think I have forgotten when I was twelve years old you slapped my ears?
Don’t think I fear you, though! Let that be for your Moorish slave girl
who goes to your dressing closet as to the torture chamber. I heard her
shriek under your scourge the other morning. But don’t dare, with
coward nature, to revenge yourself on her. Beware of me, I hate
cruelty! I am Alva’s daughter!”
At this astounding conjunction Guy bites his lips, fighting down a
smile and Doña de Pariza gives out a half-smothered chuckle.
But the girl steps up to her and cries: “Don’t dare to look as if you
jeered my father’s name; don’t dare to accuse him of cruelty. He has
always been good to me as an angel. I’ll not hear it from your lips—or
YOURS EITHER!” for a little of Guy’s smile has escaped from him, and
she comes walking up to her lover with haughty face, saying: “Remember,
I am a Viceroy’s daughter.”
“Penalty!” laughs Chester.
“Oh yes—oh—oh—I forgot! Yes, my lord!” and making obeisance to him. As
he exacts the forfeit she whispers: “Oh Santos! you are awful—you kiss
me every chance you get.”
At this scene Duenna de Pariza glares astounded, and mutters to
herself: “God be praised, Miss Spitfire has at last found her master!
This worthless, dissipated Guido Amati will make her dance to his
fiddling, I warrant you!” then goes to her chamber, leaving the two
alone, at which they are nothing loath.
Could La Pariza gaze in upon them one moment later she would be even
more astounded, for she would see Colonel Guido Amati giving Miss
Hermoine a little lecture upon the advantages of keeping both temper
and tongue well in hand.
To this the girl listens attentively with downcast eyes in a manner
that rather astonishes but intensely delights Guy, as he has now made
up his mind that there is only one way to gain this lady of his
love—that is to carry her off; and to do that he feels he must dominate
her completely, entirely.
But continuing this lecture a little too long, she suddenly cries:
“Bug-a-boo! Bug-a-boo! Viceroy’s daughter!” and dances up laughing. And
he, pursuing her, to exact penalty; they have a merry race of it about
tables and chairs and over divans, Hermoine gathering up her long court
train and fleeing with dainty feet and agile ankles before him, until
at last he catches her at the third curtained arch of the room, one
whose drapery he has never yet seen raised.
Here she, as he holds her in his arms, grows very serious and whispers:
“Don’t scold me; if you say the word I’ll do penance, my Guido, for
being haughty with you, but not with her. In here I’ll say ten Ave
Marias for you to-night.” Then drawing aside the curtains she shows him
the chapel of the house, illuminated, behind whose burning tapers
stands the picture painted by his dead friend, the masterpiece of
Oliver, and murmurs: “Here is where I pray for you!”
“Yes,” responds Guy, pointing to the lovely Madonna, “I worship at that
same shrine myself.”
“Hush, don’t jest,” answers the girl solemnly. “This is the chapel in
which we will be married.”
This idea puts Chester’s thoughts into a horrible jumble, and he makes
a fearful mistake, over which they have their first real discussion,
for he suggests very deftly the plan of secret marriage.
At this she says haughtily: “Unknown to my father, without his consent,
he who loves me? Never!” and becomes distant to her Guido for four or
five minutes.
But he, deftly withdrawing from the matter, and pleading it is only his
wild love for her, Hermoine forgives him and finally sends him away
very happy, more wildly in love than ever, but now knowing that he has
a very ticklish business before him—to kidnap this young lady and yet
keep her affection.
The interview with the Countess de Pariza shows him that speed is now
vital to his success, and that any long delay in the matter will
probably be fatal to his scheme and perchance his life.
But the girl has her plan of action also and a courier arriving the
next morning with letters from Holland, she claps her hands in glee at
some sudden idea that has entered her vivacious brain and murmurs:
“Papa’s coming. I’ll—I’ll do it! Hurrah! I’ll do it!”
CHAPTER XXI.
“MY LORD OF ALVA!”
Unknowing Doña de Alva’s plans for his welfare, her sweetheart, like
prudent man, goes about getting together the little fortune with which
he intends to begin housekeeping; and next morning in Antwerp remains
on his vessel taking charge of the storage and tallying the bags of
gold that a few hours before belonged to his future father-in-law and
now are his.
These come on board packed securely in wool and done up in the sailors’
bedding, and were it not for their weight, would seem very much like
what they pretend to be; however, they are all handled by Chester’s own
crew, and the heavier the sack the better pleased is the seaman who
carries it. In truth, it is only by the sternest command and
threatening to kill the first one who cheers that Chester keeps the
delight of his tars from becoming evident to the surrounding vessels.
Corker himself brings down the first load.
“Bodé Volcker is as grand a buccaneer as ever walked the plank,”
whispers that mariner as he makes report to Chester. “He would fight to
the death for the gold bags. He’s already given Jamaica twice to old
Mother Sebastian, and it’ll be the devil looking after his own if she
doesn’t die of rum before we get the last sack out of the house. Bodé’s
got cords to tie her with if the worst comes to the worst; her being
without squeal makes the thing neat and easy. No need of gags, just
simply bind her to the bed-posts and she’s fixed.”
All that day the gold comes steadily on board and by the evening, for
the men work very hard, Chester finds he has beneath the cabin floor of
the Esperanza one hundred and seventy-nine bags of gold sealed with
Alva’s arms; and calculating them at twenty thousand crowns each, he
finds he has three million five hundred and eighty thousand crowns.
This tallies exactly with Corker’s counting of the sacks.
Then leaving the men under Niklaas to get out the silver and the chest
of unknown valuables, Martin Corker being kept in charge of the ship,
as the Esperanza with the gold on board is very precious now, Chester
takes boat and passing down the Schelde again arrives at Sandvliet,
eagerly impatient for sight of sweetheart.
In this respect Doña Hermoine seems equally anxious. Apparently on the
lookout for the boat, she runs down with happy eyes to meet Guy at the
landing, crying, with joyous voice: “Good news! Good news!”
“What news?” Chester asks anxiously—almost any news is bad news to him
now.
“Papa is coming—he will be here soon. Then you shall ask him in
person.”
“When will my lord duke be here?”
“In three or four days his letter said.”
“A—ah!” This is a big sigh of relief, for Guy now knows the next night
will settle his business one way or the other with this fair being, who
clings to his arm as he strides up the path to the house, her little
feet making two steps to his one.
He has determined that the succeeding night will settle whether she
shall be his wife and joy during all his life, or it will be the last
of her. This thought makes his manner very tender to her, for come what
may he knows she loves him.
Then tête-à-tête in the oriel window over the Schelde, they have
pleasant converse together, though he tells her his time with her must
be short.
“Short? Why?” she pouts to this suggestion.
“Because I am making arrangements about my fortune; you know, to make
proper showing to your father.”
“Oh yes, I’ve heard that before! My lord of Alva has always been to me
loving and indulgent. As such he will not refuse my request. I have
heard him speak of you, my Guido, as the bravest man in the army of
Spain; that means a great deal where so many men are brave. That march
you made will make him love you as it does me.”
This praise of the dead man in whose shoes he stands drives from Guy’s
tongue a confession that has been almost upon it once or twice in these
last two days. He fears the effect of revelation upon his sweetheart
and thinks tremblingly: “God help me if she loves my name, not me!”
Perhaps later in the evening he might tell his story to Hermoine, for
he thinks it almost a justice to her that she know the truth—did not an
incident come to these two that seems trivial, but has greater effect
than either guesses upon their lives.
Guy has laughingly inquired about the Countess de Pariza.
“Since last night she has not spoken to me. She keeps to her own suite
of apartments,” answers the young lady. “That woman, if she dared,
would betray me; as it is I pity her Moorish slave girls. You know when
papa gave me present of Zora he made Alida gift to the Countess de
Pariza. But I liked Alida best, and to take her away from her
tyrant—for that’s what my duenna is—you needn’t stay my lips at every
word, though it is pleasant, Guido mio—I have succeeded in exchanging
their services and Alida waits on me and Zora on the Countess. It was a
bargain, though no writing passed between us. But to-day, this very
morning, she claimed again the duty of Alida. Is it to revenge herself
on her?” she goes on intensely. “If so; if she puts hands on the poor
girl, let her beware of Hermoine de Alva.”
As she speaks the girl, springing from Guy’s arms, starts up and
whispers: “What’s that? Hark! My heaven, it is Alida!”
