"SAUVE QUI PEUT"
Then it is that, out of the thickness of the fog a figure suddenly
emerges running and panting: a man has fallen up against the group of
soldiers who have just halted beside the gibbet.
"It is Lucas of Sparendam come back from Delft," they cry as soon as
they recognize the stained face, wet with the frost and the mist.
Already Jan--who with Piet's help was busy with the rope--has heard the
name. His wan, thin face has become the colour of ashes.
"Lucas of Sparendam back from Delft," he murmurs, "the Lord save us
all!"
Lucas of Sparendam was sent yesterday to Delft by the Lord of
Stoutenburg to spy and to find out all that was going on inside the
Prinzenhof where slept the Stadtholder and his bodyguard of one hundred
men-at-arms: and now he has come back running and panting: his clothes
torn, his face haggard and spent. He has run all the way from Delft--a
matter of a league and a half! Why should a man half kill himself by
endeavouring to cover a league and a half in one hour?
"A drop of hot wine for Lucas," cries one of the soldiers. "He is
faint."
The other men--there are close on forty all told--crowd round the gibbet
now, those in charge of the prisoner have much ado to keep the space
clear. They don't say anything just yet, but there is a strange,
restless look in their eyes and their lips tremble with all the unspoken
questions. Only two men remain calm and silent, Jan has never ceased in
his task of adjusting the ropes, and the prisoner stands quite still,
bound with cords, and neither looking on Lucas nor yet on the gibbet
above him. His eyes are half closed and there is a strained look on his
merry face as if he were trying to listen to something that was too far
off to hear.
But one man in the meanwhile is ready with the bottle of spiced wine,
the best cordial there is for a fainting man. The others make way for
him so that he can minister to Lucas. And Lucas drinks the wine eagerly,
then he opens his eyes.
"We are betrayed," he murmurs.
"Great God!" exclaims Jan dully.
"Betrayed!"
"What does it mean?"
No one heeds the prisoner now. They all crowd around Lucas. Jan calls
out his orders in vain: Piet the Red alone listens to what he says, the
others all want to know what Lucas means. They had been in the thick of
a plot of course, they all knew that: a guet-apens had been prepared by
the Lord of Stoutenburg for the Stadtholder whom he hates. The heavy
boxes of course--gunpowder ... to blow up the wooden bridge when the
Stadtholder and his escort are half way across!
Of course they had all guessed it, thought on it all through the night
while they polished the arms--the swords and the pistols and the
cullivers--which had been served out to them. They had guessed of
course--the foreign mercenaries who were always in the thick of every
conspiracy and well paid for being so--they had been the first to guess
and they had told the country louts who only grinned enjoying the
prospect of the fun.
But now they were betrayed. Lucas of Sparendam had come back with the
news, and even Jan stopped in his hideous task in order to listen to
what he had to say.
"It all happened yesterday," quoth Lucas as soon as he had recovered his
breath, "the rumour began in the lower quarters of the town. Nobody
knows who began it. Some say that a foreigner came into the city in the
early morning and sat down at one of the taverns to eat and drink with
the Prince's soldiers."
"A foreigner?"
Jan turns to look on the prisoner and encounters his mocking glance.
Smothering a curse he resumes his task of adjusting the rope upon the
gibbet, but his fingers are unsteady and his work doth not progress.
"Yes, a foreigner," continued Lucas volubly, "though it all has
remained very mysterious. The Prince's soldiers spoke of it amongst
themselves ... the foreigner had said something about a guet-apens, a
plot against the Stadtholder's life on his way to the North ... then
one of the officers heard the rumour and carried it to one of his
superiors.... By the evening it had reached the Stadtholder's ears."
"Then what happened?" they all asked eagerly.
"Nothing for some hours," replied Lucas, "but I know that spies were
sent round in every direction, and that by midnight there was general
talk in the city that the Stadtholder would not continue his journey to
the North. When the captain of the guard came to him for orders the
Prince said curtly: 'We do not start to-morrow!' As soon as I heard of
this I made preparations. It was then an hour after midnight. I was
still alert and listening: all around me--as I made ready to leave the
city--I heard rumours among the soldiers and spies of the Stadtholder,
of their knowledge of a lonely spot--a deserted molens--near Ryswyk
where they declared many men did lately congregate. I heard too that
soon after dawn the Prince's guard would make straight for the molens,
so I put on my snow shoes and started to run, despite the darkness and
the fog, for we are all betrayed and the Stadtholder's soldiers will be
on us in a trice."
Hardly are the words out of Lucas Sparendam's mouth than the commotion
begins, the disbanding; there is a roar and a bustle and a buzz: metal
clashing, men rushing, cries of "we are betrayed! _sauve qui peut!_"
At first there is a general stampede for the places where the arms are
kept--the muskets, the swords and cullivers--but these are thrown down
almost as soon as they are picked up. They are no use now and worse than
useless in a flight. But pistols are useful, in case of pursuit. "Quick,
turn, fire!... so where are the pistols?... Jan, where are those
pistols?"
There are not enough to go round: about a dozen were served out last
night, and there are forty pairs of hands determined to possess one at
least. So they begin to fight for them, tearing one another to pieces,
shouting execrations, beating round with bare fists, since the other
arms have already been laid down.
