, but she clung to the arm, and became aware that the
wooden cap of the structure, still anchored to its brick foundation,
lay upon its side rocking to and fro like a boat upon an angry sea. The
water was near her; that she knew by its seethe and rush, although she
could not see it, but as yet it did not even wet her feet.
The hours went by, how many, she never learned, till at length the
clouds cleared; the moon became visible, and by its light she saw an
awful scene. Everywhere around was water; it lapped within a yard, and
it was rising still. Now Elsa saw that in the great beam she clasped
were placed short spokes for the use of those who set the sails above.
Up these she climbed as best she might, till she was able to pass her
body between two of the vanes and support her breast upon the flat
surface of one of them, as a person does who leans out of a window.
From her window there was something to see. Quite near to her, but
separated by fifteen or twenty feet of yellow frothing water, a little
portion of the swelling shape of the mill stood clear of the flood. To
this foam-lapped island clung two human beings—Hague Simon and Black
Meg. They saw her also and screamed for help, but she had none to give.
Surely it was a dream—nothing so awful could happen outside a dream.
The fabric of the mill tilted more and more; the space to which the two
vile creatures hung grew less and less. There was no longer room for
both of them. They began to quarrel, to curse and jibber at each other,
their fierce, bestial faces not an inch apart as they crouched there on
hands and knees. The water rose a little, they were kneeling in it now,
and the man, putting down his bald head, butted at the woman, almost
thrusting her from her perch. But she was strong and active, she
struggled back again; she did more, with an eel-like wriggle she
climbed upon his back, weighing him down. He strove to shake 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, seizing her
leg between his teeth, bit and worried at it. In her pain and rage Meg
screeched aloud—that was the cry which Foy had heard. Then suddenly she
drew a knife from her bosom—Elsa saw it flash in the moonlight—and
stabbed downwards once, twice, thrice.
Elsa shut her eyes. When she opened them again the 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
Red Mill dipped slowly like a lady who makes a Court curtsey, and she
vanished. It rose again and Meg was still there, moaning in her terror
and water running from her dress. Then again it dipped, this time more
deeply, and when the patch of rusty boarding slowly reappeared, it was
empty. No, not quite, for clinging to it, yowling and spitting, was the
half-wild black 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 in her warm winter gown with fur upon it, and dry
from her head to her feet, it is probable that she would have fallen
off and perished in the water. As it was gradually her body became numb
and her senses faded. She seemed to know that all this matter of her
forced marriage, of the flood, and of the end of Simon and Meg, was
nothing but a dream, a very evil nightmare from which she would awake
presently to find herself snug and warm in her own bed in the Bree
Straat. Of course it must be a nightmare, for look, there, on the bare
patch of boarding beneath, the hideous struggle repeated itself. There
lay Hague Simon gnawing at his wife’s foot, only his fat, white face
was gone, and in place of it he wore the head of a cat, for she, the
watcher, could see its glowing eyes fixed upon her. And Meg—look how
her lean limbs gripped him round the body. Listen to the thudding noise
as the great knife fell between his shoulders. And now, see—she was
growing tall, she had become a giantess, her face shot across the gulf
of water and swam upwards through the shadows till it was within a foot
of her. Oh! she must fall, but first she would scream for help—surely
the dead themselves could hear that cry. Better not have uttered it, it
might bring Ramiro back; better go to join the dead. What did the voice
say, Meg’s voice, but how changed? That she was not to be afraid? That
the thudding was the sound of oars not of knife thrusts? This would be
Ramiro’s boat coming to seize her. Of him and Adrian she could bear no
more; she would throw herself into the water and trust to God. One,
two, three—then utter darkness.
Elsa became aware that light was shining about her, also that somebody
was kissing her upon the face and lips. A horrible doubt struck her
that it might be Adrian, and she opened her eyes ever so little to
look. No, no, how very strange, it was not Adrian, it was Foy! Well,
doubtless this must be all part of her vision, and as in dream or out
of it Foy had a perfect right to kiss her if he chose, she saw no
reason to interfere. Now she seemed to hear a familiar voice, that of
Red Martin, asking someone how long it would take them to make Haarlem
with this wind, to which another voice answered, “About three-quarters
of an hour.”
It was very odd, and why did he say Haarlem and not Leyden? Next the
second voice, which also seemed familiar, said:
“Look out, Foy, she’s coming to herself.” Then someone poured wine down
her throat, whereupon, unable to bear this bewilderment any longer,
Elsa sat up and opened her eyes wide, to see before her Foy, and none
other than Foy in the flesh.
She gasped, and began to sink back again with joy and weakness, whereon
he cast his arms about her and drew her to his breast. Then she
remembered everything.
“Oh! Foy, Foy,” she cried, “you must 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?” replied Elsa with a flash of
spirit.
“Perhaps, then, you would explain?”
“What is there to explain? I thought that you knew. They dragged me
away, and last night, just before the flood burst, I was gagged and
married by force.”
“Oh! Adrian, my friend,” groaned Foy, “wait till I catch you, my friend
Adrian.”
“To be just,” explained Elsa, “I don’t think Adrian wanted to marry me
much, but he had to choose between marrying me himself or seeing his
father Ramiro marry me.”
“So he sacrificed himself—the good, kind-hearted man,” interrupted Foy,
grinding his teeth.
“Yes,” said Elsa.
“And where is your self-denying—oh! I can’t say the word.”
“I don’t know. I suppose that he and Ramiro escaped in the boat, or
perhaps he was drowned.”
“In which case you are a widow sooner than you could have expected,”
said Foy more cheerfully, edging himself towards her.
But Elsa moved a little away and Foy saw with a sinking of the heart
that, however distasteful it might be to her, clearly she attached some
weight to this marriage.
“I do not know,” she answered, “how can I tell? I suppose that we shall
hear sometime, and then, if he is still alive, I must set to work to
get free of him. But, till then, Foy,” she added, warningly, “I suppose
that I am his wife in law, although I will never speak to him again.
Where are we going?”
“To Haarlem. The Spaniards are closing in upon the city, and we dare
not try to break through their lines. Those are Spanish boats behind
us. But eat and drink a little, Elsa, then tell us your story.”
“One question first, Foy. How did you find me?”
“We heard a woman scream twice, once far away and once near at hand,
and rowing to the sound, saw someone hanging to the arm of an
overturned windmill only three or four feet above the water. Of course
we knew that you had been taken to the mill; that man there told us. Do
you remember him? But at first we could not find it in the darkness and
the flood.”
Then, after she had swallowed something, Elsa told her story, while the
three of them clustered round her forward of the sail, and Marsh Jan
managed the helm. When she had finished it, Martin whispered to Foy,
and as though by a common impulse all four of them kneeled down upon
the boards in the bottom of the boat, and returned thanks to the
Almighty that this maiden, quite unharmed, had been delivered out of
such manifold and terrible dangers, and this by the hands of her own
friends and of the man to whom she was affianced. When they had
finished their service of thanksgiving, which was as simple as it was
solemn and heartfelt, they rose, and now Elsa did not forbid that Foy
should hold her hand.
“Say, sweetheart,” he asked, “is it true that you think anything of
this forced marriage?”
“Hear me before you answer,” broke in Martha. “It is no marriage at
all, for none can be wed without the consent of their own will, and you
gave no such consent.”
“It is no marriage,” echoed Martin, “and if it be, and I live, then the
sword shall cut its knot.”
“It is no marriage,” said Foy, “for although we have not stood together
before the altar, yet our hearts are wed, so how can you be made the
wife of another man?”
“Dearest,” replied Elsa, when they had all spoken, “I too am sure that
it is no marriage, yet a priest spoke the marriage words over me, and a
ring was thrust upon my hand, so, to the law, if there be any law left
in the Netherlands, I am perhaps in some sort a wife. Therefore, before
I can become wife to you these facts must be made public, and I must
appeal to the law to free me, lest in days to come others should be
troubled.”
“And if the law cannot, or will not, Elsa, what then?”
“Then, dear, our consciences being clean, we will be a law to
ourselves. But first we must wait a while. Are you satisfied now, Foy?”
“No,” answered Foy sulkily, “for it is monstrous that such devil’s work
should keep us apart even for an hour. Yet in this, as in all, I will
obey you, dear.”
“Marrying and giving in marriage!” broke in Martha in a shrill voice.
“Talk no more of such things, for there is other work before us. Look
yonder, girl, what do you see?” and she pointed to the dry land. “The
hosts of the Amalekites marching in their thousands to slaughter us and
our brethren, the children of the Lord. Look behind you, what do you
see? The ships of the tyrant sailing up to encompass the city of the
children of the Lord. It is the day of death and desolation, the day of
Armageddon, and ere the sun sets red upon it many a thousand must pass
through the gates of doom, we, mayhap, among them. Then up with the
flag of freedom; out with the steel of truth, gird on the buckler of
righteousness, and snatch the shield of hope. Fight, fight for the
liberty of the land that bore you, for the memory of Christ, the King
who died for you, for the faith to which you 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
you in the torture den, Foy van Goorl? What hand was it that held your
life and honour safe when you sojourned among devils in the Red Mill
yonder and kept your head above the waters of the flood, Elsa Brant?
You know well, and I, Martha, tell you that this same hand shall hold
you safe until the end. Yes, I know it, I know it; thousands shall fall
upon your right hand and tens of thousands upon your left, but you
shall live through the hunger; the arrows of pestilence shall pass you
by, the sword of the wicked shall not harm you. For me it is otherwise,
at length my doom draws near and I am well content; but for you twain,
Foy and Elsa, I foretell many years of earthly joy.”
Thus spoke Martha, and it seemed to those who watched her that her
wild, disfigured face shone with a light of inspiration, nor did they
who knew her story, and still believed that the spirit of prophecy
could open the eyes of chosen seers, deem it strange that vision of the
things to be should visit her. At the least they took comfort from her
words, and for a while were no more afraid.
Yet they had much to fear. By a fateful accident they had been
delivered from great dangers only to fall into dangers greater still,
for as it chanced, on this tenth of December, 1572, they sailed
straight into the grasp of the thousands of the Spanish armies which
had been drawn like a net round the doomed city of Haarlem. There was
no escape for them; nothing that had not wings could pass those lines
of ships and 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, was ended. But at least they had this comfort, they would
face the foe together, and with them were two who loved them, Martha,
the “Spanish Scourge,” and Red Martin, the free Frisian, the mighty man
of war whom God had appointed to them as a shield of defence.
So they smiled on each other, these two lovers of long ago, and sailed
bravely on to the closing gates of Haarlem.