The next morning two horsemen, dressed in neat livery, were waiting
before the door of a handsome House in Nobelstrasse, near the
market-place. A third was leading two sturdy roan steeds up and down,
and a stable-boy held by the bridle a gaily-bedizened, long maned pony.
This was intended for the young negro lad, who stood in the door-way
of the house and kept off the street-boys, who ventured to approach, by
rolling his eyes and gnashing his white teeth at them.
“Where can they be?” said one of the mounted men: “The rain won’t keep
off long to-day.”
“Certainly not,” replied the other. “The sky is as grey as my old
felt-hat, and, by the time we reach the forest, it will be pouring.”
“It’s misting already.”
“Such cold, damp weather is particularly disagreeable to me.”
“It was pleasant yesterday.”
“Button the flaps tighter over the pistol-holsters! The portmanteau
behind the young master’s saddle isn’t exactly even. There! Did the cook
fill the flask for you?”
“With brown Spanish wine. There it is.”
“Then let it pour. When a fellow is wet inside, he can bear a great deal
of moisture without.”
“Lead the horses up to the door; I hear the gentlemen.”
The man was not mistaken; for before his companion had succeeded in
stopping the larger roan, the voices of his master, Herr Matanesse Van
Wibisma, and his son, Nicolas, were heard in the wide entry.
Both were exchanging affectionate farewells with a young girl, whose
voice sounded deeper than the halfgrown boy’s.
As the older gentleman thrust his hand through the roan’s mane and was
already lifting his foot to put it in the stirrup, the young girl, who
had remained in the entry, came out into the street, laid her hand on
Wibisma’s arm, and said:
“One word more, uncle, but to you alone.”
The baron still held his horse’s mane in his hand, exclaiming with a
cordial smile:
“If only it isn’t too heavy for the roan. A secret from beautiful lips
has its weight.”
While speaking, he bent his ear towards his niece, but she did not seem
to have intended to whisper, for she approached no nearer and merely
lowered her tone, saying in the Italian language:
“Please tell my father, that I won’t stay here.”
“Why, Henrica!”
“Tell him I won’t do so under any circumstances.”
“Your aunt won’t let you go.”
“In short, I won’t stay.”
“I’ll deliver the message, but in somewhat milder terms, if agreeable to
you.”
“As you choose. Tell him, too, that I beg him to send for me. If he
doesn’t wish to enter this heretic’s nest himself, for which I don’t
blame him in the least, he need only send horses or the carriage for
me.”
“And your reasons?”
“I won’t weight your baggage still more heavily. Go, or the saddle will
be wet before you ride off.”
“Then I’m to tell Hoogstraten to expect a letter.”
“No. Such things can’t be written. Besides, it won’t be necessary. Tell
my father I won’t stay with aunt, and want to go home. Good-bye, Nico.
Your riding-boots and green cloth doublet are much more becoming than
those silk fal-lals.”
The young lady kissed her hand to the youth, who had already swung
himself into the saddle, and hurried back to the house. Her uncle
shrugged his shoulders, mounted the roan, wrapped the dark cloak closer
around him, beckoned Nicolas to his side, and rode on with him in
advance of the servants.
No word was exchanged between them, so long as their way led through the
city, but outside the gate, Wibisma said:
“Henrica finds the time long in Leyden; she would like to go back to her
father.”
“It can’t be very pleasant to stay with aunt,” replied the youth.
“She is old and sick, and her life has been a joyless one.”
“Yet she was beautiful. Few traces of it are visible, but her eyes are
still like those in the portrait, and besides she is so rich.”
“That doesn’t give happiness.”
“But why has she remained unmarried?” The baron shrugged his shoulders,
and replied: “It certainly didn’t suit the men.”
“Then why didn’t she go into a convent?”
“Who knows? Women’s hearts are harder to understand than your Greek
books. You’ll learn that later. What were you saying to your aunt as I
came up?”
“Why, just see,” replied the boy, putting the bridle in his mouth,
and drawing the glove from his left hand, “she slipped this ring on my
finger.”
“A splendid emerald! She doesn’t usually like to part with such things.”
“She first offered me another, saying she would give it to me to make
amends for the thumps I received yesterday as a faithful follower of the
king. Isn’t it comical?”
“More than that, I should think.”
“It was contrary to my nature to accept gifts for my bruises, and I
hastily drew my hand back, saying the burgher lads had taken some home
from me, and I wouldn’t have the ring as a reward for that.”
“Right, Nico, right.”
“So she said too, put the little ring back in the box, found this one,
and here it is.”
“A valuable gem!” murmured the baron, thinking: “This gift is a good
omen. The Hoogstratens and he are her nearest heirs, and if the silly
girl doesn’t stay with her, it might happen--”
But he found no time to finish these reflections, Nicolas interrupted
them by saying:
“It’s beginning to rain already. Don’t the fogs on the meadows look like
clouds fallen from the skies? I am cold.”
“Draw your cloak closer.”
“How it rains and hails! One would think it was winter. The water in the
canals looks black, and yonder--see--what is that?”
A tavern stood beside the road, and just in front of it a single lofty
elm towered towards the sky. Its trunk, bare as a mast, had grown
straight up without separating into branches until it attained the
height of a house. Spring had as yet lured no leaves from the boughs,
but there were many objects to be seen in the bare top of the tree. A
small flag, bearing the colors of the House of Orange, was fastened to
one branch, from another hung a large doll, which at a distance strongly
resembled a man dressed in black, an old hat dangled from a third, and a
fourth supported a piece of white pasteboard, on which might be read in
large black letters, which the rain was already beginning to efface:
“Good luck to Orange, to the Spaniard death.
So Peter Quatgelat welcomes his guests.”
This tree, with its motley adornments, offered a by no means pleasant
spectacle, seen in the grey, cold, misty atmosphere of the rainy April
morning.
Ravens had alighted beside the doll swaying to and fro in the wind,
probably mistaking it for a man. They must have been by no means
teachable birds, for during the years the Spaniards had ruled in
Holland, the places of execution were never empty. They were screeching
as if in anger, but still remained perched on the tree, which they
probably mistook for a gibbet. The rest of the comical ornaments and
the thought of the nimble adventurer, who must have climbed up to fasten
them, formed a glaring and offensive contrast to the caricature of the
gallows.
Yet Nicolas laughed loudly, as he perceived the queer objects in the top
of the elm, and pointing upward, said:
“What kind of fruits are hanging there?”
But the next instant a chill ran down his back, for a raven perched on
the black doll and pecked so fiercely at it with its hard beak, that
bird and image swayed to and fro like a pendulum.
“What does this nonsense mean?” asked the baron, turning to the servant,
a bold-looking fellow, who rode behind him.
“It’s something like a tavern-sign,” replied the latter.
“Yesterday, when the sun was shining, it looked funny enough--but
to-day--b-r-r-r-it’s horrible.”
The nobleman’s eyes were not keen enough to read the inscription on the
placard. When Nicolas read it aloud to him, he muttered an oath, then
turned again to the servant, saying:
“And does this nonsense bring guests to the rascally host’s tavern?”
“Yes, my lord, and ‘pon my soul, it looked very comical yesterday, when
the ravens were not to be seen; a fellow couldn’t look at it without
laughing. Half Leyden was there, and we went with the crowd. There
was such an uproar on the grass-plot yonder. Dudeldum--Hubutt,
Hubutt--Dudeldum--fiddles squeaking and bag-pipes droning as if they
never would stop. The crazy throng shouted amidst the din; the noise
still rings in my ears. There was no end to the games and dancing. The
lads tossed their brown, blue and red-stockinged legs in the air, just
as the fiddle played--the coat-tails flew and, holding a girl clasped
in the right arm and a mug of beer high over their heads till the foam
spattered, the throng of men whirled round and round. There was as much
screaming and rejoicing as if every butter-cup in the grass had been
changed into a gold florin. But to-day--holy Florian--this is a rain!”
“It will do the things up there good,” exclaimed the baron. “The tinder
grows damp in such a torrent, or I’d take out my pistols and shoot the
shabby liberty hat and motley tatters off the tree.”
“That was the dancing ground,” said the man, pointing to a patch of
trampled grass.
“The people are possessed, perfectly possessed,” cried the baron,
“dancing and rejoicing to-day, and tomorrow the wind will blow the
felt-hat and flag from the tree, and instead of the black puppet they
themselves will come to the gallows. Steady roan, steady! The hail
frightens the beasts. Unbuckle the portmanteau, Gerrit, and give your
young master a blanket.”
“Yes, my lord. But wouldn’t it be better for you to go in here until the
shower is over? Holy Florian!
“Just see that piece of ice in your horse’s mane! It’s as large as
a pigeon’s egg. Two horses are already standing under the shed, and
Quatgelat’s beer isn’t bad.” The baron glanced inquiringly at his son.
“Let us go in,” replied Nicolas; “we shall get to the Hague early
enough. See how poor Balthasar is shivering! Henrica says he’s a white
boy painted; but if she could see how well he keeps his color in this
weather, she would take it back.”
Herr Van Wibisma turned his dripping, smoking steed, frightened by
the hail-stones, towards the house, and in a few minutes crossed the
threshold of the inn with his son.