Adrian’s activity for this night was not yet over, for his father did
not prevent his accompanying him to the town-hall. There he directed him
to tell his mother, that he should be busy until morning and the servant
might send all persons, who desired to speak to him after one o’clock,
to the timber-market on the Rhine. Maria sent the boy back to the
town-hall, to ask his father if he did not want his cloak, wine, a lunch
or anything of the sort.
The boy fulfilled this commission with great zeal, for he never had
felt so important as while forcing his way through the crowds that
had gathered in the narrower streets; he had a duty to perform, and
at night, the time when other boys were asleep, especially his
school-mates, who certainly would not be allowed to leave the house now.
Besides, an eventful period, full of the beating of drums, the blare of
trumpets, the rattle of musketry and roar of cannon might be expected.
It seemed as if the game “Holland against Spain” was to be continued in
earnest, and on a grand scale. All the vivacity of his years seized
upon him, and when he had forced a way with his elbows to less crowded
places, he dashed hurriedly along, shouting as merrily as if spreading
some joyful news in the darkness:
“They are coming!” “the Spaniards!” or “Hannibal ante portas.”
After learning on his return to the town-hall, that his father wanted
nothing and would send a constable if there was need of anything, he
considered his errand done and felt entitled to satisfy his curiosity.
This drew him first to the English riders. The tent where they had given
their performances had disappeared from the earth, and screaming men
and women were rolling up large pieces of canvas, fastening packs,
and swearing while they harnessed horses. The gloomy light of torches
mingled with the moonbeams and showed him on the narrow steps, that led
to a large four-wheeled cart, a little girl in shabby clothes, weeping
bitterly. Could this be the rosy-cheeked angel who, floating along on
the snow-white pony, had seemed to him like a happy creature from more
beautiful worlds? A scolding old woman now lifted the child into the
cart, but he followed the crowd and saw Doctor Morpurgo, no longer clad
in scarlet, but in plain dark cloth, mounted on a lean horse, riding
beside his cart. The negro was furiously urging the mule forward, but
his master seemed to have remained in full possession of the calmness
peculiar to him. His wares were of small value, and the Spaniards had
no reason to take his head and tongue, by which he gained more than he
needed.
Adrian followed him to the long row of booths in the wide street, and
there saw things, which put an end to his thoughtlessness and made him
realize, that the point in question now concerned serious, heart-rending
matters. He had still been able to laugh as he saw the ginger-bread
bakers and cotton-sellers fighting hand to hand, because in the first
fright they had tossed their packages of wares hap-hazard into each
other’s open chests, and were now unable to separate their property;
but he felt sincerely sorry for the Delft crockery-dealer on the corner,
whose light booth had been demolished by a large wagon from Gouda,
loaded with bales, and who now stood beside her broken wares, by means
of which she supported herself and children, wringing her hands, while
the driver, taking no notice of her, urged on his horses with loud
cracks of his whip. A little girl, who had lost her parents and was
being carried away by a compassionate burgher woman, was weeping
piteously. A poor rope-dancer, who had been robbed by a thief in the
crowd, of the little tin box containing the pennies he had collected,
was running about, ringing his hands and looking for the watchman.
A shoemaker was pounding riding-boots and women’s shoes in motley
confusion into a wooden chest with rope handles, while his wife, instead
of helping him, tore her hair and shrieked: “I told you so, you fool,
you simpleton, you blockhead! They’ll come and rob us of everything.”
At the entrance of the street that led past the Assendelft house to the
Leibfrau Bridge, several loaded wagons had become entangled, and the
drivers, instead of getting down and procuring help, struck at each
other in their terror, hitting the women and children seated among the
bales. Their cries and shrieks echoed a long distance, but were destined
to be drowned, for a dancing-bear had broken loose and was putting every
one near him to flight. The people, who were frightened by the beast,
rushed down the street, screaming and yelling, dragging with them others
who did not know the cause of the alarm, and misled by the most imminent
fear, roared: “The Spaniards! The Spaniards!” Whatever came in the
way of the terrified throngs was overthrown. A sieve-dealer’s child,
standing beside its father’s upset cart, fell beneath the mob close
beside Adrian, who had stationed himself in the door-way of a house. But
the lad was crowded so closely into his hiding-place, that he could not
spring to the little one’s aid, and his attention was attracted to a
new sight, as Janus Dousa appeared on horseback. In answer to the cry
of “The Spaniards! The Spaniards!” he shouted loudly: “Quiet, people,
quiet! The enemy hasn’t come yet! To the Rhine! Vessels are waiting
there for all strangers. To the Rhine! There are no Spaniards there, do
you hear, no Spaniards!”
The nobleman stopped just before Adrian, for his horse could go no
farther and stood snorting and trembling under his rider. The advice
bore little fruit, and not until hundreds had rushed past him, did the
frightened crowd diminish. The bear, from which they fled, had been
caught by a brewer’s apprentice and taken back to its owner long before.