For a faint wailing sigh seems to come floating to the room from some
distant apartment. “It is Alida! That coward has struck her!” she cries
as the sound of agony comes floating in again.
And in a flash, with blazing eyes and vengeance on her face, Hermoine
de Alva darts from the room, Guy following her, his feet scarce keeping
up with her rapid flight. Turning up a passage, he finds himself—for
the girl has hurriedly dashed open a door—gazing on a curious picture.
It is the chamber of the duenna; in it stands Doña de Pariza, with
vicious whip upraised, and cowering before her crouches Alida, the
Moorish slave. But the lash does not descend. With the spring of a
young tigress Hermoine plucks the whip from the astounded Countess.
“How dare you intrude into my chamber?” cries the duenna.
“How dare you strike one that belongs to me?”
“Your pardon, Doña de Alva,” sneers La Pariza. “This girl is the gift
of your father to me. Give me my whip, that I may continue my
correction.”
“Never! Alida is mine; you made her over to me in words; she is mine to
love, mine to protect, she is my Alida. Cruel one! you have asked for
your whip! You shall have it!” And an avenging goddess is standing over
the shuddering duenna, who gives an affrighted scream.
But Guy has hand upon the white arm that is upraised.
“I’ll do it if she dares to touch her again!” says Hermoine savagely to
Guy; then whispers gently: “Alida, go to my chamber and stay; there you
are safe,” next breaks out: “Let her dare to lay hand on you and I’ll
not respect even her gray hairs!”
“Perdition! my wig!” screams La Pariza, and they leave her tearing her
scant locks. They have intruded into the apartment of romantic old age,
and the Countess without false hair and other artifices for effacing
the traces of decay makes an ugly picture that now becomes an awful
one; for on her face is now added to the ravages of time—demoniac hate.
As Guy leads his sweetheart away he whispers: “Did you note her
countenance? She is now your enemy for life.”
“Pish! What care I?” laughs Doña de Alva haughtily. Then she murmurs:
“I’m glad you stopped me from degrading myself to her level. Had I
touched her I should have been ashamed of it. When I’m thine by the
rights of Mother Church, bring a man’s forbearance to bear upon my
woman’s weakness.”
This kind of adulation makes Guy feel ashamed of himself, for he is in
his brawls with equals very headstrong and sometimes cruel and
bloodthirsty, and among his sailors he is not light of hand with
marling-spike and rope’s end when it is necessary for discipline of
ship.
Hermoine’s very glorification of him makes Chester hesitate to tell her
that he has been, in all his wooing of her, another being than the
Guido Amati she thinks she loves. But all the same he would not lose
her for the world, and will take the chance even of her reproach and
anger to make her his by right of church in face of man and God.
To do this he has many preparations still to make. And getting from her
arms once more he bids her adieu, saying: “To-morrow evening at nine
o’clock precisely. Remember, I shall have for you a little water fête.
The moon will not be up, but it will rise before we return. Will you go
for a sail on the water with me to-morrow night, my love?”
“Yes, and to-night if you would ask me,” laughs the girl. Then she says
wistfully: “If papa were only here, we could take him with us.”
“I—I pray heaven no,” answers her lover with a start.
“Oh, don’t fear, I am omnipotent over my Lord of Alva!”
Kissing her hand to Guy and filled with this idea, Doña Hermoine runs
back to the house.
This confidence in her power over Philip’s Viceroy brings sudden
changes over love’s young dream.
The very next afternoon, with clanking spurs and covered with the dust
of travel, escorted by some thirty dashing horsemen, my lord of Alva
comes galloping up to Hermoine’s country house, there to receive a
daughter’s welcome and a daughter’s love.
And oh! the happiness of that meeting!
The girl runs out to him, crying: “I didn’t think you would be here so
soon; your letter said four days, My Lord of Alva!” And courtesies to
him; but he springs off war horse, his serpent’s eyes aflame with the
one love of his declining years, and taking to his heart his piquant
child, whispers: “Then you, my Hermoine, are sorry?”
“Sorry that you have come?—delighted!”
“You must know,” remarks the Duke as he passes into the house with her,
“after I had written to you I received courier from Antwerp that
brought me such news from D’Avila, in command, that made it necessary
for me to return to the Citadel for a day or two.”
This is true; for beneath a long account of military advices as to
reinforcements, arms and munitions of war, and the various details of
the garrisons of Brabant and Flanders, Sancho D’Avila had chanced to
write almost as a postscript to the letter: “By the by, Your Highness
will be concerned to learn your old pensioner, the venerable Roderigo,
died four days ago.”
It is this careless line that has brought My Lord of Alva so suddenly
from Nijmegen, where he has been forwarding munitions to the besieging
army round Haarlem. Within an hour of receipt of this Alva, with some
muttered execrations, has taken horse and journeyed from the town on
the Waal with his body guard, getting relays of horses at
Hertogenbosch, Breda and Bergen, and by quickest route coming up the
Schelde from that place to Antwerp. The road passing through Sandvliet,
and it being but five minutes’ ride to this thing he loves best upon
the earth, my lord has turned his bridle and is now in his daughter’s
arms.
“I cannot stay long,” he remarks hurriedly; “I must be in Antwerp
to-night.”
“To-morrow morning will do much better. Your chamber is always prepared
for you. It is never occupied by anyone else.” Here the girl blushes
suddenly, remembering that her Guido had usurped it for some fifteen
minutes of his time. “Sup with me you shall!”
“Impossible, I must go on.”
“You shan’t, papa, YOU SHAN’T! You’ve been away so long from orders
you’re becoming mutinous and undisciplined.”
With this she treats him in a way that Alva loves from her, but would
permit from no one else upon this earth, man nor woman. While she is
speaking to him, despite his protestations, Doña Hermoine has got his
helmet off and is patting his gray locks and pulling the two long
tresses of his silver beard with her white hands and crying: “Now I
have you a prisoner! Ten kisses for your ransom!”
“Santos y demonios! you’re the worst rebel in the Netherlands,” laughs
the Duke.
“Yes, the most defiant and the only one who will conquer YOU!”
This pleases my lord of Alva, who is in what is for him a jovial humor,
and he says: “You’re right; I have Haarlem now as surely in my grasp as
if I had my troops in that dogged town. De Bossu has defeated Marinus
Brandt upon the lake, the town is now cut off from provisions—it must
be mine. Then when I have trampled out these rebels and can hand over
this land unstained by sedition to my lord, Philip the King, we’ll go
back to Spain together, and away from the fogs of this northern
country, among the pomegranates, the vines, the cork trees and the
olives, we’ll forget there ever has been war.”
“Yes,” cries the girl, “and we’ll take him with us.”
“Him? Who?”
“My coming husband.”
“Thy coming husband! Of whom are you talking, child?” says Alva in
astounded voice. “Never saw I woman that was so free from earthly
loves!” Then he laughs: “This is a rare change. Last time you were
drooping. You had psalm-book in your hand and ritual, and talked of
being the bride of Mother Church.”
“But that has all gone away.”
“I am glad of it, though I should not have said you nay. My Hermoine
would have made a curious nun.”
“Yes, she will make a better bride,” purrs the girl, going back to her
subject. “But I won’t tell you all about it unless you dine with me,
and only after dinner. See! Your escort are dismounting. They have had
a long ride. They are taking refreshment. Will not my lord have the
same mercy for himself he gives his soldiers? Besides, you look ill,
worried.”
“Not at all. There’s only one thing on my mind; the errand I came for,
and that, though important, is not, I pray God, immediate.”
“Then stay to dinner. I gave orders as I saw you ride up to the house.”
At this, clapping her hands, the curtains are drawn up, and the Duke,
taking his daughter’s arm, goes into the pleasures of the banquet. Here
for the first time since the night before, Hermoine sees the Countess,
and looking in her eyes knows that oath, or no oath, in some way she
will get word of what has happened unto my lord of Alva.
But to Hermoine’s delight Don Fernando Alvarez de Toledo, Lord of Alva
and Duke of Huesca, spurred by curiosity, wishes tête-à-tête with his
lovely child, and to the astonishment and rage of her duenna says very
shortly: “Countess, I am glad to see you in your usual health. My
daughter and I, having weighty matters to discuss, would be alone. Good
afternoon, Doña de Pariza, I kiss your hand,” and he bows her to the
door with stately Spanish etiquette; then says: “Hermoine, your story.
Is it a jest about a lover, child?”
“No jest.”
“Tell me.”
“After dinner, papa; not until wine has made your heart a little
softer. You have hardened it in Holland.”