Now the confusion becomes worse than any that might reign among a herd
of animals who are ready to rend one another: they tear the clothes off
one another's back, the skin off one another's face: fear--hideous,
overwhelming, abject fear, has made wild beasts of these men. The mist
envelops them, it is barely light in this basement beneath the molens:
lanthorns have long ago been kicked into extinction. The hot breath of
forty panting throats mingles with the mist, and the heat of human
bodies fever-heated with passion, fights against the strength of the
frost. The frozen ground yields under the feet, clots of mud are thrown
up by the stampede, from the beams up aloft the heavy icicles melt and
drip monotonously, incessantly down upon those faces, red and perspiring
in an agony of demented fear.
Jan and Piet the Red stand alone beside the prisoner: a sense of duty,
of decency hath kept their blood cool. Until they are relieved from
their post of guarding this man by orders from their lord, they will not
move. Let the others rage and scream and tumble over one another, there
must be at least a few soldiers among this rabble.
And the prisoner looks on all this confusion with eyes that dance and
sparkle with the excitement of what is yet to come. Torn rags and broken
accoutrements soon lie in a litter in the mud, trampled in by forty
pairs of feet. There is not one face now that is not streaked with
blood, not one throat that is not hoarse with terror--the terror of the
unknown.
In vain Jan from his post beside the prisoner shouts, harangues,
appeals, threatens! A fight? yes! defeat? why not? but betrayal!... no,
no, let's away. The Stadtholder is fiercer than any Inquisitor of
Spain ... his cruelty last February almost turned the nation against
him. But now--this second conspiracy--Stoutenburg again! what hope for
his followers?
The horrors of last February perpetrated in the Gevangen Poort of 'S
Graven Hage still cause many a rough cheek to blanch at their
recollection. Men had gone mad who had heard the cries which pierced
those stone walls then. One executioner had thrown down his bloody tools
and fled from the place like one possessed! Van Dyk and Korenwinder,
Slatius and the rest had been in hell ere a merciful death at last
released them from the barbaric cruelty of the Prince of Orange.
"No, no! such a fate cannot be risked. We are betrayed! let us fly!"
Suddenly one man starts to run.
"I am for the coast!" he shouts, and incontinently takes to his heels.
"_Sauve qui peut!_"
Like irresponsible creatures they throw down the very weapons for which
they have been fighting. The one man has given the signal for the run.
Everything now is thrown aside, there is no thought save for flight.
A splashing of the mud, a general shout, a scramble, a clatter--they
run--they run--crying to those who are behind to follow and run too.
In five minutes the dark basement is clear of noise--a litter of broken
arms lies in one heap close by, others are scattered all over the ground
in the mud, together with torn clothing, rags of leather and of cloth
and great red pools that mingle with the melted ice.
The mist surrounds it all, this abandoned battle field wherein fear was
the victor over man. The swiftly flying figures are soon swallowed up by
the grey wall which lies dense and heavy over the lowland around; for a
time they appear like ghosts with blurred outlines of torn doublets and
scraps of felt hats placed awry; then the outline gets more dim as they
run, and the kindly mist hides them from view.
Under the molens all is silent now. Jan and Piet the Red guard the
prisoner alone. The gallows are ready or nearly so, but there is no one
to send to the Lord of Stoutenburg to tell him this--as he hath
commanded--so that he may see this man hang whom he hates. And it would
not be safe to leave the prisoner unguarded. Only from time to time Jan
looks to see that the ropes still hold fast, but for the most part his
eyes are fixed upon the mist on his left, for that way lies Delft, and
from thence will loom out by and by the avenging hordes sent by the
Prince of Orange.
Now that all those panting, perspiring human creatures have gone, the
frost is more bitter, more biting than before; but neither Piet nor Jan
seem to heed it, though their flesh is blue with the cold. Overhead
there is a tramp of feet; the noble mynheers must have heard the
confusion, they must have seen the flight; they are even now preparing
to do in a slightly more dignified way what the foreign mercenaries and
the louts from the country have done so incontinently.
The prisoner, hearing this tramp of feet over his head, looks more
alertly around him. He sees that Jan and Piet have remained on guard
even whilst the others have fled. He also sees the pile of heaped-up
arms, the broken metal, the rags and the mud, and through the
interstices of the wooden steps the booted feet of the mynheers running
helter-skelter down; and a mad, merry laugh--that holds a world of joy
in its rippling tones--breaks from his lips.
The next moment from far away comes a weird cry through the mist. A fox
on the alert tries to lure his prey with that quaint cry of his, which
appeals to the young birds and encourages them to come. What should a
fox be doing on these ice-covered tracks? he must have strayed from very
far, from over the moor mayhap beyond Gonda; hunger no doubt hath made a
wanderer of him, an exile from his home.
Jan listens--greatly astonished--what should a fox be doing here? Piet
is impassive, he knows nothing of the habits of foxes; sea-wolves are
more familiar to him. With his eyes Jan instinctively questions the
prisoner:
"What should a fox be doing here on these ice-bound flats?" he mutely
asks.
But the prisoner apparently cares nothing about the marvels of nature,
cares nothing about exiled foxes. His head is erect, his eyes dance with
glee, a happy smile lights up his entire face.
Jan remembered that the others last night had called the wounded man the
Laughing Cavalier. A Cavalier he looked, every inch of him; the ropes
mattered nothing, nor the torn clothing; proud, triumphant, happy, he
was laughing with all the light-hearted gaiety which pertains to youth.
The Laughing Cavalier forsooth. Lucky devil! if he can laugh! Jan sighed
and marvelled when the Lord of Stoutenburg would relieve him from his
post.