The city constables now appeared, led by Adrian’s father, and the boy
followed them unobserved to the timber-market on the southern bank of
the Rhine. There another crowd met him, for many dealers had hurried
thither to save their property in the ships. Men and women pressed past
bales and wares, that were being rolled down the narrow wooden bridges
to the vessels. A woman, a child, and a rope-maker’s cart had been
pushed into the water, and the wildest confusion prevailed around the
spot. But the burgomaster reached the place just at the right time,
gave directions for rescuing the drowning people, and then made every
exertion to bring order out of the confusion.
The constables were commanded to admit fugitives only on board the
vessels bound for the places where they belonged; two planks were laid
to every ship, One for goods, the other for passengers; the constables
loudly shouted that--as the law directed when the alarm-bell rang--all
citizens of Leyden must enter their houses and the streets be cleared,
on pain of a heavy penalty. All the city gates were opened for the
passage of wheeled vehicles, except the Hohenort Gate, which led to
Leyderdorp, where egress was refused. Thus the crowd in the streets
was lessened, order appeared amid the tumult, and when, in the dawn of
morning, Adrian turned his steps towards home, there was little more
bustle in the streets than on ordinary nights.
His mother and Barbara had been anxious, but he told them about his
father and in what manner he had put a stop to the confusion.
While talking, the rattle of musketry was heard in the distance, awaking
such excitement in Adrian’s mind, that he wanted to rush out again; but
his mother stopped him and he was obliged to mount the stairs to his
room. He did not go to sleep, but climbed to the upper loft in the gable
of the rear building and gazed through the window, to which the bales of
leather were raised by pulleys, towards the east, from whence the sound
of firing was still audible. But he saw nothing except the dawn and
light clouds of smoke, that assumed a rosy hue as they floated upward.
As nothing new appeared, his eyes closed, and he fell asleep beside the
open window where he dreamed of a bloody battle and the English riders.
His slumber was so sound, that he did not hear the rumble of wheels in
the quiet courtyard below him. The carts from which the noise proceeded
belonged to traders from neighboring cities, who preferred to leave
their goods in the threatened town, rather than carry them towards the
advancing Spaniards. Meister Peter had allowed some of them to store
their property with him. The carts were obliged to pass through the
back-building with the workshops, and the goods liable to be injured
by the weather, were to be placed in the course of the day in the large
garrets of his house.
The burgomaster’s wife had gone to Henrica at midnight to soothe her
fears, but the sick girl seemed free from all anxiety, and when she
heard that the Spaniards were on the march, her eyes sparkled joyously.
Maria noticed it and turned away from her guest, but she repressed the
harsh words that sprang to her lips, wished her good-night, and left the
chamber.
Henrica gazed thoughtfully after her and then rose, for no sleep was
possible that night. The alarm-bell in the Tower of Pancratius rang
incessantly, and more than once doors opened, voices and shots were
heard. Many tones and noises, whose origin and nature she could not
understand, reached her ears, and when morning dawned, the court-yard
under her windows, usually so quiet, was full of bustle. Carts rattled,
loud tones mingled excitedly, and a deep masculine voice seemed to be
directing what was going on. Her curiosity and restlessness increased
every moment. She listened so intently that her head began to ache
again, but could hear only separate words and those very indistinctly.
Had the city been surrendered to the Spaniards, had King Philip’s
soldiers found quarters in the burgomaster’s house? Her blood boiled
indignantly, when she thought of the Castilians’ triumph and the
humiliation of her native land, but soon her former joyous excitement
again filled her mind, as she beheld in imagination art re-enter the
bare walls of the Leyden churches, now robbed of all their ornaments,
chanting processions move through the streets, and priests in rich robes
celebrating mass in the newly-decorated tabernacles, amid beautiful
music, the odor of incense, and the ringing of bells. She expected to
receive from the Spaniards a place where she could pray and free her
soul by confession. Amid her former surroundings nothing had afforded
her any support, except her religion. A worthy priest, who was also her
instructor, had zealously striven to prove to her, that the new religion
threatened to destroy the mystical consecration of life, the yearning
for the beautiful, every ideal emotion of the human soul, and with
them art also; so Henrica preferred to see her native land Spanish
and Catholic, rather than free from the foreigners whom she hated and
Calvinistical.
The court-yard gradually became less noisy, but when the first rays of
morning light streamed into her windows, the bustle again commenced and
grew louder. Heavy soles tramped upon the pavement, and amid the voices
that now mingled with those she had formerly heard, she fancied she
distinguished Maria’s and Barbara’s. Yes, she was not mistaken. That
cry of terror must proceed from her friend’s mouth, and was followed by
exclamations of grief from bearded lips and loud sobs.
Evil tidings must have reached her host’s house, and the woman weeping
so impetuously below was probably kind “Babetta.”
