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She paused, terrified at what she had said. Ignorant as she was, she knew well enough that the few last words which she had uttered had caused men and women to be burned at the stake before now. Wide-eyed and full of fear she looked on the noble Spanish lady, expecting every moment to see a commanding finger pointed on her, and orders given for her immediate arrest.
Instead of which she saw before her a pale, slim girl scarce older than herself, and infinitely more pathetic, just a young and beautiful woman with pale face and eyes swimming in tears, whose whole attitude just expressed an immense and overwhelming grief.
The veil of mystery which had hung over Ramon's death had indeed been lifted at last by the rough, uncouth hands of the innkeeper's daughter. Lenora as yet hardly dared to look into the vista which it opened up before her: boundless remorse, utter hopelessness, the dreary sense of the irreparable-all that lay beyond the present stunning blow of this terrible revelation.
God in Heaven! she cried out mutely in her misery, how could she ever have thought-even for a moment-that those grey eyes, so merry and yet so tender-could mask a treacherous and cowardly soul? How could she think that those lips which so earnestly pleaded for a kiss could ever have been framed to hide a lying tongue? Would to God that she could still persuade herself that all this new revelation was a dream; that Grete-the unsophisticated child-had lied and concocted the whole story to further some hidden schemes of her own! Would to God she could still believe that Mark was vile and false-an assassin and a perjurer-and that she could hate him still!
She met Grete's eyes fixed so fearfully upon hers-she met them at the moment when she was about to give herself over to the transient happiness of a brief day-dream … dreams of two unforgettable hours when he sat beside her with his hand shading his face … his eyes resting upon her … dreams of his voice when he said: "When I look at you, Madonna, I invariably think of happiness."
IV
But Grete recalled her to herself, and to the awful present. Despite her great respect for the noble Spanish lady, she suddenly put her arms round her shoulders, and tried to draw her away from the open window.
"His Highness!" she whispered hurriedly, "he will see us."
"What matters, child," murmured Lenora, "he will not harm us."
Instinctively, however, she did yield to Grete's insistence and drew back slightly from the window. From the balcony down below there came the sound of measured tramping. Two or three men were walking there slowly up and down and talking confidentially together while they walked. Whenever they were close to the window their voices came up quite distinctly, but it was impossible to hear all that they said, but one or two disjointed sentences gave a faint clue to the subject of their conversation. Lenora now leaned closer to the window-frame trying to hear, for she had recognised her father's voice as well as that of the Duke of Alva, and they were speaking of their future plans against the rebels and against the city, and Lenora felt that she would give her life to know what those plans were.
After a moment or two she heard the voice of Captain de Avila; he was apparently coming up the iron stairs from the yard and was speaking hurriedly:
"A runner, your Highness," he said, "straight from Dendermonde."
"What news?" queried the Duke, and his voice sounded almost choked as if with fierce impatience.
"One of Captain Lodrono's messengers reached Dendermonde last night," replied de Avila, "he was lucky enough to get a horse almost at once."
"Well…? and…?"
"This man came running straight back to bring us the news! Captain Bracamonte started at break of day: he should be well on his way with the reinforcements by now."
There was a hoarse exclamation of satisfaction and a confused murmur of voices for a moment or two. Then de Vargas spoke:
"It was a bold venture, Monseigneur," he said.
"This truce, you mean?" retorted Alva. "Well! not quite so bold as it appeared. Those Netherlanders are such mighty fools that it is always easy to make them believe anything that we choose to tell them: do they not always fall into our traps? I had only to swear by my immortal soul that we had not sent for reinforcements and the last of their resistance was overcome."
Lenora could hear her father's harsh laugh after this and then del Rio said blandly:
"Van Rycke did not believe in that oath."
"Perhaps not at first," Alva said, "but it was so finely worded and spoken with such solemnity, it was bound to carry conviction in the end."
"You were not afraid, Monseigneur," queried de Vargas, "this morning … in the crowd … after Mass … that the rebels would break the truce and fall upon our men?"
"No," replied the Duke curtly, "were you?"
There came no answer from de Vargas, and to the listeners it seemed as if by his silence he was admitting that he did not believe the Orangists capable of such abominable treachery. A fine tribute that-Lenora thought-from her father who hated and despised the Netherlanders! But he and Alva would even now call such loyalty and truth the mere stupidity of uncultured clowns.
