* * * * *

So with words that were gentle and courteous, as habitual with him, he

phrased his resolution.

"No longer Philip's servant, no longer his servant," he said to himself

as he sealed the letter; "and now, what next?"

Himself, he did not know. His resignation of his offices left him almost

a ruined man, but it left him free.

He sighed like a man from whose shoulders a burden has been lifted,

locked away his letter, rose and went down to the castle grounds.

He could see the little town clustered round the great church; the

winding river with low horse-burdened bridge, all grey in the grey air

and lashed by the March wind.

He leant against one of the ramparts which rose up, forming a wall to

the garden, and his keen grave eyes rested on the church.

Free of Philip's service—what of Philip's faith? The House of Nassau was

Protestant; he had assumed the Romish Faith to please the Emperor, but

he had been born and educated in the Reformed Faith.

As he looked down at the church he thought of that.

Never had he considered religion much; it had been merely part of the

ceremony of his life, the custom of every gentleman. Now he began to

consider, not religion, but God.

And it seemed to him God was not guiding Philip's councils, nor

inspiring the persecutions of the Inquisition.

Might He not rather be favourable towards these poor people who were

paying with their lives for their desire to worship Him as they wished?

William's mind was tolerant and liberal, it had never been confined in

the elaborate ceremonies of the Romish Church, nor could it ever

subscribe wholly to the fanaticism of the extreme Protestants, like Ste

Aldegonde; but of late he had sickened against the show and pretension,

the cruelty and bigotry, the avarice and falseness shown by the

professors of the ancient faith, and had turned naturally to the

sterner, simpler creed that was struggling so hard for existence.

The Prince could not believe that God or Truth were wholly on one side

or the other, but his sympathy and taste turned, every day more

certainly, towards the oppressed, the miserable, the helpless Reformers.

He had not stood long looking over Breda before he was joined by

Hoogstraaten, now his guest.

The two young men did not speak; they stood side by side looking over

the grey town and the grey church.

The keen wind lifted the little locks on the Prince's temples and showed

the faint streaks of white that now mingled with the dark chestnut.

Near by, in the still bare garden, Rénèe le Meung was searching for the

first faint sprays of green; with a sad little bouquet of these

trembling promises of spring in her hand, she stood silent, with tears

in her eyes, looking at the Prince, who did not notice her at all, but

continued to gaze at the great church of Breda.

CHAPTER XII

ORANGE AND EGMONT

The Regent, more and more in a dilemma, refused to accept the Prince's

resignation; indeed, shortly after he had offered it she implored him to

again go to Antwerp, where Calvinists and Lutherans were embroiling the

city.

William went, arriving after the disastrous engagement of Ostrawell,

when a band of fiery Calvinists under Ste Aldegonde's brother, Jean de

Marnix, had been utterly cut to pieces, their gallant young leader being

the first to fall.

William had come in time to prevent an internecine war that would have

devastated the city; at great peril to himself he had prevented the two

Protestant sects from flying at each other's throats, and actually

restored order in Antwerp and induced the crowd to say after him, "Vive

le roi!"

But he knew that all he did was useless; when the English Envoy

congratulated him on his splendid labours, he replied: "But it will not

please the King; I know there is nothing of this that will please the

King."

It did not even please the Regent; too many concessions had been made to

the heretics, too much gentleness shown. She preferred the way Egmont

had treated Valenciennes, which had been reduced to a complete and

bloody silence; and the method of Noircames, of Meghem, of Aremberg,

who, rejoicing at the approach of a profitable civil war, were

desolating the country, crushing the heretic with an iron hand, and

sweeping his property into their own pockets.

Yet Margaret still refused to accept the resignation that William

tendered again and again; she still clung to his strength and authority,

even while she denounced him in every letter she wrote to Philip.

Perhaps, too, she guessed that Philip had his vengeance ready for the

Prince of Orange, and that he would be wroth with her if the illustrious

victim was suffered to escape.

For Margaret was sincere in nothing but her desire to serve her brother,

and true to nothing save to that brother and the Romish Church.

She tried all her arts to induce the Prince to remain in the King's

service: she sent him a flattering letter, appealing to "his noble

heart, his illustrious and loyal descent, his duty to King and country";

she invited him to Brussels, to a meeting of the Knights of the Golden

Fleece; and when he declined both, she sent Berty, secretary of the

State Council, to the Prince at Antwerp.

Berty's feeble and formal rhetoric had no effect whatever on the Prince,

unless it caused him to glimpse more clearly than ever the trap that was

being so carefully set.

He knew that Philip was not coming to the Netherlands, but that Alva was

within a few days of starting for Brussels with the finest army in

Europe at his back.

And while he listened to the specious Berty prating of loyalty and the

King's goodness, he had in his pocket a letter from that sturdy old

Landgrave Philip who had opposed his marriage with Anne, but who had

since become his friend.

The Landgrave had been lured into a long captivity by the arts of

Granvelle and Alva, as he now reminded William.

"Let them not smear your mouths with honey," he wrote. "If the three

seigneurs, of whom the Duchess Margaret has so much to say, are invited

to Court by Alva under pretext of friendly consultation, let them be

wary and think twice ere they accept. I know the Duke of Alva and the

Spaniards, and how they dealt with me."

The only concession Berty could obtain from the Prince was his consent

to once more meet Egmont, Mansfeld, and Aerschot.

The interview was arranged to take place at a village outside Antwerp,

named Willebroek; and William, with but a couple of grooms, rode out

there one morning in early April.

It was a pleasure to him to ride across the fresh country, to feel the

soft turf beneath his horse's feet, to see the mild blue sky overhead,

and about him all the new greenery—on briar, hedge, and tree, where the

birds fluttered among the leaves.

The lovely morning air on his face reminded him of grand days at the

chase; it was long now since he had ridden out with hawk and hounds.

This part of the country was as yet unscathed by famine or bands of

mercenaries; the grain was sprouting in the fields, the brown and white

cows wandered in the pastures, the little farms were undisturbed amid

the groves of budding poplar and willow trees, the peasants went to and

fro about their work as if they had never heard of Ostrawell and

Valenciennes and the coming of Alva.

The little village of Willebroek lay peaceful beneath the early sun; the

white houses with green shutters, painted fronts, and tiled roofs, the

limes in the market-place just clouded with green, the church with the

lead spire, the canal with the arched wooden bridge, up which the flat

barges were slowly making way against the stream, all combined to make

an image of plenty, ease, and prosperity.

William drew rein before the inn, where he was to meet the other

seigneurs. He felt light-hearted; he looked up into the blue air; he

smiled at a group of children who were going by with their hands full of

the pearly blossoms of hawthorn.

The inn was an old building with a red tiled roof, rising, step by step,

into a point under which was an alcove where a white figure of the

Madonna stood against a blue and gold glory.

The green shutters were all laid back to disclose the clean shining

windows; the door stood open, showing a long dark brick passage, and

through another open door at the end a glimpse of a sunny garden with

pigeons.

This garden spread either side the house and was filled with young fruit

trees, the dark pink bloom of the peach mingling with the warm white of

plum and pear.

In the windows of the inn stood glazed pots of a shining green and

yellow, filled with gilliflowers and striped pink; a girl in a blue

dress was hanging out linen on a box hedge beyond the fruit trees.

William noticed all these things with a great keenness; everything he

saw, everything he did or said now was memorable, for all belonged to a

portion of his life that would so soon be over.

He entered the modest house, and the awed innkeeper showed him into the

parlour.

It was a low, spacious, cool room, full of the fragrance and sounds of

the garden and shaded by a little beech tree, the fresh clear green

leaves of which swept the leaded panes of the window.

The floor was smooth brick, the walls dark and polished, the ceiling

beamed; on shelves and on the large bureau stood silver tankards,

coloured pottery, and painted glasses shaped like bells and flowers.

In the empty fireplace the brass andirons gleamed golden, in the centre

of the large round wooden table stood four brass candlesticks, a snuffer

and tray.

At this table sat Lamoral Egmont, his head resting on his hand.

The nobility of his figure, the extreme richness of his dress, the

gallant handsomeness of his face, ill accorded with the clean, neat, and

humble room.

He wore violet and silver and a mantle of a tawny orange colour that

fell over the brick floor; his charming head was framed by a ruff of

silver gauze; his weapons were many and elaborate; by him on the table

lay his hat, a pistol, his gloves and whip.

On the other side of the table sat Count Mansfeld, an elderly man of no

particular presence, handsomely attired in black and gold; while within

the window embrasure was the insignificant figure of Secretary Berty.

The Prince gently closed the door and stood smiling at all three.

His slight figure, plainly habited in a brown riding suit, soft high

boots, and a falling ruff; his small head, held erect without pride, and

valiantly without arrogance; his dark face, with the regular features

and laughing eyes—the whole man, so composed, so pleasant, so

unfathomable, seemed to strangely impress the three who waited for

him—to impress them almost with uneasiness.

Lamoral Egmont rose, filling the room with his magnificence.

"We meet strangely, Prince," he said.

William greeted all with even courtesy, then took his seat at the round

table, placing his hands, half concealed by the linen ruffles, before

him on the smooth surface as he had placed them in the council chamber

at Brussels when the letters from Philip had been read enforcing the

decrees of the Council of Trent.

Mansfeld had never been close in his friendship, and always a warm

upholder of the Government; Berty was little other than Margaret's spy;

it was to Egmont the Prince addressed himself.

"You have come to persuade me," he said gently. "Speak, Count, speak."

Egmont flushed; despite his loyalty and his now firm attachment to

Spanish rule, he always felt uneasy in the presence of the man who had

once so influenced him and who now was divided from him by an

ever-widening gulf.

He repeated the arguments of Berty, endeavouring to enforce them by the

weight of his own belief and his own friendship for the Prince.

He spoke verbosely, emphasizing his meaning with many illustrations and

continually praising the King.

A bee buzzed in the window-pane the while, evading Berty's furtive

fingers; it made as much impression on the Prince as did the words of

Lamoral Egmont.

But he listened civilly, keeping his dark eyes steadily on the speaker's

face; but when at last Egmont had finished, he threw back his head with

a little laugh and spoke a few words that tossed all the Count's formal

phrases back at him as useless.

