TRUTH AND PERFIDY
I
The cathedral bells of St. Baafs were the first to ring on that
unforgettable 23rd day of October which was the feast of the Holy
Redeemer: the appealing, sweet, melancholy sound came clearly through
the humid air. Lenora, who was in her room with Grete, stood quite
still for a moment and listened. The bells of St. Pharailde took up the
call, then those of St. Jakab and St. Agneten until the clang of bells
echoed from end to end of the city and drowned every other sound--of
strife or of misery. The roar of the artillery now was mute, the clash
of pikes and lances was no longer heard--only that curious medley of
weird and terrible sounds still lingered in the air--a medley made up of
sighs and groans, of men falling down exhausted with pain, of masonry
still crumbling and woodwork still sizzling--a medley to which now was
added the roll of drums which on either side called to the men to lay
aside their strife and to go and pray in peace.
On the walls of the castle-yard the Duke's proclamation of the Lord's
Day truce was posted up and he himself was giving a few brief orders to
his captains:
"Let the men understand," he said, "that they are free to go to Mass in
the various churches of the city, and that they can do so without the
slightest fear. But they must all be back inside the Kasteel precincts
by two hours after noon. Let the couriers go to the gate-houses at the
six Poorts and issue the same orders there, and have the proclamation
posted up. Make it known here as well as at the Poorts that if any man
fails to respect the truce, if there is any brawling in the streets or
in the taverns, I shall proceed with merciless severity against the
culprits."
Then he turned to the captain of the castle-guard, don Sancho de Avila:
"Yours will be the duty to see that runners are sent out in secret on
the Dendermonde road with orders that any troops which may be on the
way, make all possible speed. You had best remain in command here while
I go to Mass: keep your picked guard and the musketeers under arms, for,
the moment that the Dendermonde banderas are in sight, we must be ready
to co-operate with them by a sortie _en masse_."
"I quite understand, Magnificence," replied the captain.
A few moments later the bridge was lowered and some three thousand men
filed out across it in orderly lines as for parade--but unarmed. The
Spanish halberdiers formed the van and the rear-guard, the Walloon
pikemen and archers were massed in the centre, and in the midst of them
walked the Duke of Alva with his immediate cortege: de Vargas who had
his daughter on his arm and Grete close beside her, don Alberic del Rio,
Councillor Hessels and two or three other members of the Council.
Behind them came the standard-bearers with standards unfurled and the
drummers.
In silence they reached the lines of the Orangists, which they had to
cross in a double file, each man holding up his hands to show that he
was unarmed. The Orangist leaders stood by in a group, and when the
Duke and the members of the Council had to file through the lines in
their turn, they stepped forward in order to greet them in amity.
"God guard ye!" they said as the Duke walked by.
"We'll aid Him in that," retorted the Spaniards cynically.
Mark van Rycke was in the forefront of the group at the moment that
Lenora went by leaning on her father's arm. She looked up just then and
saw him. He held his head erect as he always did, but she could not
fail to see how completely he had changed in those few hours since last
she saw him at Dendermonde. The hours seemed to have gone over him like
years: gone was that quaint, gentle, appealing way to which she had so
nearly yielded. His attitude now was one of lofty defiance, sublime in
its unshakable determination and in its pride. Well! perhaps it was
better so! Was he not the embodiment of everything that Lenora had been
taught to hate and despise since her tenderest childhood--the despised
race that dared to assert itself, the beneficiary who turned on the hand
that loaded him with gifts and, above all, the assassin who cowered in
the dark, the slave who struck his master whom he dared not defy? Yes!
Mark van Rycke, her husband, the murderer of Ramon, stood for all that,
and Lenora despised herself for every tender feeling which had gripped
her soul in the past two days whenever she thought of him as wounded,
helpless, or mayhap dead.