"Anyhow it was worth the risk," de Vargas resumed after awhile, with that cold cynicism which will sacrifice friends, adherents, kindred for the furtherance of political aims.
"Well worth the risk," asserted Alva, "we have gained the whole of to-day. If these rebels had rushed the Kasteel this morning, I verily believe that we could not have held it: I might have fallen into their hands and-with me as their hostage-they would by now have been in a position to dictate their own terms before reinforcements reached us-always supposing that they did not murder us all. Yes," he reiterated with obvious satisfaction, "even if treachery had been in the air it was still well worth the risk."
"And in the meanwhile…" suggested del Rio.
"In the meanwhile Bracamonte is on his way here… He must have started well before noon … he might be here before nightfall…"
"With at least five thousand men, I hope," added de Vargas.
"Night may see us masters of this city once more, seigniors," rejoined Alva, "and by God we'll punish those rebels for the fright they have given us. Ghent will be envying Mons and Mechlin…"
The three men walked slowly away after that, and their voices were lost in the distance. The listeners could no longer distinguish what was said, but anon a harsh laugh struck their ear, and leaning out of the window Lenora could see the Duke and her father standing just outside the council-chamber. The Duke had thrown back his head and was laughing heartily, de Vargas too looked highly amused. Not one single word of remorse or regret had been spoken by either of them for the blasphemous oath which had finally overcome the resistance of the Orangists: of a truth it did not weigh on the conscience of the man who had so wantonly outraged his Maker less than an hour before he knelt at the foot of His Altar, and de Vargas and his kind were only too ready to benefit by the perjury.
The sack of Ghent-jeopardised for a few hours-was once more looming ahead as a coveted prize. What was a false oath or so-one crime the more-when weighed in the balance with all the money and treasure which the unexpected resistance of a few Flemish clowns had so nearly wrenched from these noble Spaniards' grasp?
V
"Didst hear?" came in a smothered whisper from Lenora. She had turned suddenly and now faced Grete, who stood wide-eyed and terrified in the centre of the room. Her arms were behind her, and she clung to the window-ledge: her fair hair-all loose-streamed round her shoulders; pale, with glowing eyes and quivering lips, she looked like some beautiful feline creature at bay.
"Didst hear?" she reiterated hoarsely.
"Every word, most noble lady," came the whispered response.
"What didst make of it?"
"That His Highness sent to Dendermonde for help, and that troops are on their way."
"But His Highness swore most solemnly that he would respect the truce which he himself asked for, and that both sides would resume the fight … this evening … just as they were before … without fresh help or reinforcements."
"I heard the men say last night, noble lady, that reinforcements had already been sent for from Dendermonde … the Duke feared that the Netherlanders were getting the upper hand … he asked for the truce only to gain time…"
"Then … if Captain Bracamonte arrives from Dendermonde with fresh troops the Netherlanders are lost!"
"God guard them," said Grete fervently. "He alone can save them now."
"Oh!" cried Lenora with sudden passionate bitterness, "how can men conceive such abominable treachery? How can God allow them to triumph?"
Grete said nothing. Her eyes were full of tears. Lenora stared straight out before her into the dark corner of the room: there was a frown of deep thought between her brows, and her fresh young mouth became hard and set.
"Grete," she said abruptly, "is it not horrible to think that those we care for are liars and traitors?"
Then, as Grete made no reply, she continued with the same passionate vehemence: "Is it not horrible to think that brave men must be butchered like cattle, because they trusted in the oath of a perjurer? … Oh! that all the baseness, all the lying should be on one side and all the heroism on the other! and that God should allow those monsters to triumph!.."
She paused and suddenly her whole expression changed-the vehemence, the passion went out of it … her lips ceased to quiver, a curious pallor overspread her cheeks and the lines of her mouth became hard and set.
"Grete," she said abruptly, "art afraid?"
"Of what, noble lady?" asked the child.
"Oh! of everything … of insults and violence and death?"
"No, noble lady," said Grete simply. "I trust to God to protect me."
"Then wilt come with me?"
"Whither, noble lady?"