“Not unto thee,” says my Lord. “Tell me, pretty one.”
“Not unless you let me sit upon your august knee.”
With this she is upon his lap and with soft caresses and cooing words
of love and kisses and “Papa darlings” tells him of her lover.
At which he opens his eyes and remarks: “Your Guido Amati; he was
reported dead after the battle on the ice, I think.”
“Yes, but he has recovered from his wounds. Oh, it would take a great
deal to kill him! Remember his march across the Drowned Lands up there.
You passed the place to-day,” she points her hand.
“Yes, I recollect. That was a feat worthy of the Cid,” says Alva, who,
above all, is a military tactician.
“Ah! then give me to the Cid; the Cid would be worthy even of the
daughter of Alva. If Guido was worthy of the Cid he is worthy of me!”
And with pleadings, coaxings and caresses Hermoine wins from this man
who she thinks can refuse her naught, promise that he will grant her
hand to Colonel Guido Amati de Medina.
“Now you must not go,” she pleads. “He is coming here this evening. You
must see him. You must make him as happy as I am. Father, I never loved
you until now.”
“Oho!—If I had refused I suppose you would have hated me.”
“I never think of hate with you; but then, you never do refuse. And as
you never say me nay, you’ll stay and meet him. Give him your blessing;
father, promise me as you love me, you will give Guido Amati as my
promised husband, your blessing.”
“Then if I must do so, and you say I must,” mutters the Duke, a tremble
on his lips and a quiver in his eyelids, “I must first ride on to Lillo
and send from there a message to Sancho d’Avila.”
“You’ll come back? He will be here at nine. You will come back—promise
it, swear it!”
“I promise by this kiss.”
“Then take two to make sure,” prattles Miss Hermoine with happy eyes.
A moment after his escort being ready, pursued by kisses thrown from
fairy hands, the Duke mounts charger and canters off from the villa of
his daughter, whose eyes are streaming with happy tears and whose lips
are murmuring: “Father and future husband both together. To-night will
be a happy one for me!”
Alva rides on to Lillo, and having word with Mondragon, the commandant,
charges him to send courier at once with a note he writes to Sancho
d’Avila, commandant of the Citadel at Antwerp. Then with a father’s
natural instinct of curiosity in regard to coming son-in-law, Don
Fernando, chatting with the officer in command, one of his favorites,
says: “Mondragon, do you know a certain Guido Amati, Colonel in
Romero’s Legion?”
“Of course, your excellency, he was under me before he went to
Holland.”
“Ah! Tell me of him.”
“That’s little good, except that he was the bravest of the brave, and
as fine a swordsman as ever handled Toledo blade; but a more
undisciplined, gambling, rake and debauchee I never met, and I’m an old
campaigner.”
“A debauchee undisciplined, a roué drunkard,” gasps His Highness, his
face growing even more pallid than is usual to his sallow cheeks. “You
are sure you know what you say, Mondragon?”
“Certainly, I knew him well. But what matters it? Guido Amati is dead.”
“Impossible; though I heard the rumor.”
“It’s marked upon the muster-rolls of Romero’s command.”
“Are you sure?”
“Certainly!”
“Then if alive his name would surely be on the roster of his regiment?”
“As sure as there is paymaster in the army. Guido Amati is not a
gentleman to let his pay lapse by any negligence of his; but he is
surely dead. There are men, I think, in the garrison who saw him fall.”
“Ah! in the battle on the ice?”
“Yes. Young De Busaco, a lieutenant here on sick leave, and Sergeant
Gomez.”
“Send for them at once,” says Alva, quite astounded and shaken at these
curious words.
And De Busaco, coming into the apartment, salutes.
“Lieutenant De Busaco, I believe?” remarks Don Fernando.
“Yes, Your Highness, just promoted.”
“You were at the battle on the ice?”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
“Who commanded there?”
“Colonel Guido Amati.”
“Was he killed there?”
“I think so, Your Highness; I saw him fall.”
“That’s very curious, when my daughter says he lives!” mutters the
Viceroy in an amazed tone. At this Mondragon and De Busaco open their
eyes, and the latter knows the catastrophe that he has sometimes
guessed might take place, will come.
“You saw him fall?” queries Don Fernando, as if he can’t believe his
ears.
“Yes, Your Highness.”
“And you think he is dead?”
“Yes, Your Highness, the Dutch butchered all our wounded.”
“As they always do,” answers Alva. “I’m afraid I taught them that
trick. They’re ready students. Is Gomez in waiting?”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
And the bluff Sergeant stepping in, salutes with military precision my
lord of Alva and gives him information thus:
“Yes, I saw Guido Amati fall. I tried to save him, but slipped and
broke my head on the ice in doing it, but by the blessing of God,
escaped.”
“You know this man is dead.”
“Yes—ten saints could not have saved him.”
“Speak respectfully of the church! How do you know it?”
“Because I saw three pikes driven through his body.”
“That is sufficient,” mutters Alva in a dazed manner. “You can go,
Gomez.”
“And three pikes through the body would kill even as tough a fighter as
Guido Amati,” remarks Mondragon; but as the sergeant turns his back the
commandant suddenly says: “What is the matter, Your Highness. You have
had bad news from Haarlem?”
“Oh no, the best. They are eating grass in the streets now. We’ve
beaten Orange on the lake and dominate it. It is not Haarlem.” Then
Alva suddenly commands: “Order my escort at once. Is Gomez able to take
horse?”
“Yes, your Excellency.”
“Let him accompany them.”
And followed by thirty men armed with lance and arquebus, my lord of
Alva clatters back to the dwelling of his daughter. On the way he calls
to his side the bluff Gomez and questions him: “What kind of a looking
man was this Guido Amati?”
“Tall, well built, short crisp dark hair, eyes very black and reckless,
and a skin as swarthy as a washed-out Morisco.”
“He had the manners of a gentleman, of course,” remarks the Viceroy.
“As well as a soldier like myself could guess, your Highness, and the
tongue of one. It was said he spoke Castilian as purely as a priest.”
“Very good, that will do, sergeant,” says the Viceroy. And they soon
arrive at the country house.
But being a wary old tactician, my lord of Alva says nothing of the
strange revelation that has come to him at the Fort at Lillo, and
striding into Hermoine’s apartment, remarks: “My daughter, as we
promised we have returned to see this gentleman you love, Guido Amati;
who must be of wondrous strong frame.”
“How so?” asks the girl.
“He was desperately wounded at the Battle on the Ice.”
“I should think so! Haven’t I seen the wounds? They’re awful!” This
last is a piquant shudder.
“Seen the pike wounds through his body?”
“No, but there was a cut upon his head that would have let out the life
of any but a Paladin.”
“Humph! they say your Paladin is a dissipated fellow.”
“That’s a falsehood! some rival sends forth this story about him every
time. Why, even at the house of Bodé Volcker,” goes on Hermoine, “that
fibbing merchant told me he was drunk, when two seconds after my Guido
strides up to me as sober as you are, and a good deal happier looking,
and not with that extraordinary benumbed expression that’s on your dear
old face.” Here the girl kisses it.
“Tell me how you met him.”
Thus encouraged Doña Hermoine who, sweetheart like, loves to prattle of
her adored, sits down and makes confession to her father; during which
he asks her one or two questions she thinks are foolish, but he thinks
pertinent. “You say you first met him on the day of the spring flood of
1572?”
“Yes, papa; that was the night I told you of, when he protected me from
the Gueux.”
“A—ah—ah This gentleman you love has dark hair and eyes?”
“No, bright blue eyes, and his hair is for a Spaniard very blonde—Did I
not tell you so, Goosey!”
“Oh, yes; I meant bright eyes, I had forgotten. Light chestnut hair,
you say, and a free and easy manner. He walks like a sailor.”
“Like a cavalryman!”
“Ah, yes; they both have rolling gaits. The day you met him was the one
I came so hurriedly in from Brussels?”
“Yes, you came very hastily. It was the day Floris the Painter had that
drinking bout, and drank one of his opponents even unto death.”
“Yes, I recollect,” says His Highness slowly. “The day Guerra would
have made revelation to me, but died. This gentleman you say you love,”
my lord of Alva’s manner has a kind of forced lightness in it, “speaks
the patois of Hispaniola?”
“Yes, it is poor Spanish, but sounds very sweet to me.”
“Humph! when this gentleman arrives, bring him to me.” And going from
the apartment Alva gives some pertinent directions to the lieutenant in
command of his escort.