And yet now when his eyes met hers, they suddenly took on a wonderful
softness, that quaint look--half-whimsical, half appealing--came back to
them and with it too a look of infinite pity and of unswerving love; and
as she caught the glance--she who felt so lonely and so desolate--there
came to her mind the remembrance of the sweet and pathetic story of the
primeval woman who was driven forth by God's angel from the gates of
Paradise. Somehow she felt that once--not so very long ago--she too had
wandered for a brief while within the peaceful glades of a Paradise of
her own, and that now an angel with a flaming sword stood at its gates
and would not allow her to return, but forced her to wander out through
life in utter loneliness and with the unbearable load of agonising
remorse.
II
Of all the episodes which the historical records of the time present to
the imagination, not one perhaps is quite so moving and so inspiring as
that of the solemn Mass which was offered up in every church of the
stricken city on this Sunday morning--the feast of the Holy
Redeemer--when the Duke of Alva and the members of his odious Blood
Council knelt side by side with the heroic men who were making their
last desperate stand for justice, for liberty and the sanctity of their
homes.
The Lieutenant-Governor and the Spanish high dignitaries, both civil and
military, are present in the Cathedral of St. Baafs, as are also the
Orangist leaders. The Spaniards occupy one side of the aisle, the
Flemings, with the women and children, are on the other, and crowd every
corner of the stately edifice. Up at the high altar, Father van der
Schlicht is officiating with others of the cathedral clergy, and the
pure voices of the choir boys resound through the building like the call
of the angels of peace.
The fabric of the exquisite building bears traces of that awful fate
which an abominable tyranny was reserving for the entire city. The
walls themselves stand, but in places they are torn by large fissures,
which look like gaping wounds in the flesh of a giant. Reverend hands
have hastily swept aside the debris of glass and masonry, the fragments
of stone statues and scraps of iron and wood; but here and there the
head of an angel, the clasped hands of a saint or palm of a martyr,
still litter the floor; the slender columns of the aisle have taken on a
curious rusty tint, and over the screen the apostles of carved wood are
black with smoke.
There are two large holes in the roof, through which the bleak October
breeze comes sighing in, and the sweet smell of stale incense which
usually hangs about the place of worship has yielded to the pungent
odour of charred wood and of singed draperies.
On the Flemish side a dull tone of colour prevails, browns and russets
and dull reds--many women have wrapped black hoods over their heads, and
long, black mantles hang from their shoulders; but on the other side the
fantastic garb of the Spanish halberdiers throws a note of trenchant
yellow right through the sombre tint of the picture: and the white ruffs
round the men's necks gleam like pale stars upon the canvas. And over
it all the light through the broken window falls crude and grey. Only
the chancel glows with a warm light, and Father van der Schlicht's
vestments of crimson silk, the gilt candlesticks upon the high altar,
the flickering yellow flames of the candles, the red cassocks of the
young servers, all form a kaleidoscope of brilliant colours which is
almost dazzling, whilst up above, the banners and coats-of-arms of the
Knights of the Golden Fleece still flaunt their rich heraldic tints
against the dark vaulting of the roof, and above the high altar the
figure of the Redeemer with arms stretched out to bless, seems to mock
by its exquisite pathos and peace the hideous strifes of men.
The church is crowded from end to end: Flemings and Walloons and
Spaniards, the tyrants and the oppressed, all kneel together, while
Father van der Schlicht up at the altar softly murmurs the Confiteor:
some have rough linen bandages round their head or arm; some have ugly
stains upon their doublet or hose; others--unable to stand or lean--lie
half prone upon the ground, supported by their comrades. The Duke of
Alva holds his head erect, and senor de Vargas bows his down until it
well-nigh touches the ground: most of the women are crying, some of them
faint and have to be carried away. The Spaniards are more demonstrative
in their devotions than are the Netherlanders, they strike their breasts
at the Confiteor, with wide, ostentatious gestures, and need much elbow
room when they make the sign of the Cross.
At the reading of the Gospel every one stands, and men, women and
children solemnly make profession of that Faith of Love and Goodwill
which the events of the past two days have so wantonly outraged.
Lenora from where she stands can see her husband's head--with its
closely-cropped brown hair--towering above the rest of the crowd. He
does not look to right or left of him, but gazes fixedly upon the altar;
Lenora can see his lips moving as he recites the Creed, and to her
straining senses it seems as if right through the murmurings of all
these people she can distinguish his voice amongst all the others, and
that it strikes against her heart with sweet persistence of
unforgettable memories.