"Into the city … alone with me … we'll pretend that we go to Benediction…"
"Into the city…?" exclaimed the girl. "Alone?"
"Art afraid?"
"No."
"Then put up my hair and get hood and cloak and give me mine…"
Grete did as she was ordered. She pinned up Lenora's fair hair and brought her a mantle and hood and wrapped them round her: then she fastened on her own.
"Come!" said Lenora curtly.
She took the girl by the hand and together the two women went out of the room. Their way led them through endless corridors and down a long, winding staircase; hand in hand they ran like furtive little animals on the watch for the human enemy. Down below the big flagged hall was full of soldiers: the two women only realised this when they reached the last landing.
"Will they let us pass?" murmured Grete.
"Walk beside me and hold thy head boldly," said Lenora, "they must not think that we are afraid of being challenged."
She walked down the last flight of the stairs with slow majestic steps: her arms folded beneath her cloak, looking straight ahead of her with that air of calm detachment and contempt of others which the Spanish noblesse knew so well how to assume.
Captain de Avila was below: at sight of donna Lenora he came forward and said with absolute respect:
"La señora desires to go out?"
"As you see," she replied haughtily.
"Not further than the precincts of the Kasteel, I hope."
"What is that to you, whither I go?" she queried.
"My orders…" he stammered, somewhat taken aback by this grand manner on the part of the señora who had always been so meek and silent hitherto.
"What orders have you had, seigneur capitaine?" she queried, "which warrant your interference with my movements?"
"I … truly…" he murmured, "señor de Vargas…"
"My father, I presume, has not given you the right to question my freedom to go and come as I please," she retorted, still with the same uncompromising hauteur.
"No … but…"
"Then I pray you let me pass… I hear the bells of St. Pharaïlde … I shall be late for Benediction…"
She swept past him, leaving him not a little bewildered and completely abashed. He watched her tall, graceful figure as she sailed through the portico and thence across the castle-yard, then he shrugged his shoulders as if to cast aside any feeling of responsibility which threatened to worry him, and returned to the guard-room and to his game of hazard. It was only then that he recollected that it lacked another two hours to Benediction yet.
In the yard Lenora had more serious misgivings.
"There's the guard at the gate-house," she murmured. "Keep up thy look of unconcern, Grete. We can only win if we are bold."
As she anticipated the provost at the gate-house challenged her.
"I go to St. Pharaïlde," she said calmly, "my father is with me. He hath stopped to speak with Captain de Avila. Lower the bridge, provost, and let us pass. We are late enough for Benediction as it is."
The provost hesitated for a moment.
"The seigneur capitaine sent me orders just now that no one was to leave the Kasteel," he said.
"Am I under the seigneur capitaine's orders," she retorted, "or the daughter of señor de Vargas, who will punish thee, sirrah, for thine insolence?"
The provost, much disturbed in his mind, had not the courage to run counter to the noble lady's wish. He had had no orders with regard to her, and as she very rightly said, she was not under the orders of the seigneur capitaine.
He ordered the bridge to be lowered for her, vaguely intending not to let her pass until he assured himself that señor de Vargas was nigh: but Lenora gave him no time for reflection: she waited until the bridge was down, then suddenly she seized Grete's hand and quick as a young hare she darted past the provost and the guard before they thought of laying hands on her, and she was across the bridge before they had recovered from their surprise.
Once on the open ground Lenora drew breath. The provost and the guard could not very well run after her, and for the moment she was safe from pursuit. On ahead lay the sharp bend of the Lower Schelde, beyond it the ruined mass of the Vleeshhuis, and the row of houses, now all shattered to pieces, where the Orangists held their watch. Her heart was beating furiously, and she felt Grete's rough little hand quivering in hers. She felt such a tiny atom, a mere speck in this wide open space. In front of her was the city, which seemed even in the silence of this Sunday afternoon to be quivering in the throes of oncoming death: to right and left of her the great tract of flat country, this land of Belgium which she had not yet learned to love but for which she now felt a wonderful pity.
It was a rude lesson which she had been made to learn within the last hour: the lesson that the idols of her childhood and girlhood had not only feet of clay but that they were steeped to the neck in the mire of falsehoods and treachery: she had also learned that the man whom she had once hated with such passionate bitterness was worthy of a pure woman's love: that happiness had knocked at the gateway of her own heart and been refused admittance: and that God was not wont to give very obvious guidance in the terrible perplexities which at times beset His creatures.