Then he returns to the dining-room, and, as it is nearly eight o
clock—has supper served to him.
To minister to his wants comes running in his daughter, her face as
radiant as a sunbeam. She who had been before to him as the lily is now
blushing as a rose.
As he sits down there is a very curious expression in my lord of Alva’s
face, and as he drinks there is a lump in his throat that nearly chokes
him, though he is abstemious this evening, his daughter notes, as she
serves papa with loving hands.
“You—you do not grieve at losing me?” she whispers, a ripple of concern
running over her face.
“No, it—it isn’t that.” His face has an expression Hermoine cannot
understand.
“By the by,” she says, “adored papa, another promise.”
“What?”
“Take off that reward for the Englishman’s head. You remember I told
you he saved my Guido’s life.”
“After to-morrow; then it may not be needed,” mutters His Highness,
though his eyes do not meet the girl’s; he keeps them on his wine cup.
“Thanks, dear papa,” answers the young lady. Then suddenly she says:
“But I must go.”
“Why?”
“To make toilet for my coming husband.”
“Humph!”
“I shall be dressed as a bride.”
“You love this man so very much, my Hermoine?” There is a sob in the
father’s voice.
“With my whole heart,” she answers; then suddenly cries: “Perhaps I
shall have another surprise for you to-night, if you’ll grant it, but
then papa you grant me everything!—you dear old papa who will make your
daughter’s happiness so very great this night.”
With this she puts tender kiss upon his brow and runs away, leaving her
father wondering to himself whether he has guessed right or not.
But all the same there are tears in his eyes that never shed them; and
once or twice when he hears his daughter’s voice from neighboring
apartment giving orders as to her toilet and other preparations for the
reception of the man she loves, his face has a horrified expression on
it. Then a minute after a gleam comes into the serpent’s eyes, and his
long hands clench themselves together as if seizing some enemy long
sought for and difficult to grasp, but very pleasant to his grip and
talons, and he mutters to himself: “If it is he who stole my gold for
that Jezebel Elizabeth; if it is he by whose advice the Gueux were
ordered out of England with no food, no water, but only cannon balls
and powder to stir up rebellion in this land, I’d sooner have him than
even William the Silent!”
CHAPTER XXII.
“OHO! THE FOX AT LAST!”
All this day during which his sweetheart has been obtaining papa’s
consent, Chester has worked like a beaver laying in winter store. The
seamen under Bodé Volcker’s direction have got out all the silver, some
of which is in ingots, the rest in Spanish dollars, into the cellar,
and by the very earliest sunrise at the opening of the city gates, the
first load comes into the hold of the Esperanza, for this is more
bulky, though not nearly as valuable, as the gold.
Working at this with that diligence that men always give to looting
treasure, they succeed in getting all of it into the hold of the
Esperanza by twelve o’clock in the day.
Martin Corker, who has been at the house of Mother Sebastian assisting
in the shipment since Chester has taken charge of the Esperanza, coming
down with the last load, says to his captain: “Bodé Volcker wants to
see you at the house of old Dumb Devil like a flash.”
“Why?”
“He didn’t bring out the chest of jewels. He feared some of the men
might buccaneer it on the sly, it’s so easily handled, and is probably
very valuable.”
With a muttered imprecation on the merchant’s commercial care, for
Chester is now anxious to set sail, he strides rapidly up to the house
of Mother Sebastian, and there finds Niklaas in company with four
seamen, the last who have remained in charge.
“Did I not tell you that I didn’t wish to make entry into the treasure
chamber during the day?”
“Yes, but I didn’t want to take the chance of losing the jewels,”
returns the merchant.
“Well, since there’s no help for it,” Guy mutters, “I suppose I must go
in again.” This he does to find everything as before. Returning from
his journey under the moat to the vault below the great Bastion of the
Duke, bearing in his hand the chest that is presumed to contain jewels,
he laughs: “Everything is all right, this is the last of Alva’s
nest-egg.”
“You have locked all the iron doors?”
“Yes.”
Then they put the flagstones in place, closing up the entrance to the
vault, and bed down the stones of the cellar on top of it; next
sweeping the dust over it again and the seamen pocketing for luck money
a few stray coins that had fallen out of one of the sacks, the cellar
of Señora Sebastian is as they found it. Then Bodé Volcker leaving
another bottle of rum by the side of the snoring dumb woman, they shake
off the dust of the house with a sigh of relief from their feet.
“You have the clearance papers?” whispers Guy.
“Yes, I’ll get them at my office.”
“Very well, then we’ll hoist sail,” says the Englishman; and taking the
case containing the jewels in his own hands, though he has covered it
with a cloak, Guy goes on board the Esperanza.
Then his crew make ready to draw out from their moorings and go down
the Schelde, while Guy waits impatiently for his clearance papers, for
every instant seems an hour of agonized suspense to him.
As he stands gazing eagerly up into the streets of Antwerp, Bodé
Volcker makes his appearance, pale, agitated, hurrying as fast as his
fat legs can carry his fat body. He comes up the gang plank gasping and
holding out to Guy the papers, says: “Captain Andrea Blanco, your
clearances.”
“You are going on shore again?”
“No, as I’m a frightened man! God help me, I daren’t stay here. Take me
to the cabin, something terrible has happened.”
“What?” gasps Guy, though he gives orders to the men to cast off and
get under way. This they do in a flash and Martin Corker takes the
helm. As they sail down the Schelde Guy goes into the cabin and
whispers to the merchant, who is half fainting: “What’s the matter,
what’s frightened you so?”
“My God, my God! the hand moved!”
“What hand?”
“THE HAND ON ALVA’S STATUE!”
“Great heavens!—When?”
“When you went into the vault at twelve o’clock to-day, the right hand
of the statue of Alva moved. They’ll be at the house of the woman
Sebastian by this time. The statue guarded Alva’s treasure. God help us
if they get messenger to Lillo to stop vessels before we get down! The
garrison are talking about it as if it were supernatural. They say it
predicts the fall of Haarlem; but I know it predicts that people have
gone into Alva’s treasure house. That’s what the infernal statue was
put there for,” cries Bodé Volcker.
But the last of this speech is made to an empty cabin, for Chester is
on deck and is putting all sail upon the Esperanza. Seeing that every
rag draws and the tide being with them, the boat flies down the river
at such a speed that he hardly thinks he will be overtaken, and prays
that the custom house officers and guard boat at the fort do their
business quickly.
These Spanish officials, hailing them at Lillo, Guy gets them on board
and makes the officer in charge so happy by hospitality and a roll of
doubloons pressed into his ready hand—suggesting haste on account of
the tide and wind, that his ship’s business is very urgent—that they
are soon allowed to pass. With a sigh of relief Chester, still keeping
all sail up, drives down the Schelde, and at five o’clock in the
evening they are alongside the Dover Lass in Krom Vliet, and are
discharging the treasure into the armed vessel.
At seven the transfer has been completed; for Chester has now one
hundred and twenty-five men working as seamen always work in sight of
prize money.
This done, Guy speaks to Dalton. “Have you obtained as I directed, a
chaplain of the Catholic Church from Zeeland?”
“Yes, and it was the devil’s own job,” says that blunt officer. “I got
about the only one the Dutch had left alive on the islands. There was
another, but Michael Krok had cut off his ears, and I didn’t know
whether he could splice a legal knot,” for Guy has been compelled to
make confidant of his first officer in this business.
“Ask him to step here,” Chester says.
And the priest being brought to him, the captain remarks: “You have
been kindly treated, holy father?”
“With every care. Your fare is so bounteous, I would it had not been a
fast day. It is almost continual starvation for me now. The Dutch have
dispersed my flock, both of parishioners and sheep.”
“You know the reason that I sent for you?”
“Yes, I was told it was to perform a sacrament of the church, which I
am here to do; and have stayed on that island to do,” he points to
Beveland, “in spite of persecutions, in spite of threats, in spite of
blows and outrage. Ask any Beggar of the Sea whether Father Anastasius
ever faltered before them, and there is only one of them who has ever
treated Catholic priests as if they were men of God. ‘The First of the
English,’ though he wars against Alva, is a true son of Rome. As such I
come to do his bidding.”
“You know me?” mutters Guy.
“Yes, that is why I came so readily.”
“Then you’ll journey with me to perform a sacrament of the Church?”
“I would do that for any one demanding it.”
Guy knows this is so; for Father Anastasius is celebrated all over
Zeeland as a priest who loves his Lord better than he loves his life,
and who will do his duty to the humblest as well as to the highest, as
commanded by his Church.
“Put Father Anastasius in my gig with me,” Chester says shortly to
Dalton. “Arm it and man it!”
“It is done.”
“Are the long boat and cutter ready also?”
“Yes.”
“How many men all told?”
“Sixty.”
“That leaves sixty on the Dover Lass; plenty to handle, enough almost
to fight her. You will remain in charge of the vessel, Corker will
command the boats. They are well armed?”
“Yes, pistols, arquebuses, pikes and battle axes, everything as trim as
if it were a boarding party, not a troubadour affair,” answers the
lieutenant.
At eight o’clock dusk has fallen on both land and sea, and calculating
an hour will be sufficient to take them across to the summer house
where his love is waiting for him, Chester puts off in his gig, taking
the Roman Catholic priest with him, and followed by the long boat and
cutter, the men giving way with sturdy muscles as they are anxious now
to leave this spot, the very value of their prize making additional
danger for them.
Forty minutes after this, just off the dyke, where they turn up to
Sandvliet, they meet a boat from Antwerp filled with Italian musicians,
rebec players and mandolins, flutes and harps, and decorated as for a
fête.
These in the early forenoon have been engaged for this purpose in
Antwerp by Achille, who still officiates as cabin boy. They are all
quite merry and are singing a gay Tuscan love song.
“This is my little water party,” whispers Guy to Corker, whom he has
sitting by him giving him his last instructions. “The lady will think
it a pleasure sail upon the river.”
“Oho! Abduction!” laughs the boatswain.
“Yes—to make her I love and honor—my wife,” answers Chester. Then he
whispers: “She is Alva’s daughter.”
To which Corker returns a prolonged whistle and muttered: “Good God!”
and listens with rather awe-struck face as Guy gives him his last
orders: “Take the long boat, guard the dyke between the house and
Sandvliet, preventing troops coming that way if alarm is given. The gig
and cutter will watch the other side of the house.”
For Chester fears at the last moment some lackey or the Countess de
Pariza may send some word of what is going on to Sandvliet or Lillo, or
something unexpected may mar his plan and he knows if he loses Hermoine
now he loses her forever.
A minute after he whispers exultingly: “See, the house is en fête and
lighted up; she is ready for me, my bride!” Then speaking a few words
of caution to Corker, the long boat comes alongside and that sturdy
seaman gets into her stern sheets and takes command of her.
Two minutes after Guy touches the landing stage.
“Under that casement, musicians, and play there a soft Venetian
serenade,” he whispers to the leader of the Italians, pointing to the
great oriel window blazing with lights.
“Si, gracioso, Señor,” the leader of these unfortunate devils replies;
for Guy has hired them for his festival with princely hand, feeling
himself financially a Midas. “A pleasant evening, Señor, a pleasant
evening!” And the happy Italian kisses his hand to his liberal patron
and goes with his serenaders to meet what fate has prepared for them.
To this Guy answers nothing, but springs upon the landing and whispers
to his cockswain: “Have the boat ready to start on the instant,” then
says to the priest: “I pray thee come with me, holy father.”
So the two go up the stairs on to the dyke and walk along the path by
the little garden toward the mansion, that is scarce a hundred yards
away.
“It is a summer night,” says Guy, “Father Anastasius, would you mind
taking a seat among these trees until I summon you? It is the sacrament
of marriage I shall ask at your hands, and would have word with the
lady before I bring you to her.”
“At your pleasure, Captain,” replies the man of God. “I can tell my
beads for you and offer up prayers for your wedded state as well under
the sky as in a palace.”
Then, unarmed save by the rapier common to cavaliers and the keen
stiletto he always wears in his breast, for he does not wish to
frighten his love by undue display of weapons, Chester raps on the door
of the house.
This is promptly opened by Alida, who whispers: “She is there, my lord,
waiting for you, and oh, so happy! Take the compliments of one who
loves you both and is your slave.”
The Moorish girl would kiss his hand, but he is too eager for this, and
steps into the room with the great oriel window, to find it lighted by
perfumed lamps and decorated with flowers, ribbons and hanging vines,
as if for a gorgeous festival.
Then, from the oriel window where she has been looking for him, sweeps
a dazzling vision of radiant beauty, a glorious beam upon her face, of
love and happiness complete, and he whispers to her: “My bride, thou
art too beautiful for earth!”
He is right, for the girl is dressed as a bride, in gleaming,
glimmering, glistening white, some exquisite creation of the looms of
Lyons. She has orange flowers in her hair, her beautiful shoulders and
maiden bosom gleam like ivory, and her white arms are pure as alabaster
as they close softly round him, and she whispers: “My Guido, at last!
See what I have for thee. Come with me, now we shall be happy.
Perchance if I entreat him, he will permit us to be one this night.”
Her fairy fingers point to the chapel, as she laughs: “I have a
surprise for him, too. It is because I have prayed to her that the
Madonna looks so kindly on me this night.”
At this Guy gives a start and becomes radiant himself, though he
scarcely understands, for, following Hermoine’s hand, he sees the
curtains are raised showing the chapel; wax tapers are burning now in
hundreds on its altar, there are flowers upon it, and everything seems
ready for some religious ceremony.
“Don’t look at it too long; come with me. He will be astonished when I
tell him the reason.”
“He! Who?”
“Quick, I’ll lead you to him.” They are at the curtains of the great
arches between this room and the dining saloon, she cries: “Draw up the
draperies!”
As they rise, she whispers: “Guido, on your knees before my father, who
has promised that you shall be my husband—on your knees and thank him
as I do!” and prostrates herself before the gaunt figure in black who
always wears the golden fleece, the Viceroy of the King of Spain, My
Lord of Alva!
Suddenly she is astounded, for instead of dropping on his knees, her
Guido springs from her with a wild cry of horrified amazement, and lays
hands upon his sword.
At that same instant eight Spanish arquebusiers spring in at the open
windows and catching him with sword half drawn, have bound his hands,
but not without desperate struggle. Before it is done there is a dead
Spaniard lying at his feet.
At this the girl starting up cries: “Guido! are you mad to kill a
Spanish soldier?” next says haughtily: “Fellows, release that gentleman
immediately!”
But the men only look at her father.
“Unhand that gentleman! You don’t know what you’re doing. Unbind him!
He is Colonel Guido Amati, the future son-in-law of your Viceroy!” Then
she says apologetically to Guy: “It is some horrible mistake, my Guido.
Don’t struggle with them, they may kill you.” For Chester is silently
trying to force his way to the window that he may throw himself out of
it into the waters of the Schelde.
Then Hermoine, turning to her father, cries: “Command your soldiers to
release the man I love. Is this the way you keep promise to me, your
daughter?”
On this the Duke asks: “Who is this man? Somebody tell me. Do you
recognize him? Who is he?”
Coming from behind him the bluff Sergeant of Romero salutes and
whispers into the Viceroy’s ear: “It is ‘The First of the English!’”
With this there is a horrid burst of merriment from Alva, and he
laughs: “Ho, ho! The fox at last. My daughter, you have gained the ten
thousand crowns reward. This is the man I hungered for. Come here and
kiss your father!”
Over all this to the girl’s astonished senses rises the soft music of
the harps, mandolins and rebecs floating through the windows from the
musicians on the barge playing serenade upon the summer water outside.
Hearing this music and seeing the Englishman’s design, Alva orders
sharply: “His boat—take care of that! Let none escape!”
Immediately there is a volley fired from the room right into the boat
floating beneath the window, and fearful cries and screams and shrieks
go up from murdered Italy; as flute players die with note upon their
lips, and wounded musicians drown beneath the window.
At this moment, with mighty bound, tearing himself free from those who
hold him, Chester, this man she loves, her Guido, is beside her
shuddering: “Why have you done this thing?”
“Why have I done this thing? Because of love of you!” she answers back.
“Why have you killed that man there?” For she does not yet understand.
But her father says: “Come hither, Hermoine, I will explain.”
To this she says: “No, no!” Alva is coming toward her and she cries to
him: “Stand where you are! Don’t dare to touch me till you tell me why
you have forgotten your promise to me!”
Then he of Alva, with voice that seems to her harsh as the judgment
trumpet of our Lord will seem to those who have no hope in eternity,
answers: “This man is not the man you thought you loved. This is not
Guido Amati. He was killed at the Battle on the Ice, slain by this
English rover, this accursed pirate, this scum of the sea, this
base-born clown, who aped a Spanish noble to win your trust and love.”
“Base-born clown!” breaks out the Englishman. “That’s a lie, when
coupled with the name of Chester. My lord of Alva, you speak to belted
English knight. My accolade was given by the Queen’s own hand. I have
in me the blood of the Stanhopes, who fought with William the
Conqueror; my cousin is a Stanley and wears Earl’s coronet. Nobility I
have enough for you and yours. Do you think I would have sullied her I
love by luring her to wed ignoble blood? Look—on my breast I bear the
golden spurs of knighthood!”
At this the girl, who has cowered under the words that brand the man
she loves as one of the ignoble, seizing from Chester’s breast the
trinkets that show he is of her rank and class, holds them up before my
lord of Alva, and cries out in almost happy voice: “He’s noble! Father,
do you hear, HE’S NOBLE! Now you can’t refuse, he’s noble, though he
is—” she pauses here and falters to Guy, for now she somewhat
understands, “Are you the—‘The First of the English?’”
“Yes!”
The answer comes haughtily and proudly, and with it there is a sudden
light in her brain, and she gasps: “Ah, now I know—! This—this Oliver
his friend—the day he rescued me, the day they said the English rover
was in Antwerp.” Then she whispers, almost exultation in her voice:
“Twice, my love, that day I saved you; to-day I will save you again!”
But this dies away into one awful wailing cry, as he of Alva, in a
voice as unyielding as the Rock of Ages, says harshly: “Gomez, bring in
the executioner!”
“The executioner! Father, you don’t understand. This is the man I
love.”
“You love him?” jeers the Duke. “You love an enemy of your country?
This man who was a friend of Oliver, the traitor in my household, whose
attack on Mons gave Orange time to rise with all of Holland; this man
who robbed me for his queen of my Italian treasure? Bah! you must hate
him, girl, as I do,” and he turns to give further orders.
At this mention of stolen wealth there is a jeering laugh from Guy,
despite himself, but Hermoine puts hand upon his lips and whispers
pleadingly: “Don’t anger him, for my sake, my Guido—my Englishman. I
can twist papa about my little finger,” and tries to laugh in his face,
“See me!”
With this she is about Alva’s neck murmuring: “What nonsense do you
talk? You always do as your Hermoine tells you. Papa dear, shall I pull
your naughty beard?”
But he says: “Child, you do not understand. I’ll send to France for
gewgaws and new dresses for you. You will soon forget,” then raises up
his voice—“The Executioner!”
But she will not be put off and apes to laugh: “The executioner?—for
the man you have promised me as husband? What NONSENSE! You mean the
priest. Goosey dear, send for the priest at once!”
But Alva answers harshly: “To shrive him were he not a heretic,” next
says sternly, “Gomez, why are you waiting? You have my orders—THE
EXECUTIONER!”
CHAPTER XXIII.
“IT IS AN AFFAIR OF STATE!”
Then pandemonium breaks forth in the girl, and she laughs in awful
jeer: “My father offers me gewgaws for my lover’s life. Perhaps he’ll
toss the gold for my affianced’s head in my lap and think I’ll spend it
in buying sweetmeats and dainties for the mouth,” next sobs to Guy,
who, the entrances of the room being all guarded, has now no chance of
escape save by almost superhuman means: “Oh, Mother of Mercy! why did
you not trust me? Did you suppose I loved only a name?” then screams
out hoarsely: “Father, spare him! You promised! Spare at least his
life. Father, mercy for ME!”
For there is a bustle outside, the noise of men coming into the house;
but it is only the lieutenant of the guard who enters, a fiddle
dripping with blood in his hand and announces: “We have killed every
man in the boat, musicians and all.”
At this there is a spasm of hope, the first that has come to Chester.
In his military mind has sprung this idea: “The butchery of the
musicians was warning to my boats that their captain is beset.”
But this is effaced by the agony of her he loves, for Hermoine is now
pleading with her father as if for her own life, calling him loving
names as if she adored him in her agony, and sobbing, though she has no
tears: “Father, don’t you hear me, don’t you feel me?” As her arms are
round the grim old Viceroy’s neck. “Don’t you know—that I—love this
man!—See it, believe it by the agony of my breaking heart. If you kill
him you kill me. I had mourned for him as dead before; must I be
widowed AGAIN?”
Thus supplicating, Hermoine de Alva looks lovelier in her despair than
in her joy, for there is now about her a kind of nervous intensity and
ethereal electricity that makes her not wholly of this earth; she is as
Eve pleading for Adam, not to God, but—to Satan.
But Satan is not merciful, and thinking her father does not really
understand how it is her very life he is cutting short, she cries out:
“You shall believe my love by this!”
Then this being whom modesty now covers with blushes, in the presence
of grim old arquebusiers and all the lackeys and attendants the noise
has drawn to the doors of the room, walks up to Guy Chester and her
arms go round him and she is kissing him and sobbing over him, and
begging him not to think she would have betrayed him for all the world,
she loves him so.
Even as she does this Hermoine de Alva seems suddenly to change. For,
as she flutters over him, Guy, having golden opportunity, whispers in
her ear: “Get me time—warn my boats—get me time!”
At this work she goes with every artifice of mind and body.
She looks about, then seems to grow faint, and mutters: “Water—water—my
head!”
At this her father cries: “Good heavens, you are swooning!”
To him she jeers: “That would make it easy for you. When I came to I
would be bereft. No, I’ll not faint while he lives—water!”
This Alva would bring her, but starting, she motions him away and
shudders: “Not from your hands; my maid, Alida—quick!”
On this the Moorish girl, who is looking on, a strange pathetic
interest in her face, comes to her bringing a goblet.
As Hermoine drinks she whispers: “To the landing, call them
on—boats—the English boats!”
A quick look of intelligence flies over the subtle Moorish face, and
Alida, bearing the goblet with her, steps out of the apartment.
This the Duke sees not. After his daughter has shuddered from him he
has turned away and pressed his hand upon his heart, his face working
strangely.
From this on he does not seem to wish to look upon his child, who now
comes with all her soul to delay, if she cannot change, her father’s
purpose.
In this she is strangely aided by an enemy; the Countess de Pariza
comes laughing in and giggles, viciously: “You are going to burn him by
the slow fire, he is a heretic.”
“Heretic in your teeth, hag,” cries Chester, “I am as good a Catholic
as my lord of Alva himself.” And memory of his God coming over him with
coming doom, he begins to tell his beads.
“A Catholic,” laughs Alva harshly, “as good as I? And raise thy hand
against the King of Spain!”
“Yes,” answers Guy, “I am a Catholic, but I am also an Englishman.”
“There’ll soon be one less of them to fight against the flag of Spain,”
sneers the Viceroy.
To this is joined a low wail of despair from Alva’s daughter.
The executioner, one of whom my lord always carries with him for sudden
use, comes in, in leather jerkin, and with awful cruel face, and he of
Alva says to him: “How now, fellow, where is thy noose?”
“I thought, my lord,” answers the man, “from what I heard outside, it
was a burning at the stake and wanted to know where it should be done?
There’s faggots enough in the kitchen for roasting of my man. Shall I
burn him in the great courtyard in front of the house? Shall I burn him
quick or burn him slow? I can find tallow fat enough to lard him!”
Here my lord of Alva sees something in his daughter’s face, though she
says no word to this, but simply strides up to her father and looks him
in the eye; and he, turning his head away, mutters: “The noose; he is
not a heretic, hang him up from a beam outside.”
“You are resolved on—on this?” Hermoine’s soft voice is broken now and
harsh.
“Yes! It is an affair of State.”
“My tears, my prayers, my breaking heart—” she sighs this out with
gasping sighs, “make no—change—in—your decree?” And there is a sweat of
agony about the girl’s beautiful eyes instead of tears.
“No. It is an affair of State.” Alva’s lips tremble as he says it.
“Then I claim for this man I love, since he is not a heretic, the
privilege of receiving the last rites of the church. You shall not damn
his soul though you condemn his body. You are too good a Catholic to
say a Catholic shall die without grace and church rites.”
To this Don Fernando answers shortly: “There’s no priest within reach.”
“You bring the executioner, but not the priest!” she jeers. “Give him
and me at least time to tell our beads—for when he dies—my heart breaks
also.”
But here there is a bustle at the rear among the arquebusiers guarding
the doors, and a man garbed as in the priesthood of the Catholic
Church, says: “Room, a father of the church!” And the soldiers
permitting him to pass, Guy sees with amazement it is the Father
Anastasius he had hoped this night would celebrate his wedding.
“Now,” cries Hermoine, “my Lord of Alva, you cannot refuse.”
“He shall not,” says the priest, “not to me, Father Anastasius, who
have lived in Zeeland persecuted all these years for love of the Lord;
he dare not refuse permission to save this man’s soul.”
“And why not?” answers Alva haughtily.
“Because I will anathematize you. Great Catholic that you are, you have
no right to violate an ordinance of Rome.”
“Then have your way. Bind him securely. Then let him make his orisons
to you—in yonder chapel, if you think it would be more holy—and save
this man’s soul. Now, girl, get thee to thy chamber.”
“Not until I see the last and hear the last word of the man I love. You
have denied all I have prayed you for, you have refused to spare the
life of him I love; and I have not cursed you for it—because I am your
daughter. But I will call down heaven’s anathema upon you if you send
me from his side while life is in him.”
To this Alva says nothing but sinks down at the table, putting his head
in his hands, muttering to the lieutenant: “On your life, beware he
does not escape you; that is all.”
Then the entrance of the chapel being guarded, Chester, bound and
helpless, is led in there, and sinks down before the man of God.
But even as he makes the confession of the dying sinner, there is the
frou of silk about him and the white laces and orange flowers of bridal
robe brush his face that has been bruised by arquebus stocks, and a
beautiful being upon whose face is despair but also love divine, sinks
down beside him and sighs out to the priest: “Not the sacrament for the
dead, but the sacrament of marriage!—with this man I love and who loves
me—and who has taken his life in his hands every time he looked upon my
face. Now I know what you have risked to gain me—my Guido!—now I
know—my Guy, my Englishman!”
“But my lord of Alva!” mutters the monk, aghast.
“You, didn’t fear him a minute ago. Be merciful as you are good. Look
at the altar piece; see, the Madonna pleads for me!”
And gazing round Father Anastasius starts, crosses himself, and gasps:
“A miracle! Our Mother’s face is yours, my child; the very eyes; the
very mouth—miraculous!”
“You see Holy Mary has taken my face to intercede for me,” whispers the
girl, an inspiration in her brain. “Quick; as short a ceremony as will
make us one.”
Thus adjured, the priest, thinking it the very command of the Virgin
herself, mutters over Guy Chester and Hermoine de Alva, though hastily,
the sacrament of the Catholic Church that makes this man and woman of
one flesh, one body and one name.
As he utters response a sudden exultation comes into Chester’s soul;
God will not bring despair upon this noble woman, this tender angel,
who whispers to him: “I am your wife; now let me see if my father dare
kill my husband!—holy man of God, your blessing.”
And the priest, putting hands over them, there come tears in Father
Anastasius s eyes and he murmurs: “Benedicte! The Virgin will guard the
man you love.”
Then Chester feels upon him his bride’s kiss with lips that are cold as
death itself; and she rising steps out to her father and says with
hoarse, unnatural voice: “It is done!”
For this place is like a torture chamber now, and the voices of all are
low and discordant; even Hermoine s own tones have grown harsh and
rasping.
“He is absolved?”
“No, he is married.”
“What?”
“YES, HE HAS MARRIED ME.”
“Married you! Misericordia! You will forever look upon your father as
your husband’s butcher. Bring me the accursed priest!” cries he of
Alva, rage mingling with his anguish.
“What would you of me?” answers Father Anastasius, striding from the
altar.
“How dared you marry them?”
“By command of the Virgin! See! Our Mother has taken the face of his
bride to protect him.”
“Ah—h! the juggling trick,” cries Alva, “the picture painted by the
traitor Oliver that comes in to stop my vengeance. But it shall not; it
is an affair of State!” And he signs to the hangman who is beside him,
the noose in his hands.
But Hermoine, confronting her father, answers: “No dastard death for my
husband, who is as noble as yourself. At least the mercy of the sword.”
“Take it! I give him as noble a death as I granted Egmont and Horn. Hew
me off this Englishman’s head on that table.”
“Before my eyes?” shudders his daughter.
“You wish it. It is an affair of State.”
“Father!” screams the girl. For the executioner has drawn his sword;
“Father, as you hope for mercy give it to me. Do you want every one on
this earth to call you an accursed and cruel butcher? There was only
one who did not before to-night. She was your daughter. Would you have
her say, ‘My father killed my husband?’”
But he answers hoarsely: “Quick, get this thing through.”
Four or five of the men would now drag Guy to the table, but Father
Anastasius striding to the altar, stands over the bound man and cries:
“This is sanctuary! Anathema upon him who enters sacred place with
drawn sword and naked weapon! The Madonna commands me! Stand back, or
upon you I will launch the curse of Mother Church!” For the hermit
priest has got to thinking he has the Virgin’s command to save the
bridegroom.
But Alva, brushing through the crowd of faltering soldiers, cries: “Get
you gone, you cursed priest,” and would make in to seize the bound man,
for his men hang back as the priest, raising up his voice, utters:
“Anathema!” and begins the awful sentence of excommunication.
To this Fernando laughs hoarsely. “Monks fright me not, I who have led
army against the Pope!” and will perchance play executioner himself
upon the husband of the daughter he loves.
At this moment a dark, light-footed girl flies into the window, crying:
“This way! Quick!”
Alva calls his men to turn about—but it is too late—they all have been
so concerned in the execution that they have not noticed the rush of
men who are now upon them headed by Corker, with a wild English cheer.
It’s scarce a moment ere the astonished body guard are either cut to
pieces or driven off to be pursued and butchered in the outer darkness
round the house, leaving their master all alone among his enemies,
though unwounded; for his armor has shed pistol and arquebus balls. His
head is unhelmed and in a minute he would be dead, for Chester now has
sword within his hand, and coming up he cries: “It is my turn now! My
Lord of Alva!”
Then round the iron Duke, who looks steadfastly on the doom that is
upon him, are thrown a pair of girl’s white arms, and Hermoine de Alva
from off her father’s breast beseeches: “Spare him, if you have mercy
on me! Spare him, husband, if you would have a happy bride in your arms
to-night—for in your arms I should remember that you were the murderer
of my father.”
“Spare him, young man, I charge you, as I saved you,” cries the priest.
“Yes, that you did, good Father Anastasius,” cries Hermoine, as Guy
drops his hand; and in another moment the hermit priest gets such a
kiss as never St. Anthony had, else he had succumbed; and the good
father murmurs: “For this feast of the flesh I will fast another week!”
But they are all laughing now, and joyous, save Don Fernando, as he
mutters: “What ransom?”
Then to Guy’s eyes come the picture of the blockaded town, the men
gaunt with hunger, the famishing women—the starving children—and he
answers: “The freedom of Haarlem!” and feels he has a nation in this
chance.
“Never! I have gold to pay for my life, but before one banner recedes
from Haarlem leaguer, or one soldier turns his back upon that town, hew
me down!” is Alva’s determined answer. “Butcher me if you will, but no
one shall say that Don Fernando de Toledo sold for his life his
allegiance to his sovereign.”
“Let them have a little bread.” Guy is pleading now.
“Never!”
“Let the women and children come out to make the fewer mouths to feed!”
is Hermoine’s appealing cry.
“Never!”
Then if there were Dutchmen about him, the Duke would die; as it is,
the English seamen cast on him glances of hatred and rage and lay hands
upon their swords.
But Chester cries: “Down with your weapons! Not from the hands of any
of my men can harm come to the father of the blessing of my life. Come
with me, my Hermoine.”
And the girl goes to him.
Seeing this my lord of Alva falters: “You—you are going to take her
away?”
“Why not? You do not love her!”
“By my soul I love her. It was an affair of State. At least promise if
you will not live with me, Hermoine—you’ll come back to visit me some
time—after you have forgot.”
But the girl answers: “No. I could not come without my husband, and I
could never trust your love for me to save his life, had you the power
to slay. It would be—‘an affair of State!’ What was my life, my
happiness, everything I had on earth, as I plead with you scarce five
minutes since, to ‘an affair of State!’ Father, keep your statecraft,
it has cost you the only heart in all this world that—that loved you!”
Here the beautiful being falters in her speech, and going up to this
man who had been so much to her—till now—she murmurs: “You were always
tender and good to me—before!” and places kiss upon his brow.
On this the Duke begins to plead with her to think of his gray
hairs—she who is the comfort of his declining life—and finally bursts
out at Guy: “This is a selfish love of yours—to take this girl who has
had princess’ state to live with you, a rover of the sea.”
“But with her I have taken a mighty dower—worthy a King’s daughter; all
THY UNLUCKY TENTH PENNY TAX, my lord of Alva!” answers Chester, who
can’t withhold this parting shot.
“How so? From whence?”
“From thy treasure house under the Bastion of the Duke.”
“Good God! Impossible!”
“It was the dying Paciotto’s secret!”
“I—I can’t believe,” falters Fernando, pale, trembling, broken.
“Believe by this! The statue moved its hand!” jeers Chester.
“And Roderigo, my watcher, died six days ago! It is fate—fortune has
turned her face from me,” moans he of Alva, and bows his head upon his
breast, as if hope had left him.
From this picture of despair Guy leads his bride away; but chancing at
the door to turn back for one last glance at her father who is now
alone, Hermoine begins to shudder and sob even in her husband’s arms.
The man of iron soul is kneeling before the altar piece, from which his
daughter’s eyes look down at him, and sobbing—he who never sobbed
before.
It is the last Alva has of his child in this world from now on. After
the beautiful being who had been the joy of his declining years turns
her back on him, fortune turns her face from him also. Though he wins
Haarlem, and his executioners, five of them, working day and night,
butcher the burghers of that hapless town and kill the bravest
defenders of its walls, Ripperda, Hasselaer, and its other heroes of
heroes; Don Fernando fails at the siege of Alkmaar.
He is not the Alva of old; and when some months after he departs for
Spain he goes broken in mind and body, having lost the confidence of
his king, but gained the immortal infamy of being the most cruel man of
a most cruel age—all his unpaid creditors in Holland and Brabant shout
execrations as he leaves their shores; they do not know the true story
of his statue.
Even Requesens, the succeeding Viceroy, believing his soldiers’ rumors,
tears Alva’s great image down, and goes to digging for his treasure—to
find naught but the wondrous casket that contained it.
But the Duke takes with him to Spain one thing; that he now values most
of all on earth—the altar piece painted by the genius of Oliver, and it
is set up on high behind the grand altar in the cathedral near
Vittoria, where my lord of Alva worships. Soon peasant tales are told
that he of iron heart cries each day before the Madonna, for the myriad
lives that had been lost to the world through him in the Low Countries.
And now in after years that picture is attributed to the early brush of
Murillo, and goes to make that Master’s glory—tourists being told it is
without price.
So the dead Oliver lost even renown. His genius went to give another
fame; his body tossed into his own beloved Y; his head thrown into
Haarlem as carrion. He died that Holland might live free, that a new
age might come when men could live their own lives, think their own
thoughts, and cry out to God in their own way. He has only the glory of
the patriot—but is not that enough?
From the sight of her father’s despair and humiliation Guy carries his
bride to the landing-place. Here all his boats await him, the seamen
rapidly bringing down such of Hermoine’s belongings as they can readily
put hands upon, Alida, the Moorish girl, directing them. Finally, her
mistress’s jewel case in her hand, she takes seat by Hermoine in the
stern sheets of the gig.
Then Chester calls to his men and the seamen bending to their oars, the
gig parts the waters of the Schelde making toward the Dover Lass.
“Dost remember our last boating on this river together?” whispers Guy,
into the ear of his bride. “The unknown lady, who was to promote me to
a Colonel, eh?”
“And have I not done more for you, my husband?” returns Lady
Chester—née Hermoine de Alva—in his ear.
Looking on her beauty, Guy’s glance is answer to this; there is no need
of words.
Making the Dover Lass, Chester carries in his arms his bride, and
bearing her to the cabin, Hermoine looks round and murmurs, startled:
“Thy ship is fitted up as a State galley or sovereign’s ship of pomp,
my lord,” for Achille has, with French taste, made the cabins like a
lady’s boudoir, with fresh flowers brought from the shore.
“Yes, it was for a honeymoon cruise I decorated these cabins. It was
for thee.”
“And you felt so sure of winning me—with against you all the power of
Spain? What indomitable determination, what intense assurance you
English have!” The last is a slight laugh. Then her face grows serious
and she falters: “What awful risks you took to win your bride, my
Guy—my Englishman!”
But Chester has to tear himself from her and go on deck to forget the
bridegroom in the sailor. The flag of England is run up on the Dover
Lass, her sails are spread, and the vessel speeds down the Schelde
estuary, and passes Flushing, for Guy will not stop there for fear of
pursuing Spanish warships.
The next evening as they drop anchor they hear the merry church bells
of Harwich steeple.
“Welcome to England,” cries Guy, and takes his bride on shore. Here it
is given out that Chester has captured a galleon of most wondrous
riches: and he pays thereon ten per cent., as is usual, to the crown of
England, by Drake, Hawkins and other rovers of the sea.
The rest of the treasure, by the law of the land is his, and he makes
division with Bodé Volcker, paying him his share. With this money in
hand the commercial Fleming hies him to Holland, and some years after
when Amsterdam is taken by Orange, settles there, to become one of its
merchant princes.
When they are paid and the rewards are given unto them, there are no
happier sailormen carousing in the ports of England than those of the
Dover Lass; and for weeks afterwards when a Jack tar is seen in
Plymouth or Portsmouth sporting two big watches, bought from excited
Jews, the cry is: “That’s one of Chester’s men, no one but a Dover Lass
could flash such elegance!”
These things coming to the ears of Queen Elizabeth, Her Majesty remarks
to her prime minister: “Burleigh, this Sir Guy Chester is the grandest
thief of us all. He has stole that minx of Alva, and he and the girl
have got together and robbed her father, the poor old Duke.
“They took Your Majesty as precedent,” murmurs Burleigh. “Dost remember
the eight hundred thousand crowns?”
“Yea, in God’s truth I do! But this Knight of mine, Chester, is lost to
me as a fighting man if his fortune is a fifth what they say it is, and
his bride’s loveliness is a tenth what rumor gives to her. Bring the
wench to me. I would lay eyes upon this Spanish beauty.”
“In truth,” answers Cecil, who has seen and wondered at Hermoine’s
loveliness, “Lady Chester is the most beautiful woman on earth—saving
Your Majesty.”
“Out upon your cozening courtier’s tongue—that ‘saving your majesty’
was an afterthought,” laughs Elizabeth. “But bring the wench with you,
I believe you’re half in love with her yourself—you old
philanderer—bring me this minx of Alva, quick!”
So Sir Guy Chester, coming with his bride to court, Hermoine, by the
graces of her mind, which are enchanting, and by her beauty, which is
grand and winning, sends Shene and Westminster wild with admiration.
Looking on this, Queen Bess remarks sadly: “Good fortune has made this
Chester a carpet knight; he now eats with that Italian abomination
called a fork. Still, he has an eye for treasure; his lady’s diamonds
are finer than my own. Perchance he may make a good Lord of the
Treasury, for he’ll do no more fighting—unless he is a fool.”
Elizabeth’s guess is true, Chester buying great properties round
London, settles down in almost princely state with his fair bride to
contented happiness; though some ten years afterwards he buckles on his
sword, as every true Englishman did, and fitting out at his own expense
six stout vessels, the smallest of which is the old Dover Lass, which
Dalton commands now, he takes his station in the channel, under my Lord
Howard of Effingham, to battle against the great Armada Philip of Spain
has sent against the liberties of his country.
That glorious victory is the last sea fight of the “First of the
English.” From that time he lives most of the year amid the mild
climate of the Kentish coast, which pleases best his Spanish bride, who
remembers the soft breezes of her native land. Here, to the end of her
long and happy life, she reigns bride of her husband’s heart and
mistress of his soul.
Their one sorrow is that no son comes to inherit their great estates,
but they have a daughter, brunette-like as her mother, with Hermoine’s
ivory skin and glorious, Madonna eyes, and she marries into a great
English family, bringing to it a dower of lands that now makes it one
of the grandest and richest of England’s ducal houses.
Every now and again some daughter of the house has Hermoine’s exquisite
eyes, ivory skin and wondrous hair, and her loveliness is not that of
the North but of the South. Then her brothers and sisters laugh and say
it is the Spanish beauty broken out once more, though they have
forgotten from whence it came.
It is only a legend with them now in early chronicle, of the hardy
sailor, the indomitable fighter, the non-despairing lover, who stole
Alva’s treasure and with greater fortune won the noble heart of Alva’s
daughter to make her bride to “The First of the English!”
FINIS.