Anxiety drove her from her bed. On the little table beside it, amid
several bottles and glasses, the lamp and the box of matches, stood the
tiny bell, at whose faint sound one of her nurses invariably hastened
in. Henrica rang it three times, then again and again, but nobody
appeared. Then her hot blood boiled, and half from impatience and
vexation, half from curiosity and sympathy, she slipped into her shoes,
threw on a morning dress, went to the chair which stood on the platform
in the niche, opened the window, and looked down at the groups gathered
below.
No one noticed her, for the men who stood there sorrowing, and the
weeping women, among whom were Maria and Barbara, were listening with
many tokens of sympathy to the eager words of a young man, and had eyes
and ears for him alone. Henrica recognized in the speaker the musician
Wilhelm, but only by his voice, for the morion on his curls and the
blood-stained coat of mail gave the unassuming artist a martial, nay
heroic air.
He had advanced a long way in his story, when Henrica unseen became a
listener.
“Yes, sir,” he replied, in answer to a question from the burgomaster,
“we followed them, but they disappeared in the village and all remained
still. To risk storming the houses, would have been madness. So we
kept quiet, but towards two o’clock heard firing in the neighborhood
of Leyderdorp. ‘Junker von Warmond has made a sally,’ said the captain,
leading us in the direction of the firing. This was what the Spaniards
had wanted, for long before we reached the goal, a company of
Castilians, with white sheets over their armor, climbed out of a
ditch in the dim light, threw themselves on their knees, murmured a
‘Pater-noster,’ shouted their San Jago and pressed forward upon us. We
had seen them in time for the halberdiers to extend their pikes, and
the musketeers to be down amid the grass. So the Spaniards had a warm
reception, and four of them fell in this attack. We were superior in
numbers, and their captain led them back to the ditch in good order.
There they halted, for their duty was probably to detain us and then
have us cut down by a larger body. We were too weak to drive them from
their position, but when the east began to brighten and they still did
not come forward, the captain advanced towards them with the drummer,
bearing a white flag, and shouted to them in Italian, which he had
learned to speak a little in Italy, that he wished the Castilian
gentlemen good-morning, and if there was any officer with a sense of
honor among them, let him come forth and meet a captain who wished to
cross swords with him. He pledged his word, that his men would look on
at the duel without taking any share in it, no matter what the result
might be. Just at that moment two shots were fired from the ditch and
the bullets whizzed close by the poor captain. We called to him to save
his life, but he did not stir, and shouted that they were cowards and
assassins, like their king.
“Meantime it had grown tolerably light--we heard them calling to and
fro from the ditch, and just as Allertssohn was turning away, an officer
sprang into the meadow, exclaiming: ‘Stand, braggart, and draw your
blade.’
“The captain drew his Brescian sword, bowed to his enemy as if he were
in the fencing-school, bent the steel and closed with the Castilian. The
latter was a thin man of stately figure and aristocratic bearing, and
as it soon appeared, a dangerous foe. He circled like a whirlwind, round
the captain with bounds, thrusts and feints, but Allertssohn maintained
his composure, and at first confined himself to skilful parrying. Then
he dealt a magnificent quarte, and when the other parried it, followed
with the tierce, and this being warded off, gave with the speed of
lightning a side-thrust such as only he can deal. The Castilian fell on
his knees, for the Brescian blade had pierced his lungs. His death was
speedy.
“As soon as he lay on the turf, the Spaniards again rushed upon us, but
we repulsed them and took the officer’s body in our midst. Never have I
seen the captain so proud and happy. You, Junker von Warmond, can easily
guess the cause. He had now done honor to his series in a genuine
duel against an enemy of equal rank, and told me this was the happiest
morning of his life. Then he ordered us to march round the ditch and
attack the enemy on the flank. But scarcely had we begun to move, when
the expected troops from Leyderdorp pressed forward, their loud San Jago
resounding far and wide, while at the same time the old enemy rose from
the ditch and attacked us. Allertssohn rushed forward, but did not reach
them--oh, gentlemen! I shall never forget it, a bullet struck him down
at my side. It probably pierced his heart, for he said: nothing but:
‘Remember the boy!’ stretched out his powerful frame and died. We wanted
to bear his body away with us, but were pressed by superior numbers,
and it was hard enough to come within range of Junker von Warmond’s
volunteers. The Spaniards did not venture so far. Here we are. The
Castilian’s body is lying in the tower at the Hohenort Gate. These are
the papers we found in the dead man’s doublet, and this is his ring; he
has a proud escutcheon.”
Peter Van der Werff took the dead man’s letter-case in his hand, looked
through it and said: “His name was Don Luis d’Avila.”
He said no more, for his wife had seen Henrica’s head stretched far out
of the window, and cried loudly in terror: “Fraulein, for Heaven’s sake,
Fraulein--what are you doing?”