Therefore now she no longer lured herself with the belief that she was acting at this moment under the direct will of God, she knew that she was guided by an overmastering and blind instinct which told her that she must see Mark-at once-and warn him that the perfidy of the Duke of Alva had set a deathly trap for him and for his friends.
A few more minutes and she and Grete were over the Ketel Brüghe and under the shadow of the tall houses on the river embankment beyond.
"Take me!" she said to Grete peremptorily, "to the house of the High-Bailiff of Ghent."
CHAPTER XVIII
THE LAST STAND
I
The word has gone round, we must all assemble in the cathedral church-every burgher, every artisan, every apprentice who belongs by blood to Ghent must for the nonce cast aside pick and shovel: the dead can wait! the living claim attention.
Quite a different crowd from that which knelt at prayer this morning! It is just two o'clock and the sacred edifice is thronged: up in the galleries, the aisles, the chancel, the organ loft, the pulpit, everywhere there are men-young and old-men who for two days now have been face to face with death and who wear on their grim faces the traces of the past fierce struggle and of the coming cataclysm. There are no women present. They have nobly taken on the task of the men, and the dainty burghers' wives who used to spend their time at music or needlework, wield the spade to-day with as much power as their strength allows.
Perfect order reigns despite the magnitude of the crowd: those who found no place inside the building, throng the cemetery and the precincts. Behind the high altar the Orangist standard is unfurled, and in front of the altar rails stand the men who have fought in the forefront of the insurgents' ranks, who have led every assault, affronted every danger, braved musket fire and arrow-shot and burning buildings and crumbling ruins, the men who have endured and encouraged and cheered: Mark van Rycke the popular leader, Laurence his brother, Pierre Deynoot, Lievin van Deynse, Frédéric van Beveren and Jan van Migrode, who is seriously wounded but who has risen from his sick bed and crawled hither in order to add the weight of his counsel and of his enthusiasm to what he knows van Rycke will propose.
Yes! they are there, all those that are left! and with them are the older burghers, the civic dignitaries of their city, the Sheriffs of the Keure, the aldermen, the vroedschappen, the magistrates, and the High-Bailiff himself-he who is known to be such a hot adherent of Alva.
It is he who has convened this meeting-a general rally of the citizens of Ghent. He called them together by roll of drums and by word of mouth transmitted by volunteer messengers who have flown all over the town. This morning we spent in prayer-to-day is a day of peace-let us meet and talk things over, for if wisdom waits upon enthusiasm, all is not lost yet. The proposal has come from the High-Bailiff, at the hour of noon when men only thought of the grim work of burying the dead, and women wandered through the streets to search for the loved one who has been missing since yesterday.
But at the word of the High-Bailiff the men laid aside their picks and spades. If all is not lost, why then there's something still to do and-the dead must wait.
And every man goes to the cathedral church to hear what the High-Bailiff has to say: the church and precincts are crowded. In silence every one listens whilst he speaks. He has always been a faithful subject of King Philip, an obedient servant of the Regent and the Lieutenant-Governor: his influence and well-known adherence to the King has saved the city many a time from serious reprisals against incipient revolt and from many of the horrors of the Inquisition. Now, while up there in the Kasteel Alva impatiently awaits the arrival of fresh troops which will help to crush the rebellious city, the High-Bailiff pleads for submission.
He has faith in the human tiger.
"Let us throw ourselves at his feet," he urges, "he is a brave soldier, a great warrior. He will respect your valorous resistance if he sees that in the hour when you have the advantage over him you are prepared to give in, and to throw yourselves upon his mercy. Let us go-we who are older and wiser-let those who have led this unfortunate revolt keep out of the way-I will find the right words I know to melt the heart of our Lieutenant-Governor now turned in wrath against us-let us go and cry for mercy and, by God, I believe that we shall get it."
Like the waves upon the sea, the crowd in the church moves and oscillates: murmurs of assent and dissent mingle from end to end, from side to side: "No! – Yes! – 'Twere shameful! – 'Twere wise! – There are the women to think of! – And the children! – He will not listen! – Why this purposeless abasement?"