"Oh, Egmont!" he cried. "I did not ride from Antwerp to be persuaded,

but to persuade. What you have said can never move me. Would that what I

say could move you!"

Egmont made no reply; he glanced at Berty, and slightly shrugged his

shoulders.

But Mansfeld spoke.

"Then what are the intentions of Your Highness?" he asked, with some

haughtiness.

"My intentions are well known," answered the Prince simply. "I have

resigned all my offices. And I shall leave the Netherlands."

Egmont started.

"Leave the Netherlands!" he cried.

"Do you think," answered William, "that I will resign, make myself a

rebel, and then wait the coming of the Duke of Alva?"

"Take the oaths," said Mansfeld, "and withdraw your resignations. We and

the Regent alike entreat you to this."

William moved back in his chair and turned his head so as to face

Mansfeld.

"Once and for ever, Count," he said, and from behind his pleasant calm

there flashed the strength of an immovable purpose, "I declare I will

not take an oath which is against my honour, an oath that makes me a

tool, an executioner. Is William of Orange"—his voice was suddenly

angry—"to await the orders of the Duke of Alva? To be the servant of the

Inquisition?"

Egmont flushed, thinking of Valenciennes and the many poor Christians he

had slain there, and of the old days when he and Orange had been one in

protesting against the Inquisition.

"You mock at loyalty," he said gloomily, "but you go to your ruin. If

you leave the Netherlands, your property will be confiscated."

"If I stay, I shall lose more than my estates," replied William. "I will

sooner encounter all that may happen from this my action than sacrifice

my conscience by the taking of this oath. No more of it."

"Then we talk in vain," said Mansfeld sternly.

"On that subject, yes," answered the Prince. "But I would further speak

to Count Egmont." He looked at his friend earnestly, and spoke with a

certain passion. "Oh, Lamoral Egmont, give your loyalty to your native

land and not to Spain. Come with me; I will follow you. I will be your

faithful soldier—risk everything in a good cause rather than in a bad

one. I was grieved the victor of St. Quentin and Gravelines should come

to the massacring of poor artisans; but that may be redeemed. Strike for

freedom, Count, not for tyranny."

"You speak treason," cried Egmont, with some heat. "I am loyal, and will

keep that loyalty unstained."

"It shall not avail you," returned William, in a moved tone. "Do you

think Philip has forgotten or Philip forgiven? Do you think Alva comes

to caress you, bringing in his hands riches and honours? I tell you he

comes to strike down all those who have offended Spain, and you are one

of them."

"I have no fear," answered the Stadtholder of Flanders stoutly. "I do

not dread to see the country in the hands of the Spaniards, nor to

welcome the Duke of Alva."

"No one need fear who has a clear conscience," added Mansfeld.

"Seigneur," said the Prince impatiently, "you speak like a child. You

are safe because you were one of Granvelle's partisans—Egmont was the

Cardinal's enemy; Egmont has done many things well noted in Madrid. I

tell you he is doomed—if he stays he is doomed as surely as any poor

peasant who has looked impudently at an image."

"These are the words of a rebel!" exclaimed Mansfeld.

"For the true service of the King I am always ready," returned William,

"but to Alva, Granvelle, and the Inquisition call me rebel if you

will—for I do protest against them and their authority and all attempts

to force the faith of these people, which attempts are in defiance of

laws and privileges and wholly against God."

"Nay," said Egmont, "it is His cause, as any priest will tell you."

"I spoke of God, not of priests," answered the Prince.

"This is bold saying," remarked Mansfeld. "Has the insolent blasphemy of

Calvin or Luther found so high a convert? Has the raving, vulgar fury of

the field-preacher shaken the faith of the Prince of Orange?"

Mansfeld spoke with bitter irony and his face coloured with indignation.

William smiled.

"Ah, I am studying theology!" he said. "I may find comfort from Geneva

as easily as from Rome when I have finished my learning."

He looked straightly at Mansfeld.

"I was bred a heretic," he added.

Mansfeld rose.

"Enough," he said. "I see this conference is useless."

William rose also; he went to Egmont and laid his hands affectionately

on the Count's shoulders.

"I do not take this action thoughtlessly nor suddenly," he said, "but

after deep reflection and long weighing of events; I know I lower my

fortunes and jeopardize my estates—yet I do the wiser thing. I beseech

you by our ancient friendship, by our common charge, for the sake of

those dear to you, to follow my example. I entreat you not to wait the

coming of Alva."

But Lamoral Egmont was not to be moved. His lodestar was Spain; and now

he had Mansfeld watching him and Berty noting down every word he said,

his reply was curt, almost wrathful.

"I have an easy conscience; and if I have committed some faults I rely

on the clemency of the King—I lean on His Majesty."

"Alas!" said William, "you lean on what will destroy you. You boast

yourself secure in the King's clemency, and so lull yourself with a

security which does not exist. Would that I might be deceived, but I

foresee only too clearly that you are to be the bridge which the

Spaniards will destroy as soon as they have passed over it to invade our

country."

With that he ended, somewhat abruptly, as if he indeed saw that it was

useless to try and open Egmont's eyes to his danger, and turning away

picked up his mantle and hat as if to end a hopeless argument.

"You will be the ruined man, not I," remarked Egmont in some agitation;

"it is you who throw everything away for a shadow!"

William moved towards the door.

"Will you not dine with us?" asked Mansfeld formally.

"Nay," replied the Prince. "I am pressed to return to Antwerp."

With Egmont he would have gladly stayed, but he had no mind to eat and

drink with Mansfeld and Berty.

He took his farewells. Egmont looked at him a little wistfully; mutual

affection had gone deep into the hearts of each.

The Count had moved to the door, and as William passed he advanced a

step.

The Prince turned and suddenly embraced him, clasping him for a second

to his heart; then with tears in his eyes he left the room.

There were tears too on Egmont's cheek.

"He looked at me as if he thought never to see me again!" he said.

"A landless, exiled, powerless man," remarked Mansfeld. "How low is the

great Prince of Orange fallen!"

A little maid entered the room to prepare the dinner; she looked with

wonder and reverence at the three gentlemen, who had none of them

revealed their identity.

"Oh, seigneurs!" she said, "who is the young cavalier who has just

ridden away? He never saluted the Virgin above the door, and in these

days——!"

Mansfeld glanced at Egmont.

"You may call him, my child, many names, for he had many honours; now

you had best call him—the Heretic," he said dryly.

CHAPTER XIII

THE COMING OF ALVA

Rénèe le Meung moved about the fine apartments of the Princess in Breda

Castle, sorting clothes, arranging bags and boxes, and packing the long

coffers that were to be carried into the courtyard and there loaded on

the baggage mules.

Alva was coming; he had already sailed from Carthagena.

And William of Orange and his household were leaving the Netherlands for

Germany, there to take up residence with his mother and Count John in

the castle of Dillenburg.

As Rénèe moved about her task, she vividly recalled how she had left

Germany, that hot, weary day of the feast in Leipsic, when she had moved

about among Anne's things as she was moving now, folding away the bridal

dresses, locking away the bridal trinkets with the sound of the joy

bells in her ears and the flare of the joy fires reflected in the

window-panes.

She recalled how she had crept into the gallery overlooking the great

hall and had seen the Prince and Princess seated side by side on the

gold couch, receiving the homage of the maskers, and all her own fatigue

and distaste, the close perfumed air of the Town Hall, and the rich

scents of the feast.

She had been reluctant to leave Germany, which had been a peaceful

refuge, and to return to her own country, which for her was dark with

horrible memories; and now she was not sorry that this Brussels life had

ended—a life of magnificence, which she had only glimpsed from behind

the windows of Anne's apartments; a life of great affairs and tremendous

events, which she had only heard of from the mouths of pages and

servants; a life of continued service, of self-denial, of submission to

caprice and tyranny.

Now it was over, and she would go to Dillenburg, where every one was

Protestant, and be near the Prince's mother and sisters, who perhaps

would be kind to her and notice what she was doing for Anne.

Her starved heart was greedy for kindness and praise.

She was glad, too, that Anne was leaving the Netherlands without having

again seen Jan Rubens or Duprès; she felt the Princess would be safe in

Dillenburg.

Yet Rénèe was sad; she could not be happy leaving behind her a country

so broken, so oppressed, so desolate.

She heard men mention Alva with awe and terror; she saw that the Prince

was departing before he came; and she feared even worse things for the

Netherlands than their present great calamities.

But her piety had strengthened; her body, denied and rendered subject to

her soul, grew weaker, and the soul within became stronger, and so

nearer God.

She trusted in Him not to forsake His people, and she believed in

William of Orange as His Captain.

The gorgeous young Papist cavalier whom she had looked on for the first

time at Leipsic on his wedding day, whom she had thought frivolous and

worldly, was now become the man on whom centred all her hopes for her

country and her faith.

Other and reckless men had taken up the people's cause and won the

people's heart—men like Brederode, Count Louis, Ste Aldegonde, and De

Hammes; but though these were the names shouted in the market-place,

Rénèe had given no heed to them at all.

It was to the Prince, who was, nominally at least, still a Papist, who

had acted until the very last in fulfilment of his duty to the King, who

had checked the fervour of the Reformers and was even hated by the

Calvinists for his behaviour after the engagement at Ostrawell—it was to

him that Rénèe confidently looked to save the Netherlands.

And that confidence, strengthened by her woman's devotion to a person

beloved, supported her in this second flight from her native country.

She was so lost in thought as she went about her task that it was with a

little start that she became aware of the presence of another in the

chamber.

Anne was standing in the door of the inner room.

She leant against the wooden lintel and stared at Rénèe. The white linen

round her head and shoulders made her face look yellow and faded as that

of an old woman; her blue dress clung to her meagre figure in straight

lines; there was no attempt now to hide her deformity of raised shoulder

and crooked hip; her hands pulled nervously at her girdle.

"Your labour is for nothing," she said. "I am not going to Dillenburg."

Rénèe went on packing.

"Your Highness will certainly go," she answered quietly.

"No," said Anne violently. "I was a fool to leave Brussels—but I will

not leave the Netherlands. Why should I go into exile? Where is all my

state? It has melted like snow. There is no one to look after me; I can

hardly get a drink of beer or wine when I want it. He never gives me any

money—has he thrown it all away on this miserable beggar war? I will not

be the wife of a ruined man—am I to live on wind and eat my hands and

feet? By God, I had better have married a simple German Count than this

great Prince."

The resignation of the Prince and the subsequent alteration in his

fortunes might certainly have frightened many women; but Rénèe had no

spark of sympathy for Anne's complainings and railings.

"Your Highness came to Breda, and Your Highness will go to Dillenburg."

Anne gave her a look of hate.

"I would sooner stay and put myself at the mercy of Alva," answered the

Princess sullenly. "I do not fear the Spaniards."

"His Highness has decided to leave the Netherlands," said Rénèe, with an

air of finality.

Anne limped towards her.

"You hate me, don't you?" she asked, with some eagerness. "You said you

hated me, once."

"I would have loved you, Madame, but you would not permit it—and—and

some of your actions I needs must hate."

"Well, set yourself free of me," urged the Princess. "Help me to

escape—I have friends in Cologne—I want to go to Cologne."

"Duprès and Rubens are there," was the thought that instantly stabbed

Rénèe; she turned white and could not speak.

"There are some gentlewomen there I know," continued Anne. "I want to go

there—help me escape. I will give you anything you wish for——"

"Oh, Highness, Highness," cried Rénèe, "you speak like a child. It is

impossible for you to go to Cologne, or anywhere save to Dillenburg with

His Highness."

Anne sat on the edge of the long box Rénèe was filling with clothes. Her

pale blue eyes wandered round the room with a painful vacancy.

"I wish I were dead," she said foolishly. "I have never been happy."

Rénèe looked at her with an amazement not untouched with bitterness, for

it was the wife of William of Orange who spoke so—a woman who had

everything through the mere accident of birth, while she——! The

beautiful young Fleming smiled ironically as she thought of herself and

her poor life.

"Why are you not happy, Madame?" she asked. "You have all there is in

the world—ease and friends and greatness—your children—the Prince."

"Yes," said Anne, with sudden sharpness, "but I am an ugly crooked woman

whom no one loves."

Rénèe held her breath, it gave her a strange sensation to hear the

Princess thus describe herself; she had always thought vanity completely

blinded Anne.

"You thought I did not know?" continued her mistress, with that sudden

look and tone of intelligence so painfully in contrast with her usual

wildness. "I always knew. I had nothing from the beginning. You hated

me—so did every one. When I thought _he_ loved me I nearly went mad with

joy. But he had married me for ambition, of course."

Rénèe, in her confusion of thoughts, felt impelled to defend the Prince,

as if, for the first time, she saw some glimmer of justice in Anne's

point of view.

"These great marriages are not made for love," she said.

"I was sixteen," remarked Anne drily. "I did not know anything."

"You could have made His Highness care," urged Rénèe.

"Not with this face and body," said the Princess curtly.

"And he has been loyal to you," continued Anne, "and gentle and

patient."

Anne shrugged her shoulders.

"I shall never be happy here. If he had loved me," she said, with brutal

frankness, "he might have changed me—but he never did—and for his

kindness, did I want that? He is kind to every one, he finds it the

easier way. I have always been curst. I wish I were dead; and now we are

ruined too."

"Consider, Madame, the Prince has made these sacrifices to help the

Reformers, and you are a Lutheran."

"Lutheran or Papist are nothing to me," answered Anne, "nor God

either—why did He make women curst and crooked?"

She lifted her head, and, seeing Rénèe with her arms full of clothes,

she called out imperiously, "Put down those things! I will never leave

the Netherlands!"

As she spoke the Prince entered; Anne rose and faced him with the look

of an adversary.

"My wife," he said at once, "I come to implore you to hasten."

Anne's face hardened into compressed lips and puckered brows until it

was like an ugly wax mask.

"News?" she asked briefly.

"Yes, I have received a letter from one of my agents in Spain" (he did

not mention that this agent was Vandenesse, the King's private

secretary), "and he tells me that my arrest is resolved upon the moment

Alva reaches the Netherlands—and that my trial is not to last more than

twenty-four hours."

"But they would do nothing to me," said Anne sullenly.

"Before God, Madame, I entreat you to hasten! Are you not a Lutheran and

the Elector Maurice's daughter, and do you hope to stand in Alva's good

graces?"

A slight tremor shook Anne.

"It does not please me to go to Dillenburg," she muttered.

William flushed.

"You remind me that I have no other house to offer you," he said. "I

must entreat your patience, Anne."

"Let me go to Cologne," answered the Princess. "I think you could well

spare me."

"It is not possible. Our separation would cause a scandal, and is there

need to put our affairs in every man's mouth? And at this juncture of my

affairs I cannot well afford two households."

This drove Anne into one of her sudden furies.

"Ah yes," she cried. "You are ruined in this miserable intrigue! Why

could you not remain loyal? This is all the doing of Count Louis—I

always hated him; little did you think of me when you suffered yourself

to be led away by his boy's tricks!" William looked at her steadily.

"What I do is according to my conscience," he said quietly, "but that I

think you do not comprehend. Yet let me tell you this: a man situated as

I am, who sees nothing but troubles before him, could find no greater

comfort than a patient wife who took her difficulties lightly. But that

comfort, I fear, I shall never have from you."

"And what comfort shall _I_ get from anyone?" asked Anne wildly.

She flung into the inner chamber, harshly closing the door after her so

that the panels rattled.

Rénèe felt the tears sting her eyes at the misery, the wretchedness of

it all; what was wrong, she wondered, that things should be like this?

"See to these affairs, my child," said the Prince, pointing to the

confusion in the chamber, "we must indeed be gone to-morrow."

"All is nearly ready, Highness," answered Rénèe; "the men may come when

they will for the coffers. And I think the Princess will come

quietly—she is frightened."

"She is in a melancholy," said William, "she has not all her wits. A

fine discord she will strike in Dillenburg," he added grimly. "I had

hoped, these humours would pass with her youth, but it is not so."

Anne was still only twenty-four, but no one thought of her as young.

"It is a sickness," answered Rénèe, "she is never well, seigneur, but

always ailing and often in pain."

"I know, and therefore I forbear many things," he said.

She looked at his face that was tired and pale but absolutely composed

and serene, and she saw that he had long since gauged Anne's value and

that she did not trouble him.

"You are glad to return to Germany?" he suddenly asked Rénèe.

She flushed brightly.

"I am glad to think that Your Highness will return to the Netherlands,"

she answered boldly.

"You think I shall?"

"Yes—for who else is there to withstand Alva and Philip?"

"You still make a champion of me," he smiled. "Be-like you think of me

as a heretic?"

"Men call you that, Highness."

"My enemies."

"Your friends could find no nobler name," answered Rénèe.

She stood erect, gazing at him, and the joy and terror she had in his

presence and her intense love for her country and her faith fired her

beauty with an ardent life that made her glow like a brilliant flower.

All her lovelinesses, always neglected and ignored, were suddenly

triumphant.

"If Your Highness would but listen to the cries of the poor

Netherlanders!" she said. "They say you would have followed Count Egmont

if he had raised his standard for the people—will you not go on alone?"

"Against Philip?" William smiled. "Child, you think too much of

politics. When we are in Germany I will find you a husband who will

relieve you from this stern service."

She turned away wistfully.

"I am always overbold," she murmured; "it is my folly."

The Prince touched her lightly on the shoulder. "Hold up your heart. I,

too, love the Netherlands and hope to serve them. And maybe I might

accomplish something—even against Spain. God guides it all, surely."

He left her, and Rénèe went on with her task, selecting, folding,

putting away; the little German girl came to help her, and two others of

the Princess's women went to and fro the long suite of apartments with

clothes and caskets in their hands.

The dusk fell, the candles were lit; the Ave Maria rose from the great

church of Breda, the dark closed in, and the shutters were fastened over

the spring night, and still the preparations for departure went on from

garret to cellar.

In the library the Prince was writing his farewell letters to Egmont and

Hoorne; in her chamber Anne lay prostrate and sullen on her huge

brocaded bed; in all the rooms the servants and attendants worked,

packing up the furniture and household goods.

There was much that had to be left behind. There was much that had been

utterly abandoned, as the greater part of the rich appointments of the

gorgeous Brussels hôtel, and it was but a modest train that started on

the morrow for Cleves, the first stage of the journey.

But as they proceeded their number was continually swelled by crowds of

fugitives and refugees who threw themselves on the protection of the

Prince of Orange, and fled from the coming of Alva, whose name was

beginning to sound over the provinces like the sound of a curse, and

whose shadow was flung dark before him, like the shadow of death.

CHAPTER XIV

PHILIP'S AVENGERS

From Carthagena to Genoa, hence to San Ambrosio, over the Alps to Mont

Cenis, through Savoy, Burgundy, and Louvain came the army of the Duke of

Alva, watched by a French army, watched by a Swiss army, taking no heed

of either, steadily pursuing their way to the rebellious provinces.

At every stopping-place they were met by messages from the Duchess,

entreating them to stay, saying their coming would unchain a war of

religion, protesting against this coming of an armed force into a

country already quieted by pacific means. Two motives influenced

Margaret in these protestations: she was indignant at being superseded

by Alva, after her long and bitter toils in the service of her brother

had at last met with some success; and now, at the final issue, she was

frightened at what putting the provinces under Spanish soldiers might

mean. She even wrote to Philip expressing her opinion of the fatal

consequences likely to follow Alva's invasion.

But the King took no notice of these complaints, and Alva only smiled at

the letters of an agitated woman who was suddenly trying to quench the

flame she had so recklessly fanned, and continued his steady march

towards the Netherlands.

On a hot night in the middle of August a charcoal-burner, who lived in

the forest of Thionville on the frontier between Luxemburg and the

Netherlands, was roused by sounds unusual indeed in that solitude, and

creeping out of his bed he came out into the moonlight, his frightened

family behind him, and, hiding behind the thick trees, gazed down on to

the road—a mere narrow defile that ran through the immense forest, which

on one side sloped away and on the other rose into the ledge where the

poor peasant hid.

It was a most gorgeous night, the moon hung like a plate of soft gold in

the deep purple heavens and shed a radiance, too warm for silver,

through the close branches of the stately trees, in full summer

luxuriance, that spread to right and left, before and behind, on all

sides bounding the vision.

The air was warm but not oppressive, now and then a little ripple of

wind shook the undergrowth, the brambles, the daisies, the poppies, the

foxgloves, and the thick fragrant grasses. The stillness had been

complete, but now it was broken by the ever increasing sound of the

tramp of feet and the jingling of harness; and soon the vanguard of

Alva's army was revealed.

They had raised their last encampment with the rising of the moon that

they might the sooner set foot in the Netherlands.

The charcoal-burner knew nothing of this, he did not even know whose

army he looked upon; he trembled and crossed himself and clung tightly

to his children, while he crouched down in a bed of foxgloves behind a

huge beech and peered, with an awe-struck curiosity, at this new and

terrible sight.

Alva's army was not large, being no more than ten thousand men, but

these ten thousand were the most famous veterans in the world, and both

their organization and equipment were perfect, while there was no

general in the world whose fame equalled that of Ferdinando Alvarez de

Toledo, the great Duke of Alva.

The vanguard of this army, as it hastened through the forest of

Thionville, consisted of two of the Italian regiments—those of Sicily

and Naples, commanded severally by Spaniards, Julien, Romero, and

Alfonso de Ulloa—and considered the finest foot-soldiers in the world.

They marched with quick strides, their colours furled, their general

riding before them; the stout figures of the Calabrese, the slender

strength of the Sicilians, adorned with rich arms and silk scarves and

plumes of brilliant colours, and the fierce, gay, dark faces, made a

strange picture of force and energy hastening through the lonely night.

Behind them came two companies of women, some on foot, walking with

perfect discipline and order, some riding on the baggage waggons or the

sumpter-mules.

These were the camp-followers, but neither poor nor ragged; they were as

well-appointed as any well-born lady, and many had a page or attendant;

behind the wantons rode a small company of priests with a little escort

of horsemen.

So the Southern regiments passed; the charcoal-burner gazed after them

like one struck out of his senses.

At a distance of half a league (for the spaces between the three

divisions were being rapidly diminished as the army neared the goal)

came the next contingent, consisting of the artillery, which jangled

quickly away into the night with rattle of wheels, crack of whip, and

shout of driver, and twelve hundred Spanish cavalry, at the head of

which rode Don Ferdinando de Toledo, the Duke's son, and Prior of that

Great Order of the Church Militant—the Knights of St. John—wearing the

noble vesture of his stately office.

Behind him came the musketeers, all wearing inlaid and engraved armour,

and each attended, as if he had been an officer, by a squire who bore

his musket—that new weapon not seen before in any army.

These splendid soldiers carried themselves with a great pride, the moon

glowed softly in their exquisite cuirasses, cuisses, greaves, and

helmets, which were most carefully polished; these horsemen were the

only Spaniards in the army.

After them rode two Italian generals and the engineers—a gorgeous group

of officers in undress or jousting armour, and wearing caps adorned with

jewels and heron's feathers.

Next came a carriage containing Spanish priests of high rank, then other

of the Spanish horsemen, then the baggage mules and the women.

There were no less than four hundred of these on horseback—Spanish,

Italian, and French beauties, lavishly dressed in silk and velvet, with

flowing mantles and precious embroideries; some were veiled like modest

women, while others rode with their rich locks hanging over their

shoulders and their hard beautiful faces uncovered.

One or two were singing in rather a melancholy fashion, several sat

wearily on their handsome saddles, but all, like their meaner sisters

who went afoot, conducted themselves with order and decorum.

When they had passed, dazzling the eyes and bewildering the mind of the

staring charcoal-burner, there was a short pause; then a company of

light horse galloped up out of the night, and behind them, riding more

slowly, came a single horseman.

He was about sixty years of age, tall, of a slight figure, but of an

appearance of great energy and strength, controlled, however, by a

considerable stiffness of deportment and an air of cold and repelling

pride.

He wore a half-suit of plain blue armour, and black mantle, boots, and

doublet; his face was extremely narrow, his features hard, his

complexion dry yet flushed, his eyes small and dark and expressing

nothing but arrogance; a plain velvet cap concealed his hair, a long

beard of black frosted with white descended to his waist.

With his long thin body, small head, narrow countenance, and bright eyes

he had a certain likeness to a snake; not in one lineament was there the

least trace of any soft or pleasant emotion or sentiment; he seemed a

man of ice and iron, haughty, cruel, and avaricious.

Without glancing to right or left, carelessly guiding his superb white

Arab horse with one hand while the other fingered the plain cross that

hung on his breast, this solitary rider, the great and terrible Duke of

Alva, passed on towards the Netherlands.

After him came others of his especial escort of light cavalry, then more

priests and more women (so well-provided for soul and body did Philip's

armies go forth to crush the unbeliever), then another pause, and

finally the rearguard of Lombard and Sardinian regiments, commanded by

Sancho de Lodrovo and Gonzalo de Braccamonte.

These veterans, less fine, perhaps, than the glittering ranks of Sicily

and Naples, were, nevertheless, magnificent men handsomely armed:

By the time they passed, the moon was fading, and the dawn was creeping

in pale streams of light through the forest.

The charcoal-burner crouched lower down among the foxgloves and crossed

himself fearfully.

By the time the whole sky had changed from the soft violet of night to

the pale azure of the dawn, the last of Alva's army had disappeared, and

there remained on the road only the straggling followers—the peasants,

who hoped to sell their produce, eagerly whipping along their mules; the

poor who hoped for charity; the idle who hoped for stray plunder; boys

who had marched miles from their homes in sheer aimless excitement.

The charcoal-burner, encouraged by the sight of his own kind, called out

softly to one of the men with the mules—

"Who are they, those great and wonderful fellows who have just passed?"

The other answered with some pride in his knowledge—

"That is the mighty army of the King of Spain."

"May the angels all preserve us! And where are they going?"

"To the Netherlands to avenge the insolence of the heretics."

"And he in the midst?"

"That was the Duke of Alva. They all have money and pay well. If I can

catch up with the camp to-night I shall have enough to pay me for my

journey."

So he and his mules, laden with fruit and vegetables and skins of wine,

disappeared into the misty depths of the forest.

The charcoal-burner dragged his sleepy children out of the foxglove bed

and returned to his hut where his wife, who was not interested in the

passing army at all, was already putting the bread and milk on the

table; and before they ate, the man made them all thank God that they

were not heretics in the Netherlands.

That day Alva crossed the frontier; that night he slept within the

provinces. Scouts brought him news that Count Egmont was riding forth to

Tirlemont to welcome him; he received the news with his usual cold

stare.

Inside his plain doublet were many precious documents written by the

hand of Philip; among them were the warrants for the deaths of Egmont,

Hoorne, and the Prince of Orange.

PART III

THE HOUSE OF NASSAU

"Pro libertate Patriæ agere aut pati fortiora."—_Legend on an

Orange Medal_.

CHAPTER I

DILLENBURG

Life in the ancestral castle of the German Nassaus at Dillenburg was

very different from what the life in Brussels, Antwerp, or Breda had

been.

The old Countess of Nassau, Juliana of Stollberg, was the head of this

household, and with her lived Count John, his wife the Landgravine

Elisabeth, and their family; here, too, resided the unmarried daughters

of the house, Juliana, and Magdalena—lately betrothed to Wolfgang, Count

of Hohenlohe; while the married daughters, Anna, the Countess of Nassau

Saarbruck; and Elisabeth, Countess of Solms Braunfels; Catherine,

Countess of Schwarzburg; and the Countess van der Berg were continually

coming and going on visits to their old home.

There was not much money and no magnificence at Dillenburg when the

eldest son, practically an exile and a fugitive, arrived with his sickly

peevish wife and his train of a hundred and fifty—very shorn splendour

for the Prince of Orange, but a considerable strain on the resources of

Count John.

But the welcome was none the less passionately sincere in love and

pride, and William was treated by his family with the same deference as

if he had been still the favourite of Charles V, or the greatest man in

the Netherlands.

His brothers, Adolphus and Henry—a youth who had just left

College—returned eagerly to Dillenburg to join him, and Count Louis left

Brederode, who was revolving one scheme after another that came to

nothing, and hastened to Germany.

Meanwhile William waited for news from the Netherlands, for news of the

proceedings of Alva, and for answers to the letters that he had sent to

the German Protestant Princes—the Elector of Saxony and the Landgrave of

Hesse.

Now at last he had begun to reap the fruit of that foresight which had

induced him to engage in his second marriage despite the lively

disapproval of Philip.

That marriage had been as disastrous as his worst enemies could have

hoped, but at least it had given him some claim on the friendship of

Anne's relations.

William had also asked the old Landgrave Philip to send him a Lutheran

preacher, who was immediately and joyfully dispatched, and the Prince of

Orange occupied the first leisure he had known for years in studying the

New Testament and listening to the exposition of the tenets of Martin

Luther.

But Alva, Philip's swift and sure right hand, had lost no time in

striking him one blow that hit both his pride and his affections.

His eldest son, the Count of Buren, was beguiled by Alva from school in

Louvain (where William had left him, relying on the high and ancient

privileges of the University) and sent to Spain, where he had gone a

willing captive, flattered and caressed, for he was a child and knew

nothing of his father nor of Philip.

Thus the first move was to Alva, and the Prince, bitterly wounded and

outraged, had had to admit that his sagacity had been at fault; what

foolishness to rely on any charters or privileges where Alva and Philip

were concerned.

He took this grief silently and applied himself to long and careful

preparations for the part he intended to take upon himself. He was hours

closeted with Count John, hours with the Lutheran minister; his private

table was covered with papers on which theological arguments were

mingled with numerical calculations—estimates of the worth of his now

available estates, estimates even of the value of his jewels and plate,

rude maps of the Netherlands, lists of the towns with their several

strengths, rough draughts of letters to the Emperor, to the King of

France, to the Order of the Golden Fleece.

He was in correspondence with great persons in England and in close

touch with the Huguenots of France.

In a few months after his departure from the Netherlands he had already

in his hands the threads of a widespread league against Philip, which

his industry, his high prestige, his astute statesmanship had

accomplished single-handed.

Nor was he wantonly rushing into rebellion against the man to whom he

had sworn loyalty.

Philip had in everything justified the suspicions of the Prince.

One of Alva's first acts had been to arrest Egmont and Hoorne, whom he

had before caressed and flattered; Montigny and Berghen were prisoners

in Spain. Alva had seized the keys of every city in the Netherlands.

Margaret was the mere shadow of authority, and Alva was absolute.

He seemed to have but two objects—blood and gold: the blood of the

heretics, that was to smoke to heaven to please the nostrils of the

Lord; and the gold of the heretics, which was to flow to Spain to please

the eyes of the King.

In both ways were the Netherlands to be drained, of life and of

treasure; and so Alva hoped to avenge the outrages which had been

offered to both spiritual and temporal power.

The estates of the Prince of Orange had been threatened with

confiscation, and he himself, together with Montigny, Culemburg, Van der

Berg, and Hoogstraaten had been summoned to appear within fourteen days

before the Council of Troubles, an arbitrary tribunal established by

Alva which had already earned the title of the Council of Blood.

The Prince of Orange, therefore, was not organizing a rebellion against

a pacific monarch who was prepared to leave him in peace if he remained

in exile; he but struck at one who was striking at him, his friends, his

country, with blind, fanatical fury, a cunning treachery, a narrow

cruelty that was almost inconceivable.

And in striking at William of Orange, Philip had roused more than was in

his nature to believe in, as a man intent on killing little helpless

animals may carelessly wound a sleeping lion, whose presence he had no

wit to guess at.

So William, silently, made his preparations against Spain; so the

tranquil autumn and the vintage passed, and the spring came gaily back

to Dillenburg.

The Nassau women employed themselves in household tasks, eagerly talking

together, eagerly helping the men whenever might be, fervently attending

the plain Lutheran service in the plain Lutheran chapel, and listening

reverently to the impassioned sermons of the preacher.

These days were sweet to Rénèe le Meung; she knew them as only a prelude

to great trouble, perhaps great agony, yet for the moment she was happy.

The women treated her kindly, she felt one of a family, not part of the

mechanism of a household; there was no need to keep such wearing watch

on Anne, who was helpless for evil here. Every one she spoke to was of

her own faith; there was no longer in her ears the scoffs and insults of

Papists, no longer horrible tales of torture and death repeated on every

side.

Here were peace and kindness and affection. And if Anne writhed under

the confinement, the monotony, the simplicity, alternating between

bitter melancholy and passionate fury, Rénèe found the atmosphere as

refreshing to her parched soul as water to dry lips.

And her greatest joy—her secret, almost holy joy—was in the attitude of

the Prince; for in him she discerned now, beyond all doubt, the destined

champion of her country and her faith.

It was in the early spring that Count Louis came to Dillenburg. He

stopped one moment to receive his mother's warm salute, then went

straight to the Prince.

William was in a room which was fitted up as a library, a small and

modest chamber near the chapel.

The books on the simple shelves were mostly theological works collected

by William's father, treatises and pamphlets in Latin and French,

written when the first heat of fierce controversy had raged over the

schism in the Church.

Before the pointed Gothic window was a desk of heavy black wood, piled

with papers and furnished with a large brass ink-pot and sand-dish and a

tall silver hourglass.

In the centre was a large and worn Bible.

There was no furniture in the room beyond a few chairs covered with

faded tapestry and the shelves of books; the April sun, fine and clear,

filled every corner of the room and showed the dust on the books, on the

floor, and in crevices of the shelves.

William rose instantly from his desk and embraced his brother, then led

him to the deep window-seat, which was filled with red cushions from

which the sun had taken the brightness.

Neither of these young men, once so splendid, were any longer

magnificent. William wore a suit of dark blue camlet with a ruff of

plain needlework, and no jewels beyond a yellow topaz signet ring; Louis

was habited in a brown riding suit and boots dusty to the knees: he had

lately lost something of his bloom and freshness, and his brilliant eyes

were tired and shadowed; but his firm-featured, beardless face, framed

in the graceful blonde curls, retained the old ardent charm.

Round his neck hung a silver "beggar" medal and a tiny silver cup.

"Any news?" asked William, gazing at him affectionately and still

retaining his hand.

"Some news, yes. At Cleves I met the Spanish post—Berghen is dead,"

replied Louis in a moved voice.

"Dead?" echoed the Prince. "So soon?" And his face saddened as he

reflected that this was the first sacrifice from among the Netherland

nobles who had dared to disobey Philip. "Dead?—and in Spain!"

"In a Spanish prison," amended Louis. "They say he died of home-sickness

and disappointment. God knows! At least it is certain he is dead, and

there seems little hope for Montigny. No one believes he will ever leave

Spain. His poor wife is wearing out the altar stones with kneeling to

her saints! May they comfort her!"

"Why would he go!" exclaimed William. "He was infatuate, as all of them.

And Egmont?"

"There is no hope for Egmont; he and Hoorne are surely doomed," replied

the Count sombrely. "The Countess Egmont and her children will be

utterly ruined, for every thaler he possesses is held confiscate."

"And this is the reward of his loyalty," remarked William grimly. "To

what end did he stoop to play the persecutor at Valenciennes! Yet he was

always sanguine."

"Even after Alva came, and others had warned him, he would not believe.

He had a sweet letter from the King, written after the Duke sailed and

complimenting him on his loyalty—he put all faith in that."

"Ah, Philip!" cried William, with a deep accent of hatred.

"It was a trap," continued the Count—"a trap for all of us. Granvelle

and Spinosa planned it with Alva."

"I know," said the Prince. "The design is to utterly subjugate the

Provinces, execute all those who were against Granvelle, re-establish

the Inquisition, exterminate all heretics, and make the Netherlands

subject appanages of the Spanish Crown as are the Italian states—that is

Philip's policy. Mine," he added, with a certain passion, "will be to

prevent it."

"Surely you can, surely you will," said Louis, with enthusiasm and

reverence.

"Yet do not think me sanguine," answered the Prince gravely. "I know

what I undertake. I know the might of Spain. Egmont might have done

something, but that chance is past. Oh, I am not sanguine! I think

before this struggle is over Granvelle may count all his enemies among

the dead. Berghen has gone—Montigny, Egmont, Hoorne are doomed—nay, are

we not all doomed?"

"Doomed?" repeated Louis quietly.

"By Philip. He has judged and condemned us, and his vengeance has many

faces. If you go on, Louis, go on as I shall, as a man devoted to a

cause almost hopeless—as one under sentence of death."

"It does not frighten me," answered the young Count simply. "I love the

cause and I love the commander!"

He kissed his brother's hand.

"It is some time," he added, "since I entreated to be your lieutenant."

William smiled.

"Where is your 'beggars'' league now, Louis? Drowned as it was born, in

Brederode's wassail bowl! What did those men prove? Good fellows, but

none of them of any worth save Culemburg and Ste Aldegonde."

Louis flushed.

"But I have some men gathered together," he said. "A poor little army,

it is true, but something."

"That is your work, not Brederode's," answered William.

"Poor Brederode!" exclaimed the Count generously. "He was brave and

loyal, and now all his schemes have failed. I think he will die of it—I

left him creeping to Germany, a disappointed man."

"Leave him; he is happier than some better men," said the Prince. "And

to our affairs. I too have been enrolling an army—a poor thing too,

refugees, mercenaries—but something."

The two brothers looked at each other with a keen and flashing glance.

"You will invade the Netherlands?" asked Louis eagerly.

"If I can get the money, I will," answered the Prince, and he spoke

quite simply, as if it was not in the least a wonderful feat to even

contemplate—this marching against the finest army in the world with a

handful of raw recruits and mercenaries.

"Ah, the money!" sighed Louis. He too was of an heroic temper, he too

took the tremendous task simply; but he was daunted by the mention of

what had completely checked his own gallant efforts.

"We need," said William, speaking with a precision which showed that he

had well studied the subject, "at least two hundred thousand crowns.

There was," he added, with a smile, "a time when I could have raised as

much from my own estates—but not now!"

"It is not so much," remarked Louis hopefully.

"Half," continued William, leaning forward and taking some papers from

under the great Bible, "I have already had promised me from my agents in

Antwerp, Amsterdam, Leyden, Haarlem, and other great towns; some has

been promised by the refugee merchants in England."

"And for the rest?"

"Culemburg, Van der Berg, and Hoogstraaten will help—the House of Nassau

must make up the balance."

Louis sat thoughtful, his eyes narrowed while he made a mental

calculation.

"I could raise ten thousand," he said at length.

William added the sum to the list he held in his hand.

"John will help," he remarked. "And I, I will do what I can. Would we

now had the money we once spent on pleasure—yet those were golden days,

and I regret them not."

He rose and paced up and down the room, holding his papers.

"There are the Huguenots under De Villars—they would do something. Then

I think many would join us. Alva is so hated."

Louis remained in the window-seat, gazing out on the golden April day

which was now fading to a close.

"I will do whatever you tell me," he said, with a submission that was

almost childlike from one so brilliant in achievement.

A single bell sounded through the stillness of the castle.

"It is for the evening service," said William. "Will you go?"

Tired and dusty as he was, the Count assented.

"And you?" he asked.

William put his papers carefully away under the Bible.

"In my mother's house I may honour my mother's faith," he said.

The two young men went down to the chapel together.

CHAPTER II

JULIANA OF STOLBERG

A few days after the return of Count Louis to Dillenburg, a notable

company was gathered in the large council chamber. It was long since it

had served for councils, having for many a day been put to lighter

uses—for ball, feast, and family celebration.

There was no magnificence save only the magnificence of the high Gothic

arches, and no splendour save only the splendour of the windows gorgeous

with the lion and billets of Nassau in blue and yellow and the twisted

lettering of the motto of the house: "Ce sera Nassau, moi, je

maintaindrai."

A plain oak table, no longer polished, and worn to a tint like dark

silver, occupied the centre of the room; a circle of high-backed chairs

covered with fringed leather and fastened with tarnished gilt nails

surrounded the table: the one near the window was distinguished by arms

shaped like twisted dragons, and there sat William of Orange, with a

pile of letters and papers in his hand.

His dark face, his dark habit were in shadow against the glowing light

of the coloured glass; his head was bent a little, and with his long

brown fingers he absently fluttered over the pages of the documents he

held.

On one side of him sat Count John and Count Louis; on the other, Count

Adolphus and Count Henry; while beyond the five brothers were Count van

der Berg, Count Hoogstraaten, Count Culemburg, the Seigneur de Villars,

and the Seigneur de Cocqueville, the French Huguenots.

All these gentlemen were young in years and grave in deportment, being

indeed weighted with matters of life and death. Two of the Nassau

Counts, Adolphus and Henry, were little more than boys, the younger

being but eighteen; his bright locks, his eager ardent look, the charm

of his early morning years, made him a pleasant picture as he gazed

intently at the Prince, to whom he bore so distinct and touching a

likeness.

The details of the intended raid on the Netherlands were being

discussed.

In a quiet voice William had read out the sums at their disposal.

Fifty thousand crowns from the great cities of the Netherlands and the

refugees in England, fifty thousand crowns from the Prince himself, ten

thousand from Louis, thirty thousand from Hoogstraaten, thirty thousand

each from Culemburg and Van der Berg, ten thousand by a secret messenger

from the Dowager Countess Hoorne, the desperate mother of those two

doomed men, Hoorne and Montigny, who lay, one in a Spanish, one in a

Flemish prison, ignorant of each other's fate.

In addition to this, William placed on the table a list of all his

jewels, furniture, plate, dogs, falcons, pictures, and precious apparel,

such as robes trimmed with valuable furs, laces, and costly velvets

embroidered with jewels.

Count John too announced that he had pledged his estates to raise a

large sum of ready money, and the Huguenot gentlemen offered both men

and gold.

"We can give nothing but our swords," said Henry of Nassau, looking half

vexed, half smiling at Adolphus, who added softly, "and our lives."

William heard the words; he glanced quickly at his two younger brothers,

and slightly winced. From the first moment when he had resolved to

undertake this tremendous struggle it had not been the treasure that he

had thought of, but the noble lives that might be sacrificed. Before

this dark venture on which he was engaging was over, the House of Nassau

might be stripped of all its sons as leaves are stripped from a tree and

blown uselessly down the wind; and as for those gathered round him now,

how many might fall, even in the first shock of battle?

As for himself, he had staked everything he possessed; on the thick

sheets of paper on the table before him stood named all his property.

The sale of this would leave him a poor, nay, almost a beggared man.

Yet even with all these sacrifices the total sum raised was barely

sufficient for one campaign, since they had to pay mercenaries and

support them in a country already desolate and mastered by foreign

troops.

"And it is Alva who is against us," said William; his eyes gleamed as he

spoke the great captain's name, and his voice vibrated with excitement.

"And behind Alva all the treasure of Spain," added Culemburg, glancing

at the list of their own poor resources.

"That," said the Prince quickly, "is not so tremendous—the treasure of

Spain. It will take all the gold of America to govern the Netherlands as

Alva means to govern them—to maintain an army in a country ruined,

barren—the trade lost, the wealthy fled. Alva is a poor financier, and

he will not obtain much aid from Philip, who looks to see gold pouring

from the Netherlands—not into them. To exhaust Alva's resources is but a

question of time."

"But we?" asked Louis. "Can we wait? If this first attempt fails, can we

go on?"

"We can go on till we die," answered William. "There is nothing to stop

us but the failure of ourselves. There are plenty of men and plenty of

money in the world—many who hate Spain and who love the Reformed Faith.

We do not venture in a little cause nor a foolish one."

Louis looked at his brother.

"For me, I shall not fail, save only by my death," he said.

"I do believe it," said William warmly, "and think the same true of all

here present. Seigneurs, for yourselves you can answer—your cause, your

faith, your country; for the House of Nassau I can speak." He glanced at

his four brothers. "We shall not hesitate nor turn back nor lay down our

arms until these Provinces of His Majesty be released from the

desolation of the Spaniards and the abomination of the Inquisition, or

till death free us from our task."

He did not speak vaingloriously or boastfully, nor with any arrogance or

pride, but almost sadly; and on those present, who knew how long he had

deliberated, how strenuously he had striven to bring the Government to

reason and moderation, how loath he had been to take up arms against

Philip, this solemn declaration of his irrevocable decision had a

weighty effect.

They knew that he dedicated himself, his brothers, and all the

possessions of his famous house to this cause, not with the reckless

enthusiasm of the adventurer nor with the hot-headed daring of one who

had nothing to lose, but with the serene strength of one who had been

regally great, who had owned everything the world can offer, and who had

quietly laid down all rather than become an accomplice of senseless

tyranny.

He waited for no comments on his words, but selecting a rough map of the

Netherlands from the papers before him, laid it on the table, where the

bright glow of the window flushed it gold, and indicated with his finger

the routes to be taken by the attacking forces, which were to be divided

into three, under Louis, De Villars, and De Cocqueville, while he

himself was to wait at Cleves with a fourth contingent to follow up

success or cover defeat.

"De Cocqueville by Artois with the Huguenots and refugees—two or three

thousand men," said the Prince, glancing at the Frenchman, who smiled

and nodded. "Hoogstraaten with De Villars, through Juliers on

Maestricht; Louis on Friesland, on the west—all should be in the field

by May."

He leant back in his chair and folded up his papers.

"All these expeditions will be desperate adventures," he added abruptly.

"You, gentlemen, will be taking raw troops and mercenaries against the

finest veterans in the world—yet men have been victorious before with

bad tools and a good cause."

"I do not think of failure," answered Louis, with that eager gaiety that

showed so charmingly in him; for he was no ignorant stripling, but a

brilliant, experienced soldier. William looked at him in silence; it was

in his mind that they must think of failure, and meet it, often.

But now was not the moment for doubt and discouragement, and the native

cheerfulness of the Prince made it easy for him to assume a calm and

hopeful front.

With a half-laugh he handed to Louis, Culemburg, and Van der Berg their

several commissions for raising men and levying war against Philip and

his men—"to prevent the desolation overhanging the country by the

ferocity of the Spaniards, to maintain the privileges sworn to by His

Majesty and his predecessors, to prevent the extirpation of all religion

by the Edicts, and to save the sons and daughters of the land from

abject slavery, we have requested our dearly loved brother, Louis of

Nassau, to issue as many troops as he shall think needful." So, still

preserving the fiction of loyalty, did William defy Philip in terms of

courteous submission to His Majesty; so he, as sovereign Prince of

Orange, owning no lord, exercised his right to levy troops and declare

war.

He had already refused haughtily the jurisdiction of Alva's Council of

Troubles and proclaimed that he was only answerable to his peers, the

Chapter of the Knights of the Golden Fleece and to the Emperor; and now

he put himself even more definitely on the side of Philip's enemies. His

expression was almost amused as he gave the three Counts the formal

copies of their commission; his quick mind looked forward and saw that

spare, pale figure wandering round the half-built Escorial, and his rage

when he learnt that the one grandee of the Netherlands who had escaped

his far-flung net was likely to strike a blow that would revenge all the

others.

The council broke up.

As the gentlemen left the apartment the Seigneur de Villars asked Count

Louis, what news from the Provinces?

"The last news—a week old—is but the same story," replied Louis:

"murder, massacre, confiscation. It is believed that the Duchess will

retire to Parma, leaving Alva absolute master, as he is indeed now.

Culemburg's palace on the horse market has been confiscated——"

"As a revenge for the conspiracy that was plotted there," added

Hoogstraaten, with a smile—"the Mass on Parma's wedding day, the banquet

of the 'beggars'! Culemburg has paid dear for a sermon and a dinner."

"Brederode has paid dearer," said Culemburg.

"He is dead, is he not, your great 'beggar'?" asked De Cocqueville.

"At Castle Handeberg," answered the Nassau Count, a little sadly. "He

fell into a melancholy, and drank himself to death; so his great

shouting and fury ended in nothing—like a huge wind flowing aimlessly

and suddenly dropping. Alas, he would have served us well now. I am

sorry that his gaiety and his courage are overlaid with dust for ever."

"It is strange to think that Brederode is silent at last," remarked Van

der Berg—"he who talked and laughed so well."

The western light of evening filled the old, plain but pleasant castle

as the Nassau Princes and their guests went down to the chapel, where

the preacher had already entered for the evening service.

This chapel, once gorgeous with the beautiful pomp of the ancient faith,

was now entirely bare of all ornament.

Plain glass filled the windows which had once glowed with regal colours;

the ordinary light of day now entered and lit all the aisles and arches

which had once been obscured with mysterious gloom; a coat of whitewash

obliterated the paintings on walls and pillars and ceiling; plain rows

of benches took the place of carved _prie-Dieu_ and tasselled cushions.

The pulpit was of simple wood, the seat of the Nassau family directly

facing it; in each place a Bible and a Prayer Book with a broad green

marker were laid.

Green curtains on brass rods screened off the upper portion of the

arches, and green boughs waved against the clear windows; the white

interior of the church was all coloured with this green reflection,

which was extraordinarily cool, quiet, and peaceful.

When William and his companions entered the chapel it was already nearly

full, most of the household being in their places.

In the Nassau pew sat the Countess of Nassau, Juliana of Stolberg, her

three daughters—Magdalena, Juliana, and Catherine, the wife of Van der

Berg.

Near them were their women. Anne had not come, being literally ill with

rage at her husband's decision to sell his property; but Rénèe le Meung

was there. She glanced continually at the four Nassau women, so

handsome, so modest, so fine with their simple attire and princely

carriage; she saw that the Countess of Nassau was pale, and guessed the

reason: of all who were sacrificing to the Protestant cause and the

rescue of the Netherlands, no one was giving what this lady was—four

splendid sons to war and peril, a fifth to possible ruin, all her own

possessions, the husband of her favourite daughter—the wealth and

security of her house, and all her kinsmen.

When William and his brothers entered and took their places in the pew

before her, she lifted her eyes from her Bible and gazed at them with

unspeakable yearning and unspeakable triumph.

This was an offering worthy to put before the Lord, these were men fit

to be dedicated to His service: the noble, magnificent William, the

pride of his name, and famous in Europe; the handsome Louis, gallant,

pious, intelligent, and brave; the chivalrous Adolphus in his healthy

young manhood; Henry, the graceful youth already promising all the

splendours of his race; John, resolute, loyal, capable, who had laid

down all he possessed at the service of his brother,—their mother's gaze

travelled from one to the other of them as they sat before her, and her

heart contracted and her lips trembled as she wondered when she would

see them all together again—as she wondered how many would return to

her, how many would fall in the struggle on which they were now

entering.