And suddenly the high altar with the figure of the Redeemer fades from
her sight; the crowds vanish, the priest disappears, the voices of the
choir boys are stilled. She is back once more in the small _tapperij_
of the inn at Dendermonde, sitting beside the hearth with Mark--her
husband--half kneeling, half sitting close to her--she lives again those
few moments of dreamlike peace and joy when he lulled her with gentle
words and tender glances which had shown her the first glimpse of what
human happiness might be--and she lives again the moment when she stood
in that same room with his wounded arm in her hand, and realised that he
was the cowardly assassin who had struck Ramon down in the dark.
God in Heaven! was not her hatred of him justified? Even at the foot of
this altar, where all should be peace and goodwill, had she not the
right to hate this one man who had murdered Ramon, who had fooled and
cajoled her, and used her as an insentient tool for his own ends, his
own amusement? Her father had told her that she would see him hanged,
and that his death would be her work under the guidance of God. Not one
moment of the past would she undo, and she regretted nothing save the
moments of weakness which came over her whenever she met his glance. He
was the leader of these abominable rebels--a leader every inch of him,
that she could see--but yet a murderer for all that, and the deadly
enemy of her country and her King.
God had had His will with her, and now He was dealing punishment with
equal justice to all; and Lenora standing there, shivering under the
cold draught which came on her from the shattered roof, yet inwardly
burning with a fever of regret and of longing, marvelled, if among the
thousands that would suffer through God's retributive justice, any one
would endure the martyrdom which she was suffering now.
III
Later on, during the noonday rest, Lenora sat in her room in the
Meeste-Toren and tried to visualise once more all that she had lived
through in the past hour--her meeting with Mark when she went through
the Orangist lines with her father--the crowded church, the sombre
colours, the pathetic aspect of broken statuary and holy images charred
and shattered--the return to the Kasteel in silence--the outline of
Mark's profile above the crowd--Mark! always Mark! If only she could
forget!
The air in the narrow room felt stuffy and oppressive: she ordered Grete
to open the window. It gave on the same iron balcony to which the
council chamber and the apartments of the Duke of Alva had access; but
as it was high up in the wall and very small, she could sit quite close
beside it and yet not be seen by any one who might be walking on the
balcony. Lenora's head ached intolerably, and Grete, always kind and
anxious, took down the wavy masses of fair hair and brushed them gently,
so as to soothe the quivering nerves.
A strange hush hung in the air--the hush of a Sunday afternoon when a
big and peaceful city is at rest--a hush in strange and almost weird
contrast to the din which had shaken up the very atmosphere during the
past two days. Only from the castle-yard down below there comes the sad
sound of groans and sighs of pain, and an occasional call for "donna
Lenora!" with the cool, soft hands and the gentle voice, the ministering
angel of goodness and consolation.
"Grete," queried Lenora abruptly, "dost love me truly?"
"With my whole heart, noble lady," replied the child simply.
"Then, if thou lovest me, didst pray at Mass this morning for the
success of our cause and the confusion of those abominable rebels?"
Grete made no reply, and anon a low, suppressed sob caused Lenora to
say, not unkindly:
"Thy heart is with the rebels, Grete."
"I know most of their leaders, noble lady," murmured the girl, through
her tears. "They are brave, fine men. When I think of those who surely
must die after this, I feel as if my heart must break with sorrow and
with pity."
"Didst know them well?"
"Aye, noble lady. They used to come to the 'Three Weavers.'"
"The 'Three Weavers,' Grete?"
"Aye! my father kept the tavern, here in Ghent.... The noble seigniors
of the city and the Spanish officers of the garrison all used to come to
us in the afternoons.... Messire Jan van Migrode, the Chief Sheriff,
Messire Lievin van Deynse and the seigneur de Beauvoir, they all came
regularly. And ... and Messire Mark van Rycke," she added under her
breath, "him they call Leatherface."
"My husband, Grete," murmured Lenora.
"I know it, noble lady."
"Didst know then that Messire Mark van Rycke was Leatherface?"
"Not till yesterday, noble lady ... not till the men spoke of it and
said that the mysterious Leatherface was the leader of the rebels ...
and that he was the son of the High-Bailiff of Ghent, Messire Mark van
Rycke...."
"Thou didst know him, too, then as Leatherface?"
"Aye, noble lady," said Grete quietly, "he saved my life and my
sister's. I would give mine to save him now."
"Saved thy life? How? When?"
"Only a few days ago, noble lady," murmured the child, speaking with a
great effort at self-control. The recollection of that awful night
brought fresh terror to her heart.
But Lenora's brows contracted now in puzzlement. A few days ago? Mark
was courting her then....
"I do not understand," she said impatiently, "a few days ago Leatherface
... Messire Mark van Rycke ... was in Ghent ... I was betrothed to him
on the seventh day of this month...."
"And 'tis on that night he saved my life ... and Katrine's ... aye! and
saved us from worse than death...."
She paused abruptly; her round, young cheeks lost their last vestige of
colour, her eyes their clear, childlike look. She cast a quick, furtive
glance on Lenora as if she were, afraid. But Lenora was unconscious of
this change in the girl's manner, her very senses seemed to be on the
alert, hanging upon the peasant girl's lips.... The night of her
betrothal was the night on which Ramon was murdered ... the tavern of
the "Three Weavers" was the place where he was found. This girl then
knew something of that awesome occurrence, which, despite outside
assurances, had remained vaguely puzzling to Lenora's mind. Now she
would hear and know, and her very heart seemed to stand still as her
mind appeared to be waiting upon the threshold of a mystery which was
interwoven with her whole life, and with her every hope of peace.
"But what?" she queried with agonised impatience. "Speak, girl! Canst
not see that I only live to hear?"
"Our father was taken," said Grete quietly, "he was hanged eight days
ago."
"Hanged?" exclaimed Lenora, horror-struck. "Why? What had he done?"
"He was of the Protestant faith ... and..."
Lenora made no comment, and the girl wiped her eyes, which had filled
with tears.
"Thou and Katrine were spared?" asked Lenora, after awhile.
"We were spared at the time," said Grete, "but I suppose," she added
with quaint philosophy, "we remained objects of suspicion. The soldiers
would often be very rough with us, and upon the seventh day of October
the commanding Spanish officer in Ghent..."
Once more she paused timidly, fear of having said too much, fighting
with the childish love to retail her woes, and pour her interesting
story into sympathetic ears.
"Well?" queried Lenora, more impatiently, "go on, child. What did the
commanding Spanish officer in Ghent do to thee on the seventh day of
October?"
But at this Grete burst into a flood of tears. The events were so
recent, and the shock of horror and of fear had been so terrible at the
time, that the recollection of it all still had the power to unnerve
her. Lenora, whose own nerves were cruelly on the rack at this moment,
had much ado to keep her impatience in check. After a few moments Grete
became more calm, and dried her eyes.
"There was a big to-do at the Town House," she said more quietly, "and
the whole city was gaily decorated. The apprentices had a holiday in the
evening. They were very hilarious, and so were the soldiers."
"Well? And--"
"The soldiers came to the 'Three Weavers.' They had been drinking
heavily, and were very rough. The commanding Spanish officer came in
late in the evening.... He encouraged the soldiers to drink, and to ...
to make fun of us ... of Katrine and of me.... We were all alone in the
house, and we were very frightened. The Spanish officer ordered Katrine
to wait on the soldiers, then he made me go with him to a private
room...."
The tears were once more very near the surface, and a hot blush of shame
for all that she had had to endure overspread Grete's face and neck.
"Go on, child," queried Lenora. "What happened after that?"
"The Spanish officer was very cruel to me, noble lady. I think he would
have killed me, and I am sure the soldiers were very cruel to
Katrine.... Oh! it was horrible! horrible!" she cried, "and we were
quite alone and helpless...."
"Yes. I know that," said Lenora, and even to herself her own voice
sounded curiously dull and toneless; "but tell me what happened."
"I was crouching in a corner of the room, noble lady. My back ached
terribly, for I had been thrown across the table, and I thought my spine
must be broken--my wrists, too, were very painful where the noble
officer had held them so tightly. I was half wild with terror, for I
did not know what would become of me. Then the door opened, and a man
came in. Oh! I was dreadfully frightened. He was very tall and very
thin, like a dark wraith, and over his face he had a mask. And he spoke
kindly to me--and after awhile I was less frightened--and then he told
me just what to do, how to find Katrine, to take some money and run away
to our kinswoman who lives in Dendermonde. I thought then that he was no
wraith..." continued Grete in an awestruck whisper, "but just one of the
archangels. For they do appear in curious disguises sometimes ... he
saved my life and Katrine's, and more than life, noble lady," added the
girl with a note of dignity in her tone, which sat quaintly upon her
timid little person, "do you not think that it was God who sent him to
protect two innocent girls from the cruelty of those wicked men?"
"Yes; I think so, child," said Lenora quietly. "But, tell me, dost know
what happened after that?"
"No, lady, I do not. I went to look for Katrine, just as the stranger
ordered me to do. But," she added under her breath, and still under the
spell of past terrors, "we heard afterwards through Pierre Beauters, the
butcher, that the noble seignior commandant was found killed that same
night in the tavern of the 'Three Weavers.' The provost found him lying
dead in the same room where the archangel had appeared."
"Stabbed, child, didst thou say?"
"No, noble lady. The provost told Pierre Beauters that the noble
Spanish commandant had been felled by mighty hands in a hand-to-hand
fight; he had no wound on him, only the marks of powerful fingers round
his throat. But his own dagger, they say, was covered in blood. Pierre
Beauters helped to place the body in the coffin, and he said that the
noble Spanish commandant had been killed in fair fight--a fight with
fists, and not with swords. He also said that the stranger who killed
him was the mysterious Leatherface, of whom we hear so much, and that,
mayhap, we should never hear of him again, for the Spanish commandant
must have wounded him to death ... the dagger was covered with blood
almost to the hilt. But," concluded Grete, with a knowing little nod of
the head, "this I did not believe at the time, and now I know that it
was not so; the stranger may not have been one of the archangels, but
truly he was a messenger of God. When the noble lady brought me back
with her to Ghent I heard the men talking about the mysterious
Leatherface. Then the day before yesterday when the cavalrymen flew
helter-skelter into the castle-yard, they still talked loudly of
Leatherface; but I guessed then that he was not a real archangel, but
just a brave man who protects the weak, and fights for justice, and..."
She paused, terrified at what she had said. Ignorant as she was, she
knew well enough that the few last words which she had uttered had
caused men and women to be burned at the stake before now. Wide-eyed
and full of fear she looked on the noble Spanish lady, expecting every
moment to see a commanding finger pointed on her, and orders given for
her immediate arrest.
Instead of which she saw before her a pale, slim girl scarce older than
herself, and infinitely more pathetic, just a young and beautiful woman
with pale face and eyes swimming in tears, whose whole attitude just
expressed an immense and overwhelming grief.
The veil of mystery which had hung over Ramon's death had indeed been
lifted at last by the rough, uncouth hands of the innkeeper's daughter.
Lenora as yet hardly dared to look into the vista which it opened up
before her: boundless remorse, utter hopelessness, the dreary sense of
the irreparable--all that lay beyond the present stunning blow of this
terrible revelation.
God in Heaven! she cried out mutely in her misery, how could she ever
have thought--even for a moment--that those grey eyes, so merry and yet
so tender--could mask a treacherous and cowardly soul? How could she
think that those lips which so earnestly pleaded for a kiss could ever
have been framed to hide a lying tongue? Would to God that she could
still persuade herself that all this new revelation was a dream; that
Grete--the unsophisticated child--had lied and concocted the whole story
to further some hidden schemes of her own! Would to God she could still
believe that Mark was vile and false--an assassin and a perjurer--and
that she could hate him still!
She met Grete's eyes fixed so fearfully upon hers--she met them at the
moment when she was about to give herself over to the transient
happiness of a brief day-dream ... dreams of two unforgettable hours
when he sat beside her with his hand shading his face ... his eyes
resting upon her ... dreams of his voice when he said: "When I look at
you, Madonna, I invariably think of happiness."
IV
But Grete recalled her to herself, and to the awful present. Despite
her great respect for the noble Spanish lady, she suddenly put her arms
round her shoulders, and tried to draw her away from the open window.
"His Highness!" she whispered hurriedly, "he will see us."
"What matters, child," murmured Lenora, "he will not harm us."
Instinctively, however, she did yield to Grete's insistence and drew
back slightly from the window. From the balcony down below there came
the sound of measured tramping. Two or three men were walking there
slowly up and down and talking confidentially together while they
walked. Whenever they were close to the window their voices came up
quite distinctly, but it was impossible to hear all that they said, but
one or two disjointed sentences gave a faint clue to the subject of
their conversation. Lenora now leaned closer to the window-frame trying
to hear, for she had recognised her father's voice as well as that of
the Duke of Alva, and they were speaking of their future plans against
the rebels and against the city, and Lenora felt that she would give her
life to know what those plans were.
After a moment or two she heard the voice of Captain de Avila; he was
apparently coming up the iron stairs from the yard and was speaking
hurriedly:
"A runner, your Highness," he said, "straight from Dendermonde."
"What news?" queried the Duke, and his voice sounded almost choked as if
with fierce impatience.
"One of Captain Lodrono's messengers reached Dendermonde last night,"
replied de Avila, "he was lucky enough to get a horse almost at once."
"Well...? and...?"
"This man came running straight back to bring us the news! Captain
Bracamonte started at break of day: he should be well on his way with
the reinforcements by now."
There was a hoarse exclamation of satisfaction and a confused murmur of
voices for a moment or two. Then de Vargas spoke:
"It was a bold venture, Monseigneur," he said.
"This truce, you mean?" retorted Alva. "Well! not quite so bold as it
appeared. Those Netherlanders are such mighty fools that it is always
easy to make them believe anything that we choose to tell them: do they
not always fall into our traps? I had only to swear by my immortal soul
that we had not sent for reinforcements and the last of their resistance
was overcome."
Lenora could hear her father's harsh laugh after this and then del Rio
said blandly:
"Van Rycke did not believe in that oath."
"Perhaps not at first," Alva said, "but it was so finely worded and
spoken with such solemnity, it was bound to carry conviction in the
end."
"You were not afraid, Monseigneur," queried de Vargas, "this morning ...
in the crowd ... after Mass ... that the rebels would break the truce
and fall upon our men?"
"No," replied the Duke curtly, "were you?"
There came no answer from de Vargas, and to the listeners it seemed as
if by his silence he was admitting that he did not believe the Orangists
capable of such abominable treachery. A fine tribute that--Lenora
thought--from her father who hated and despised the Netherlanders! But
he and Alva would even now call such loyalty and truth the mere
stupidity of uncultured clowns.
"Anyhow it was worth the risk," de Vargas resumed after awhile, with
that cold cynicism which will sacrifice friends, adherents, kindred for
the furtherance of political aims.
"Well worth the risk," asserted Alva, "we have gained the whole of
to-day. If these rebels had rushed the Kasteel this morning, I verily
believe that we could not have held it: I might have fallen into their
hands and--with me as their hostage--they would by now have been in a
position to dictate their own terms before reinforcements reached
us--always supposing that they did not murder us all. Yes," he
reiterated with obvious satisfaction, "even if treachery had been in the
air it was still well worth the risk."
"And in the meanwhile..." suggested del Rio.
"In the meanwhile Bracamonte is on his way here.... He must have started
well before noon ... he might be here before nightfall...."
"With at least five thousand men, I hope," added de Vargas.
"Night may see us masters of this city once more, seigniors," rejoined
Alva, "and by God we'll punish those rebels for the fright they have
given us. Ghent will be envying Mons and Mechlin...."
The three men walked slowly away after that, and their voices were lost
in the distance. The listeners could no longer distinguish what was
said, but anon a harsh laugh struck their ear, and leaning out of the
window Lenora could see the Duke and her father standing just outside
the council-chamber. The Duke had thrown back his head and was laughing
heartily, de Vargas too looked highly amused. Not one single word of
remorse or regret had been spoken by either of them for the blasphemous
oath which had finally overcome the resistance of the Orangists: of a
truth it did not weigh on the conscience of the man who had so wantonly
outraged his Maker less than an hour before he knelt at the foot of His
Altar, and de Vargas and his kind were only too ready to benefit by the
perjury.
The sack of Ghent--jeopardised for a few hours--was once more looming
ahead as a coveted prize. What was a false oath or so--one crime the
more--when weighed in the balance with all the money and treasure which
the unexpected resistance of a few Flemish clowns had so nearly wrenched
from these noble Spaniards' grasp?
V
"Didst hear?" came in a smothered whisper from Lenora. She had turned
suddenly and now faced Grete, who stood wide-eyed and terrified in the
centre of the room. Her arms were behind her, and she clung to the
window-ledge: her fair hair--all loose--streamed round her shoulders;
pale, with glowing eyes and quivering lips, she looked like some
beautiful feline creature at bay.
"Didst hear?" she reiterated hoarsely.
"Every word, most noble lady," came the whispered response.
"What didst make of it?"
"That His Highness sent to Dendermonde for help, and that troops are on
their way."
"But His Highness swore most solemnly that he would respect the truce
which he himself asked for, and that both sides would resume the fight
... this evening ... just as they were before ... without fresh help or
reinforcements."
"I heard the men say last night, noble lady, that reinforcements had
already been sent for from Dendermonde ... the Duke feared that the
Netherlanders were getting the upper hand ... he asked for the truce
only to gain time...."
"Then ... if Captain Bracamonte arrives from Dendermonde with fresh
troops the Netherlanders are lost!"
"God guard them," said Grete fervently. "He alone can save them now."
"Oh!" cried Lenora with sudden passionate bitterness, "how can men
conceive such abominable treachery? How can God allow them to triumph?"
Grete said nothing. Her eyes were full of tears. Lenora stared
straight out before her into the dark corner of the room: there was a
frown of deep thought between her brows, and her fresh young mouth
became hard and set.
"Grete," she said abruptly, "is it not horrible to think that those we
care for are liars and traitors?"
Then, as Grete made no reply, she continued with the same passionate
vehemence: "Is it not horrible to think that brave men must be butchered
like cattle, because they trusted in the oath of a perjurer? ... Oh!
that all the baseness, all the lying should be on one side and all the
heroism on the other! and that God should allow those monsters to
triumph!..."
She paused and suddenly her whole expression changed--the vehemence, the
passion went out of it ... her lips ceased to quiver, a curious pallor
overspread her cheeks and the lines of her mouth became hard and set.
"Grete," she said abruptly, "art afraid?"
"Of what, noble lady?" asked the child.
"Oh! of everything ... of insults and violence and death?"
"No, noble lady," said Grete simply. "I trust to God to protect me."
"Then wilt come with me?"
"Whither, noble lady?"
"Into the city ... alone with me ... we'll pretend that we go to
Benediction...."
"Into the city...?" exclaimed the girl. "Alone?"
"Art afraid?"
"No."
"Then put up my hair and get hood and cloak and give me mine...."
Grete did as she was ordered. She pinned up Lenora's fair hair and
brought her a mantle and hood and wrapped them round her: then she
fastened on her own.
"Come!" said Lenora curtly.
She took the girl by the hand and together the two women went out of the
room. Their way led them through endless corridors and down a long,
winding staircase; hand in hand they ran like furtive little animals on
the watch for the human enemy. Down below the big flagged hall was full
of soldiers: the two women only realised this when they reached the last
landing.
"Will they let us pass?" murmured Grete.
"Walk beside me and hold thy head boldly," said Lenora, "they must not
think that we are afraid of being challenged."
She walked down the last flight of the stairs with slow majestic steps:
her arms folded beneath her cloak, looking straight ahead of her with
that air of calm detachment and contempt of others which the Spanish
_noblesse_ knew so well how to assume.
Captain de Avila was below: at sight of donna Lenora he came forward and
said with absolute respect:
"La senora desires to go out?"
"As you see," she replied haughtily.
"Not further than the precincts of the Kasteel, I hope."
"What is that to you, whither I go?" she queried.
"My orders..." he stammered, somewhat taken aback by this grand manner
on the part of the senora who had always been so meek and silent
hitherto.
"What orders have you had, seigneur capitaine?" she queried, "which
warrant your interference with my movements?"
"I ... truly..." he murmured, "senor de Vargas..."
"My father, I presume, has not given you the right to question my
freedom to go and come as I please," she retorted, still with the same
uncompromising hauteur.
"No ... but..."
"Then I pray you let me pass.... I hear the bells of St. Pharailde ...
I shall be late for Benediction...."
She swept past him, leaving him not a little bewildered and completely
abashed. He watched her tall, graceful figure as she sailed through the
portico and thence across the castle-yard, then he shrugged his
shoulders as if to cast aside any feeling of responsibility which
threatened to worry him, and returned to the guard-room and to his game
of hazard. It was only then that he recollected that it lacked another
two hours to Benediction yet.
In the yard Lenora had more serious misgivings.
"There's the guard at the gate-house," she murmured. "Keep up thy look
of unconcern, Grete. We can only win if we are bold."
As she anticipated the provost at the gate-house challenged her.
"I go to St. Pharailde," she said calmly, "my father is with me. He
hath stopped to speak with Captain de Avila. Lower the bridge, provost,
and let us pass. We are late enough for Benediction as it is."
The provost hesitated for a moment.
"The seigneur capitaine sent me orders just now that no one was to leave
the Kasteel," he said.
"Am I under the seigneur capitaine's orders," she retorted, "or the
daughter of senor de Vargas, who will punish thee, sirrah, for thine
insolence?"
The provost, much disturbed in his mind, had not the courage to run
counter to the noble lady's wish. He had had no orders with regard to
her, and as she very rightly said, she was not under the orders of the
seigneur capitaine.
He ordered the bridge to be lowered for her, vaguely intending not to
let her pass until he assured himself that senor de Vargas was nigh: but
Lenora gave him no time for reflection: she waited until the bridge was
down, then suddenly she seized Grete's hand and quick as a young hare
she darted past the provost and the guard before they thought of laying
hands on her, and she was across the bridge before they had recovered
from their surprise.
Once on the open ground Lenora drew breath. The provost and the guard
could not very well run after her, and for the moment she was safe from
pursuit. On ahead lay the sharp bend of the Lower Schelde, beyond it
the ruined mass of the Vleeshhuis, and the row of houses, now all
shattered to pieces, where the Orangists held their watch. Her heart was
beating furiously, and she felt Grete's rough little hand quivering in
hers. She felt such a tiny atom, a mere speck in this wide open space.
In front of her was the city, which seemed even in the silence of this
Sunday afternoon to be quivering in the throes of oncoming death: to
right and left of her the great tract of flat country, this land of
Belgium which she had not yet learned to love but for which she now felt
a wonderful pity.
It was a rude lesson which she had been made to learn within the last
hour: the lesson that the idols of her childhood and girlhood had not
only feet of clay but that they were steeped to the neck in the mire of
falsehoods and treachery: she had also learned that the man whom she had
once hated with such passionate bitterness was worthy of a pure woman's
love: that happiness had knocked at the gateway of her own heart and
been refused admittance: and that God was not wont to give very obvious
guidance in the terrible perplexities which at times beset His
creatures.
Therefore now she no longer lured herself with the belief that she was
acting at this moment under the direct will of God, she knew that she
was guided by an overmastering and blind instinct which told her that
she must see Mark--at once--and warn him that the perfidy of the Duke of
Alva had set a deathly trap for him and for his friends.
A few more minutes and she and Grete were over the Ketel Brueghe and
under the shadow of the tall houses on the river embankment beyond.
"Take me!" she said to Grete peremptorily, "to the house of the
High-Bailiff of Ghent."