Van Rycke and the other leaders make no comment upon the High-Bailiff's appeal-even though their whole soul revolts at the thought of this fresh humiliation to be endured by the burghers of Ghent, once so proud and so independent! But they won't speak! Mark knows that with one word he can sway the whole of this crowd. They are heroes all-every one of these men. At one word from him they will cast aside every thought save that of the renewed fight-the final fight to the death-they are seething with enthusiasm, their blood is up and prudence and wisdom have to be drilled into them now that they have tasted of the martyr's cup.
You can hear Father van der Schlicht's voice now. He too is for humility and an appeal for mercy on this the festival day of the Holy Redeemer. The Lieutenant-Governor is a pious man and a good Catholic. The appeal is sure to please his ears. Oh! the virtues that adorn the Duke of Alva in the estimation of his adherents! He is pious and he is brave! a good Catholic and a fine soldier! mercy in him is allied to wisdom! he will easily perceive that to gain the gratitude of the citizens of Ghent would be more profitable to him than the destruction of a prosperous city. See this truce which he himself suggested: was it not the product of a merciful and a religious mind? To pray in peace, to obey the dictates of the Church, to give the enemy the chance of burying the dead! – were these not the sentiments of a good and pious man?
Messire Henri de Buck, senior Schepen and Judge of the High Court, has many tales to tell of the kindness and generosity of the Duke. Oh! they are very eloquent, these wealthy burghers who have so much more to lose by this revolt than mere honour and mere life!
And the others listen! Oh yes! they listen! need a stone be left unturned? and since Messire the High-Bailiff hath belief in his own eloquence, why! let him exercise it of course. Not that there is one whit less determination in any single man in the crowd! If the High-Bailiff fails in his mission, they will fight to the last man still, but … oh! who can shut his heart altogether against hope? And there are the women and the children … and all those who are old and feeble.
God speed to you then, my Lord High-Bailiff-Charles van Rycke, the pusillanimous father of a gallant son! God speed to all of you who go to plead with a tiger to spare the prey which he already holds between his claws! The High-Bailiff will go and with him Father van der Schlicht and Father Laurent Toch from St. Agneten, and Messire de Buck and François de Wetteren: all the men who two days ago were kneeling in the mud at the tyrant's feet, and presented him so humbly with the gates of the city which he had sworn to destroy. There is no cheering as they detach themselves from the group of the rebel leaders who still stand somewhat apart, leaving the crowd to have its will.
No cheering, it is all done in silence! Men do not cheer on the eve of being butchered; they only look on their standard up above the high altar behind the carved figure of the Redeemer, and though they have given silent consent for this deputation to the tyrant they still murmur in their hearts: "For Orange and Liberty!"
Jan van Migrode, weak and ill from his wound, has had the last word. He begs that every one should wait-here-just as they are … in silence and patience … until the High-Bailiff and his friends come back with the news … good or bad! peace or renewed fighting-life or death! – whichever it is they must all be together in order to decide.
Just at the last the High-Bailiff turns to his son.
"You do not approve of our going, Mark?" he asks with some diffidence.
"I think that it is purposeless," replies Mark; "you cannot extract blood out of a stone, or mercy out of the heart of a brute!"
II
They go, the once proud burghers of the city of Ghent, they go to throw themselves for the last time at the feet of that monster of tyranny and cruelty who even at this hour is gloating over the thought of the most deadly reprisals he hath ever dealt to these down-trodden people.
They go with grave yet hopeful faces, in their dark robes which are the outward sign of the humility, the loyalty which dwell in their hearts. The crowd have wished them God speed! and as they file out of the stately cathedral and through the close, the men stand respectfully aside and eye them with a trustful regard which is infinitely pathetic. Their leaders have remained beside the altar rails, grouped together, talking quietly among themselves: Mark van Rycke, however, goes to mingle with the crowd, to speak with all those who desire a word with him, with the men whose heart is sore at the humiliation which they are forced to swallow, who would sooner have died than see the dignitaries of their city go once again as suppliants before that execrable tyrant whom they loathe.
"What is thine idea, van Rycke?" most of the men ask him as they crowd around him, anxious to hear one word of encouragement or of hope. "Dost think the tyrant will relent?"