She did not complain, even in her inmost heart; the touch of sternness

that was inevitable with a sincere belief in her austere creed

strengthened her and enabled her to be glad and proud that they were all

united in a cause she considered sacred.

She was prepared to let them all go, to lose them, if God willed, one

after the other, and neither to murmur nor lament.

Yet how she cared, how she suffered in the midst of her pride and

triumph, the pain that shook her as she watched them, so young, so

brilliant, so pleasant, none present guessed save perhaps Rénèe le

Meung, whose senses were acute with love.

The Countess knew for what reason the council had been held to-day: she

knew that in a while now all would scatter to try the desperate chances

of a desperate war, and not by one word would she have striven to hold

them back; but as the quiet service continued, as the green glow of the

trees was changed to the westering flood of red over those five martial

figures who had once been children on her knee, Juliana of Stolberg

breathed a prayer for them that was a prayer of agony.

When the service was over, she lingered a little in the white chapel,

now filling with the dusk; her limbs trembled and her eyes were misty.

Her daughters stayed with her, all sad for their brothers, Catherine too

for her husband.

Each woman thought of the long vista of anxious days before them—days of

waiting, days of news perhaps worse than waiting; days when they would

remember, with such poignant pain, this present time of peace.

They slowly left the chapel, Rénèe behind them, unnoticed in the shadow.

In the antechamber William waited for his mother.

Her dark eyes smiled at him, she put out her hand and touched his

shoulder.

"When do you start?" she asked.

"In a week or so—we should be all in the field by May."

"All? So soon?" She said no more, and she still smiled.

But Rénèe, the other woman who loved William, understood, with a

dreadful sympathy, what was being endured by the Countess's brave heart.

CHAPTER III

HEILIGER LEE

By the end of April Louis of Nassau and his army of refugees,

adventurers, and mercenaries had entered Friesland; at Appingadam he was

joined by Adolphus in command of a troop of horse, and the two brothers

advanced on Groningen, which town refused to receive the rebels but gave

them a sum of money on condition that they renounced an attack on the

city.

With this much-needed treasure Louis was enabled to keep together his

troops and enrol more of the fugitives who daily flocked to his banner,

while he retained his headquarters at Appingadam, strengthening his

forces and waiting for news of the enemy.

Early in May, Aremberg, Stadtholder of Friesland, came in sight of

Louis' entrenchments; there was a sharp skirmish and Aremberg fell back

on Wittewerum Abbey, where he encamped, waiting for the arrival of Count

Meghem, Stadtholder of Guelders, who was coming up through Coeverden

with reinforcements of infantry and light horse.

Louis was aware that Alva's two lieutenants were only waiting to join

forces to attack him, even if Aremberg did not fall on him alone; he

knew too that the troops coming against him were four thousand of Alva's

best men, including Braccamonte's famous Sardinian regiments, and he was

keenly conscious of the wretched rabble his own troops showed in

consequence; they were mostly untrained, mostly in poor condition, and

had only been kept from a mutiny by the money of the city of Groningen

and Louis' acts and promises.

William's brother had started on this enterprise with a recklessness

that was not impudence but heroism; he was a good general and a fine

soldier, and well knew how desperate was his adventure with such

materials, but he had not hesitated, for to wait for more money and

better men would have been to wait for ever.

Learning that Meghem had not yet arrived at Aremberg's camp, he shifted

his own position, marched three leagues through a little forest of fir

trees, and entrenched himself near the monastery of Heiliger Lee.

There he was joined by a messenger disguised as a priest who brought him

news from Maestricht.

It was completely disastrous; illness had prevented Hoogstraaten from

taking his appointed command, and the Seigneur de Villars had led the

forces which were to attack Juliers, raise the country, and secure

Maestricht. These objects had failed. Two Spanish generals, De Lodrovo

and D'Avila, had attacked and defeated him at Dalem; all the invading

force of three thousand men had been put to the sword, and De Villars

himself sent to Brussels for execution.

So ended one of the three attempts on the Netherlands. Louis crushed the

dispatch (which had been sent by one of the Prince's secret agents in

Maestricht) into his doublet, and said not a word of its contents to

any, even to Adolphus.

That evening they dined in the convent of Heiliger Lee from which the

monks had fled at their approach; the abbot had joined Aremberg at

Wittewerum.

The building was pleasantly situated on a slightly rising ground which

behind sloped up to a wood of short poplars and beech; to the left was a

large plain divided, for agricultural purposes, into squares by means of

ditches or canals; before it and to the right was a vast stretch of

swampy ground which, though covered with lush green grass, and in part

transformed into pasture land, was, at this season of the year,

impassable; a stone causeway leading to the convent crossed this

deceitful morass, which was bordered by a road winding round the wood

and hill—the road by which Aremberg must arrive if he made an attack.

Louis' position was as good as was possible to find in a country so

dangerous by reason of ditches and swamps, the shoulder of the hill

protected some of the troops, and the remainder occupied the only piece

of dry ground in the vicinity; the morass stretched before their

encampment as a natural defence; the heights, too, of Heiliger Lee

(artificially created by early monks) were the only rising portions of

ground in the whole flat district which was girdled and swamped by the

overflowing waters of the Em and the Lippe. The ground was historic; as

the two brothers wandered in the convent gardens before the dinner hour,

they reminded each other of their school learning, when they had read of

Hermann, that early Goth who, on the very swamp at which they now gazed,

had turned back the victorious legions of Rome.

And now again the Germanic people were gathered to resist Latin tyranny

and to oppose proud assumption of universal dominion by the assertion of

man's eternal right to freedom of person and of conscience.

It was a fair evening, and the scene before the two young generals was

beautiful with the languid, mellow, golden beauty of the Low Countries.

The swamps, covered with grass of a most brilliant green hue, melted to

a wistful horizon straight as the line of the sea and misted with gold

which faded into the soft azure of the heavens; the woods were of the

same hues, a sharp, bright, delicate green and gold, dull and glowing

like the tint of honey.

The road and the stone causeway were warm with the dusky golden shadow

of evening; the convent buildings also were warm and mellow in tone; the

low-walled gardens before the doors were filled with homely

flowers—pinks, stocks, and wallflowers.

Louis leant his elbows on the wall and looked across the low sweet

prospect. His eye travelled to the plain where his ill-equipped forces

were encamped; he watched the men moving about among the tents preparing

their food, and thought of those four thousand beaten out of existence

at Dalem, and of the Seigneur de Villars waiting to be sent to the

scaffold.

Louis remembered him in that last Council at Dillenburg, how he had

asked about Brederode, and lamented for his death—he whose own days were

so numbered!

The Nassau Count's face hardened; who would next pay toll to the Spanish

fury?

Adolphus spoke, scattering his brother's thoughts.

"If they try to cross the swamp, we have them," he said keenly,

surveying the verdant treacherous ground.

"Aremberg is Stadtholder here, he must know the country," replied Louis;

"if it were a Spanish commander I should have different and better

hopes."

"I have good hopes," said Adolphus. He was to-night a little quieter,

graver than usual; his fair and youthful face wore an expression of

serenity and resolution Louis had not seen there before, but he had

never been with his brother on the eve of battle.

Louis was glad he had not spoken of the news from Juliers.

"Aremberg will have good hopes too," he answered lightly. "He despises

us and the 'beggars' bitterly enough. Strange how in the old days at

Brussels we rode and ate together—we and Meghem, and now come to this!"

"Aremberg is a sick man," said Adolphus. "They say he can hardly sit his

horse. I would rather die young than grow to be sick."

A white pigeon and a white butterfly took flight together from the

convent wall and flew side by side across the swamp until they were lost

in the melting mists of the distance.

Adolphus pointed to them.

"Like two souls departing," he said, putting back the thick lock of hair

the evening breeze blew across his eyes. "Do you remember the skryer who

foretold our fortunes at Leipsic?" he added.

"Yes," said Louis, with a little smile.

"He is in the camp. He followed us from Groningen, and asked me leave to

join us. He was with Brederode, he said, even to his death, then

wandered in our track from Germany. Do you think he can really read

portents in the stars?"

The young Protestant general answered slowly—

"It does not seem to me that God would permit His heavens to show forth

signs for mummers to profit by; yet these fellows have a grain of truth

in their predictions—though maybe of the Devil; did not this man say in

Leipsic we should all die a bloody death? And who among us then thought

of war?"

"He told me yesterday," said Adolphus, "that for three nights there had

been a falling star above Groningen, and that Aremberg's hours were

counted."

"God's will be done," said Louis soberly; he gave another glance at his

camp and then they turned into the convent where their simple meal was

ready.

They were about to rise from the table when an officer brought into

their presence a young peasant, a tall blond Frieslander, who told them

that he had been running all day before Aremberg's army to warn them of

the enemy's approach.

"The Stadtholder is coming straight on you," he said simply. "He has

with him many foreign soldiers and the six cannon of Groningen."

"We," said Louis, "shall be ready to meet him."

Rising, he looked into the eyes, so blue and placid, of the young giant

who had given him this valuable warning.

"Can you handle a matchlock or hold a pike?" he asked.

"Either, in the service of Your Excellency," answered the man quickly.

"Anything to give a blow to the Spaniards. I have strong hands," and he

held them out.

Louis smiled, to check a sigh.

"We are none of us great soldiers," he said, "but we may be great

fighters if God wills."

He took the silver "beggar medal" from his neck and gave it to the

Frieslander, bidding the officer who had brought him to enroll him in

some company which was not full strength.

The young general and his brother then threw their mantles about them

and, descending the hill, went on foot among the encampment, exhorting

and encouraging the men (who now were enthusiastic enough), and

disposing the troops.

The motley army was arranged in two battalions on the plain where they

had encamped, each squadron flanked by musketeers and one protected by

the base of the hill on the brow of which was placed some light-armed

troops, at once the decoy and the shield of the main army.

The most dangerous position was assigned to the cavalry; this, under the

command of Adolphus, was in the vanguard of all, directly facing the

wood-bordered road along which the Spaniards would approach.

When all arrangements were complete and all the officers had received

their instructions at the hastily called field council, the brothers

returned up the hill.

The stars were now beginning to fade in the light of a pallid dawn, the

woods were hushed, the fields serene; the bodies of men moving about to

take up their positions were indistinct black masses in the obscurity.

Louis felt his blood beat strongly; he was about to strike the first

blow in the cause to which his House was now pledged; tremendous

results, moral and material, hung on the issue of to-morrow's battle,

and there was almost everything against him.

When he went to change into his complete armour he fell on his knees on

the bare floor of the convent room and prayed—

"God, as we fight not for our own profit nor glory but for thy poor

people, forgive us all our loves and our hates, our lusts and all our

mistreadings, and let those who fall to-morrow die in thy mercy."

When he had armed he dismissed his pages and went down to where Adolphus

already waited in the convent garden.

The young Count wore a suit of black mail with a little scarlet plume

like a burst of flame in his casque, and across his heart a scarf of

that orange colour, so bright and deep, that it was frequently mistaken

for the scarlet sash of the Spanish officers.

Louis' harness was of uncoloured steel; he too wore the orange scarf,

the tasselled ends of which fell to his thigh.

Among the fragrant flower-beds two grooms held the two black horses of

the brothers.

The light had now strengthened so that they could distinguish the

pikemen from the musketeers on the plain below, and discern the sutlers

hastening to the rear with the baggage waggons.

Adolphus glanced at the banners which were being displayed in the still

air, all of them glittering with gold and silk which traced, he knew,

patriotic and bold inscriptions; then he watched with interest his own

banner being brought up the hill by a galloping horseman.

Louis was straining his eyes down the darkling road where Aremberg was

almost due.

"He will wait for Meghem, who cannot be a day's march behind," he said

anxiously; "when he sees how we are entrenched he will skirmish and

wait."

"God be entreated," said Adolphus, "that he attacks us."

They mounted, and were scarcely in the saddle before news came from the

outposts that Aremberg was in sight.

The banner of Adolphus now waved at the head of his little troop of

horsemen (not more than three hundred) who waited on the hill to take up

their position.

Adolphus still looked at this banner; the morning breeze caught the

folds and blew them out, showing the arms of Nassau with the mark of

cadency of the fourth son and the words, "_Je Maintiendrai_," together

with the inscription which was the motto of Louis' army, "_Nunc aut

nunquam, recuperare aut mori_."

The brothers now, by a common instinct, turned to each other and clasped

hands.

The two fine young faces, so alike in feature and expression in the

stern frame of the open casque, gazed at each other with a wistful and

silent affection.

Their hands loosened and they moved away, when suddenly Adolphus turned

back, and, dropping the reins, threw his right arm round Louis' neck

with a womanly gesture and kissed him; then at a gallop he swept away,

put himself at the head of his little troop, and led them down the hill

to their desperate and perilous position.

CHAPTER IV

THE FIRST BATTLE

Aremberg and his men came in sight of the "beggars," opened fire on the

light troops on the hill from the Groningen cannon, then paused.

Louis of Nassau, waiting at the head of the main body of his army, felt

his heart sink.

He discerned that the Stadtholder had noticed that to carry the rebels'

position he must needs cross the swamp, and that he preferred to

skirmish and wait for Meghem with reinforcements.

An hour of the bright morning passed heavily by; then, to the intense

relief of Louis, Aremberg again opened fire.

The impatient Spanish officers had reproached the Netherlander for his

slowness and caution; they had no wish to share glory and spoils with

Meghem's men; they believed that the "beggars" would fly at sight of

them; they even taunted Aremberg. Braccamonte, the general of the

Sardinian troops, dared to suggest that the Stadtholder, like his

rebellious countrymen, was at heart a heretic.

Aremberg, broken by illness, stung and inflamed by the Southern

insolence, gave orders for an immediate attack—orders that were against

his own knowledge and experience and against the trend of all Alva's

advice.

So the guns of the city of Groningen again opened fire, and their sound

was music in the ears of the rebel commander, and the acrid smell of the

powder, sweeter than the fresh perfume of the flowers opening to the

early morning in the convent garden.

The light force which had received the fire now fled from their

position.

Louis smiled, keenly watching the enemy.

Again there was a pause in the royal ranks; again Aremberg suggested a

stratagem and the dangerous nature of the ground.

But the Spanish officers were now beyond control.

Seeing the flight of the troops on the hillside (a flight that was, as

Aremberg suspected, a snare), they believed the whole rabble of the

"beggars" were in a rout before them, and rushed forward to attack and

disperse the two squadrons of the main army.

As they dashed from the road and the wood, brandishing their swords and

shouting to each other, man after man plunged into the morass, the

treacherous grass gave way beneath them, while the deep pools left by

the peat gatherers sucked in others to their necks.

In a few moments the entire advance guard of the Spaniards was

entangled, helpless, and perishing in the swamp.

Louis now ordered up his musketeers, who opened a quick fire on the

struggling enemy and drove them back again into the marsh.

Meanwhile, Braccamonte was bringing up his rearguard to the rescue.

Louis, perceiving this, sent his concealed battalions round the base of

the hill to cut off the Spanish.

Braccamonte, finding himself ambushed, and fresh contingents of the

Netherlanders pouring in on his ranks, utterly lost his courage.

Shouting confused orders to his troop he turned and fled.

His men, surprised, left without a leader, were instantly driven back by

the "beggars" and fell in helter-skelter confusion on to those already

entrapped in the morass.

The battle field was now one red carnage; the verdant fields of grass

were broken into trampled slime that disfigured the gay armour of the

dead and dying Sardinian soldiers, whose dark faces were twisted into an

expression of wrath and amazement.

The stagnant peat pools glowed horrid with blood, the once pure air

smelt foul with smoke, the soft sounds of bird and insect were changed

for broken curses, shouts of despair, and gasped prayers.

The proud, insolent, and arrogant troops of Spain knew themselves

completely scattered and beaten by the rebels at whom they had so jeered

and laughed.

Louis, gathering together the remainder of his men, dashed forward with

weapons and banners uplifted, and fell upon the bewildered fugitives.

Aremberg had watched the troops, who had refused to listen to his

orders, go to their steady defeat; when Braccamonte, riding hard for

safety, dashed past him, a bitter smile curled his pale lip.

"Save yourself!" shouted the Spaniard.

But the Netherlander, at whose courage the Southerns had mocked, never

left his post.

He saw perfectly that the day was lost; his men were being cut to pieces

before his eyes, his officers had fled; under his own command he had

only a few horsemen.

Turning his gaze from the bloody mêlée where Louis was driving before

him the boasted Sardinian regiments, Aremberg looked to the road, which

was barred by Adolphus and his horsemen who still presented unbroken

ranks though they had received the first shock of the artillery.

The few officers left in attendance on the Stadtholder urged his

immediate flight along the road he had just traversed.

"How shall I account for this day's work to Alva?" answered the

Netherlander sternly.

Rising in his stirrups he called to his men to follow him, and hurled

himself on the young Nassau.

The two leaders singled each other out; they had last met in the tennis

court at the Nassau palace in Brussels.

They smiled at each other, and both fired; Aremberg received the ball in

his side, but fired again, then struck with his sword at the flame-like

plume on the black casque.

It dipped and fell backwards; at the same moment a rush of "beggar"

cavalry drove the Stadtholder before them.

He looked round, and perceived that all his men had fled save a few

attendants; he had been shot twice through the side, his disease bowed

him to the saddle with pain, the weight of his armour was almost

intolerable; he cast away his helmet whose protection he despised, and

retreated slowly, keeping his face to the enemy.

A musket ball struck his horse, which fell under him; two attendants

picked him up and dragged the animal to its feet.

It staggered a few paces, then fell dead.

A second time Aremberg got to his feet; two rebel troopers approached

him, he shot both, and continued to limp along the stone causeway on

which the fresh blood was drying in the May sun.

He saw a large body of the enemy coming passionately behind him, and

dragged himself painfully off the road on to a little meadow that sloped

to the wood.

There he stood at bay leaning his back against a little fir tree that

could hardly support his weight, and wiping, with the ragged ends of his

sash, the cold sweat from his brow and the blood from his sword.

The enemy soon discovered him—there was half a regiment of them—he

gathered all his strength to straighten his body that he might meet them

standing.

Another shot struck him, he fell on his knees, still wielding his

sword—one against many; one officer cried out to spare him, for it was

the Stadtholder, but even as he spoke Aremberg fell, shot through the

throat, sinking on his own sword which broke and fell beneath him.

They picked him up and wrapped him in a cloak, and carried him through

the morass filled with his dead soldiers to the victorious Louis of

Nassau.

That young general was flushed with hope; he had seen the veteran troops

of Spain go down before the onslaught of the "beggars" and the Nassau

arms wave above the field of victory.

The sun was only just beginning to slant in the heavens, and there was

not one of all the boastful hosts of that morning to fire a shot or

raise a sword for Spain.

When the dead general was laid at his feet, Louis uncovered.

"He should have been spared," he said, in a moved voice.

They lifted up the mantle and Louis looked down at the fiery Stadtholder

now mangled with shot and sword.

"He was too good to be Alva's pawn," he said. "Such bravery went ill

with such a cause."

He ordered the body to be carried up to the convent, and sent a

messenger to his brother; he was himself turning up the hill when the

clear challenge of advancing trumpets came across the wood.

"Meghem!" cried Louis, and hastened back to the head of his troop.

It was in truth the Stadtholder of Gueldres; Louis hastily called off

the pursuers and, in the fear of another attack, drew back his entire

force on to the dry ground.

But Count Meghem was alone; his troops had been too exhausted to push

on; he, however, with a small bodyguard, had hurried from Zaidlaren

where he had found a letter from Aremberg bidding him hasten.

Before he reached the encampment of the "beggars" the stream of

fugitives told him of disaster; from some flying Sardinians he learnt of

Aremberg's utter defeat and death.

Wild with fury he pushed recklessly on, until he was able to discern

with his own eyes the distant swamp where had been engulfed the veterans

of Spain, then turning his horse's head he pressed back to Zaidlaren and

ordered his men to fall back and secure Groningen, in which city he sat

down to write the news to Alva.

Louis, secure that there would be no further attack, now occupied

himself in seeing to the troops and ordering the disposition of the

wounded, who were not numerous, though more than a thousand of the enemy

had been slain.