VENGEANCE
I
"Satan! Satan! Assassin!"
Donna Lenora had stood beside the dead body of her lover and kinsman
wide-eyed and pale with rigid, set mouth and trembling knees while her
father explained to her how don Ramon de Linea had been murdered in the
tavern of the "Three Weavers" by an unknown man who wore a leather mask.
She had listened to the whole garbled version of the sordid affair,
never thinking to doubt a single one of her father's words: don Ramon de
Linea, according to the account given to his daughter by Juan de Vargas,
had--while in the execution of his duty--been attacked in a dark passage
by a mysterious assassin, who had fled directly his nefarious work had
been accomplished.
The murderer, however, was seen by the provost in command and by two of
the soldiers, and was accurately described by them as wearing doublet
and high-boots of a dark-brown colour, a hood over his head and a mask
of untanned leather on his face. The man had rapidly disappeared in the
darkness, evading all pursuit.
And donna Lenora--thus face to face for the first time in her sheltered
life with crime, with horror and with grief--had, in the first moment of
despairing misery, not even a prayer to God in her heart, for it was
filled with bitter thoughts of resentment and of possible revenge.
She had loved her cousin don Ramon de Linea with all the ardour of her
youth, of her warm temperament and of a heart thirsting for the
self-sacrifice which women were so ready to offer these days on the
altar of their Love. She had never thought him shallow or cruel: to her
he had always been just the playmate of childhood's days, the handsome,
masterful boy whom she had looked up to as the embodiment of all that
was strong and noble and chivalrous, the first man who had ever
whispered the magic word "love" in her ear.
Now an unknown enemy had killed him: not in fair fight, not in the open,
on the field of honour, but--as her father said--in a tavern, in the
dark, surreptitiously, treacherously; and donna Lenora in an agony of
passionate resentment had at last broken the silence which had almost
frightened her father and had suddenly called out with fierce intensity:
"Satan! Satan! Assassin!" Her father had given her an account of the
horrible incident, which was nothing but a tissue of falsehoods from
beginning to end, and Lenora had listened and believed. How could she
doubt her own father? She hardly knew him--and he was all she had in
the world on whom to pour out the wealth of her affection and of her
faith.
II
Truth to tell, de Vargas had received the news of don Ramon's death with
unbounded satisfaction.
Lenora had obeyed him and had been this night publicly affianced to Mark
van Rycke; but between her consent to the marriage and her willingness
to become Alva's tool as a spy among her husband's people there was the
immeasurable abyss of a woman's temperament and a woman's natural pity
for the oppressed.
But the outrage to-night--the murder of the man whom she still loved
despite paternal prohibitions--was bound to react on the girl's warm and
passionate nature--and react in the manner which her father desired. He
trusted to his own powers of lying, to place the case before his
daughter in its most lurid light. He had at once spoken of "spies" and
"assassins" and his words had been well chosen. Within a few moments
after he had told Lenora the news, he felt that he could play like a
skilled musician upon every string of her overwrought sensibilities.
Her heart had already been very sore at being forced to part from her
first lover; now that the parting had suddenly become irrevocable in
this horrible way, all the pent up passion, fierce resentment and wrath
which she had felt against her future husband and his people could by
clever manipulation be easily merged into an equally fierce desire for
revenge.
It was a cruel game to play with a young girl who by blood and race was
made to feel every emotion with super-acuteness: but de Vargas was not
the man who would ever allow pity or chivalry to interfere with his
schemes: he saw in his daughter's mental suffering, in the shattering of
her nerves and the horror which had well-nigh paralysed her, nothing but
a guarantee of success for that comprehensive project which had the
death of the Prince of Orange for its ultimate aim.
"It is strange," murmured the girl after awhile, "that when Ramon talked
with me in the Town House last night, he said that these Netherlanders
had a habit of striking at an enemy in the dark."
"A presentiment, no doubt," rejoined de Vargas with well-feigned
gentleness. "Now, my child, you begin to understand--do you not?--why
it is that we Spaniards hate these treacherous Netherlanders. They are
vile and corrupt to the heart, every single man, woman or child of them.
They fear us and have not the pluck to fight us in the open. Orange and
his contemptible little army have sought shelter in Holland--they dare
not face the valour and enthusiasm of our troops. But mark you, what
Orange hath done! He hath sown the entire country with a crop of spies!
They are here, there, everywhere--not very cunning and certainly not
brave--their orders are to strike in the dark when and how they can.
They waylay our Spanish officers in the ill-lighted, and intricate
streets of their abominable cities, they dog their footsteps until they
meet them in some lowly tavern or a tenebrous archway: then out comes
their dagger, swift and sure, and they strike in the gloom--and a
gallant Spanish officer's blood stains the cobblestones of one of their
towns. It was don Ramon to-day--it will be Julian Romero perhaps
to-morrow--or don Juan de Vargas--who knows? or mayhap the duke of Alva
one day. Orange and his crowd are out on a campaign of
assassination--an army of assassins has been let loose--and their
captain-general wears a mask of leather and our soldiery have dubbed him
'Leatherface'!"
"I have heard of this man 'Leatherface,'" said Lenora slowly. "It is
he, you think, who murdered Ramon?"
"Have we not the soldiers' testimony?" he rejoined blandly, "two men and
the provost saw him quite clearly. As for me, I am not surprised: more
than once our spies have reported that the man undoubtedly hailed from
Ghent, and once he was traced to the very gates of this city. But," he
added insinuatingly, "here he is surrounded by friends: every burgher in
Ghent, no doubt, opens wide his hospitable door to the murderer of
Spanish officers."
"Think you it is likely that the High-Bailiff of Ghent or ... or ... my
future husband would harbour such an assassin?" she asked.
"Well!" he replied evasively, "all Netherlanders are treacherous. The
High-Bailiff himself and his son Mark are said to be loyal ... but
there's another son ... and the mother ... one never knows. It would be
strange," he continued unctuously, "if at some future time the murderer
of Ramon should find shelter in your house."
"I shall pray to the saints," she rejoined with passionate intensity,
"that he and I may meet face to face one day."
Indeed de Vargas had no cause to fear that henceforth his daughter would
fail in her vigilance. The assassination of her lover had stirred her
soul to its inmost depths. Indifference and light-hearted girlishness
had suddenly given place to all the violent passions of her ardent
nature. For the moment desire for vengeance--for justice she called
it--and hatred of the assassin and his mates had swept every other
thought, every soft aspiration away: all her world--the world as seen
through the rose-coloured windows of a convent window--had tottered and
opened beneath her feet, and through the yawning chasm she now saw evil
and lust and cruelty dancing a triumphant saraband over Ramon's dead
body.
"There is a means," resumed de Vargas after a slight pause, during which
through half-closed lids he studied the play of every varying emotion
upon his daughter's beautiful face, "there is a means, my child, whereby
you or any faithful servant of our King can henceforth recognise at a
glance the man who killed your cousin Ramon."
"A means?"
"Yes. He carries upon his arm the brand of his own infamy."
"Will you tell me more clearly what you mean?" she asked.
"Ramon had not breathed his last when the provost found him and
ultimately brought him here to my lodgings. He was able to speak and to
give a fragmentary account of what had taken place: how he was set upon
in the dark and stabbed to death ere he could utter a cry. But at the
last moment he made a supreme effort and wrenching his dagger from his
belt he struck with it at his assailant. It seems that he inflicted a
very severe wound upon the miscreant: the dagger penetrated into the
left forearm close to the elbow and gashed the flesh and muscle as far
as the wrist and right through to the bone. It is not likely that at
this moment there is more than one man in Ghent who hath such a wound in
the left forearm: the wound was deep too, and will take some time to
heal, and even when it is healed it will leave a tell-tale scar which
will last for years.
"I think," rejoined Lenora coldly, "that I should know the man who
killed Ramon, even if he bore no brand of Cain upon his person."
Father and daughter looked at one another and for the space of a few
seconds their souls--so different in every ideal, every feeling, every
aspiration--met in one common resolve. He could hardly repress a sigh
of satisfaction. He knew that he held her, closely, firmly, indissolubly
at last. He held her by all the romance which her girlish imagination
had woven round the personality of a worthless man, and by all the deep
sense of injury which she felt as well as all the horror and the
indignation at the dastardly deed. And his own warped and gloomy soul
was at one with her pure and childlike one--pure because even the desire
for revenge which she felt, she ascribed to God, and called it justice.
The Moorish blood in her which mingles even with the bluest Castilian
claimed with savage, primeval instinct that "eye for an eye" and "tooth
for a tooth" which alone can satisfy a hot-headed and passionate race.
Lenora's eyes as she met those of her father lost their look of dull
despair: something of the fanatical hatred which he felt for the whole
of the despised race communicated itself to her, now that she too had so
much cause for hatred.
"We understand one another, Lenora," he said. And like a feline
creature sure of its prey, he drew quite close to her and took her hand,
and began gently to stroke it.
"You will have to teach me what to do, father," she rejoined.
"Your heart and wits will tell you that. In a few days you will have
entered the van Rycke household. Keep your eyes and ears open, and win
the confidence and love of all those around you. Let not a word, a
sign, a gesture escape you, and come and tell me at once all that you
see and hear. Will you promise to do that, my Lenora?" he added,
forcing his harsh voice to tones of gentleness.
"I promise," she replied fervently.
"The Lieutenant-Governor believes that Orange himself has been visiting
Ghent lately! Keep your eyes and ears open, Lenora, you may be the
means of bringing that arch-traitor to his just punishment. Promise me
that you will listen," he urged.
"I promise," she reiterated firmly.
"The Lieutenant-Governor comes to Ghent in a few days' time. Wherever
he goes there is always fear for his precious life. If Orange has been
in Ghent then he hath hatched a plot against the Duke--on this I would
stake my life--promise me that you will be on the watch, Lenora!"
"I promise."
"Upon your soul, my child?"
"Upon my soul!"
"And next to Orange himself, I'd sooner see that masked assassin
Leatherface hang than any man in Europe; remember that, little one!"
"I'll not forget."
"The outrage on don Ramon de Linea must not remain unavenged, remember
that."
"I'll not forget."
"Then let Orange and his rebels look to themselves!" ejaculated de
Vargas with a note of triumph.
He took from the breast pocket of his doublet a piece of silk ribbon to
which was attached a flat, yet curiously fashioned and shaped piece of
steel.
"Take this, my child," he said significantly, as he held the trinket out
to her. "This little bit of metal hath already done more service to our
Lord the King, to our country, and to our faith than a whole army of
spies."
"What is it, dear?" she asked.
"It is a little talisman," he replied, "that will turn any lock and open
any secret drawer by whomsoever lock and drawer have been manufactured.
It was made for me by the finest metal-cutter of Toledo--one in fact
whose skill was so paramount that we had reluctantly to ... to put him
out of harm's way. He was getting dangerous. This pass-key was his
masterpiece. I have tested it on the most perfect specimens of the
locksmith's art both in Toledo and in Florence. It hath never failed me
yet. Take it, my child, and guard it carefully. An I mistake not, you
will find use for it in your new home."
Before she could protest he had thrown the ribbon over her head, and
she--mechanically but with unaccountable reluctance withal--slipped the
trinket into the bosom of her gown.
"Remember, my dear," concluded de Vargas, "that the day after your
marriage I must return to Brussels. But if you see or hear anything
that may concern the welfare of our Sovereign Lord the King, or of his
government, you must come to me at once--do not hesitate--invent a
pretext--come away in secret--do anything rather than delay. And
remember also that anything you may tell me, I will treat in absolute
confidence. Your name will never appear in connection with any
denunciation ... I mean," he interrupted himself hastily, "with any
service which you may render to the State. Will you remember that also,
my child?"
"I will remember," she replied.
It seemed almost as if she were under the potent spell of some wizard.
She spoke and acted just as her father directed--and yet he looked so
evil at this moment, hypocrisy and lust were so apparent in his
jaundiced face, that even Lenora felt a sudden pang of doubt and of
fear--doubt as to the purity of her own motives and fear at the terrible
companionship which would henceforth exist between herself and her
father's friends, men who--like him--were bent on the destruction of a
nation and were actuated by blind hatred to oppress an entire people.
De Vargas--vaguely guessing what went on in the girl's mind--made an
effort to regain his former bland manner: he strove by gentleness and
soft words to lull her suspicions. After all, he was her father and
she--a motherless child--had no one now in the world to whom she could
cling, on whom she could pour out that wealth of love and tenderness
which filled her young heart to overflowing. So now--very soon--she was
kneeling close beside him, her head resting against his bosom--the dove
nestling near the hawk; and the tears which would not come all the while
that her soul was consumed with bitterness, flowed beneficently at last
and eased her overburdened heart.
"You will not fail me, little one?" asked de Vargas even in the midst of
tender, endearing words.
"Never!" she murmured, "if you turned against me, father dear, whither
could I go? I have no one in the world but you."
As her head was bent and her eyes downcast, she could not see the cold
and cruel glitter that shone in his face as he heard this simple
profession of whole-hearted devotion and faith.
"Tell me what to do and I'll do it," she whispered again.
"Then will God Himself reward you," he rejoined unctuously, "for you
will be serving Him and His Church, His anointed and the country of His
chosen people."
After which he rose, kissed her and finally with a sigh of intense
satisfaction left her to meditate alone, to dream and to pray.
BOOK TWO: DENDERMONDE