"Not unless we hold him as he holds us-not unless we have him at our mercy."
"Then what can we do? what can we do?"
"Do?" he reiterates for the hundredth time to-day, "do? Fight to the last man, die to the last man, until God, wearied of the tyrant's obstinacy, will crush him and give us grace."
"But we cannot win in the end."
"No! but we can die as we have lived, clean, undaunted, unconquered."
"But our wives, our daughters?"
"Ask them," he retorts boldly. "It is not the women who would lick the tyrant's shoes."
The hour drags wearily on. In imagination every one inside and around the cathedral follows the burghers on their weary pilgrimage. Half an hour to walk to the Kasteel, half an hour for the audience with the Duke, half an hour to return … unforeseen delay in obtaining admittance … it may be two hours before they return. Great many of the men have returned to the gloomy task of burying the dead, others to that of clearing the streets from the litter which encumbers them: but even those who work the hardest keep their attention fixed upon the cathedral and its approach.
Van Rycke had suggested that the great bell be rung when the burghers came back with the Duke's answer, so that all who wished could come and hear.
III
And now the answer has come.
The High-Bailiff has returned with Fathers van der Schlicht and Laurent Toch, with Aldermen de Buck and de Wetteren and with the others. They have walked back from the Kasteel bareheaded and shoeless with their hands tied behind their back, and a rope around their neck.
That was the Duke of Alva's answer to the deputation of Flemish patricians and burghers who had presented themselves before him in order to sue for his mercy. They had not even been admitted into his presence. The provost at the gate-house had curtly demanded their business, had then taken their message to the Duke, and returned five minutes later with orders to "send back the beggars whence they came, bareheaded and shoeless and with a rope around their necks in token of the only mercy which they might expect from him!"
The bridge had been lowered for them when they arrived, but they were kept parleying with a provost at the gate-house: not a single officer-even of lower rank-deigned to come out to speak with them; the yard was filled with soldiers who insulted and jeered at them: the High-Bailiff was hit on the cheek by a stone which had been aimed at him, and Father Laurent Toch's soutane was almost torn off his back. Every one of them had suffered violence at the hands of the soldiery whilst the Duke's abominable orders were being carried out with appalling brutality: every one of them was bleeding from a cut or a blow dealt by that infamous crowd who were not ashamed thus to maltreat defenceless and elderly men.
When they crossed the open tract of country between the castle moat and the Schelde a shower of caked mud was hurled after them from the ramparts; not a single insult was spared them, not a sting to their pride, not a crown to their humiliation. It was only when they reached the shelter of the streets that they found some peace. In silence they made their way toward the cathedral. The crowds of men and women at work amongst the dead and the wounded made way for them to allow them to pass, but no one questioned them: the abject condition in which they returned told its own pitiable tale.
The cathedral bell had tolled, and from everywhere the men came back to hear the full account of the miserable mission. The crowd was dense and not every one had a view of the burghers as they stood beside the altar rail in all their humiliation, but those who were nearest told their neighbours and soon every one knew what had happened.
The younger leaders ground their heels into the floor, and Jan van Migrode, sick and weak as he was, was the first to stand up and to ask the citizens of Ghent if the events of to-day had shaken them in their resolve.
"You know now what to expect from that fiend. Will you still die like heroes, or be slaughtered like cattle?" he called out loudly ere he fell back exhausted and faint.
Horror had kept every one dumb until then, and grim resolve did not break into loud enthusiasm now, but on the fringe of the crowd there were a number of young men-artisans and apprentices-who at first sight of the returned messengers had loudly murmured and cursed. Now one of them lifted up his voice. It raised strange echoes in the mutilated church.
"We are ready enough to die," he said, "and we'll fight to the end, never fear. But before the last of us is killed, before that execrable tyrant has his triumph over us, lads of Ghent, I ask you are we not to have our revenge?"
"Yes! yes!" came from a number of voices, still from the fringe of the crowd where the young artisans were massed together, "well spoken, Peter Balde! let us have revenge first!"
"Revenge! Revenge!" echoed from those same ranks.
Every word echoed from pillar to pillar in the great, bare, crowded church; and now it was from the altar rails that Mark van Rycke's voice rang out clear and firm:
