← catalogue

The Laughing Cavalier: The Story of the Ancestor of the Scarlet Pimpernel

by Baroness Emmuska Orczy Orczy · English · Gutenberg #33208 · 734,211 chars · public domain (US)

The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Laughing Cavalier: The Story of the Ancestor of the Scarlet Pimpernel
    
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

Title: The Laughing Cavalier: The Story of the Ancestor of the Scarlet Pimpernel

Author: Baroness Emmuska Orczy Orczy


        
Release date: July 20, 2010 [eBook #33208]
                Most recently updated: April 9, 2018

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/33208

Credits: Produced by Brenda Lewis, Mary Meehan and the Online
        Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
        book was produced from scanned images of public domain
        material from the Google Print project.)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LAUGHING CAVALIER: THE STORY OF THE ANCESTOR OF THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL ***




Produced by Brenda Lewis, Mary Meehan and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
book was produced from scanned images of public domain
material from the Google Print project.)









                         THE LAUGHING CAVALIER

           THE STORY OF THE ANCESTOR OF THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL

                            BARONESS ORCZY

Author of "Unto Cæsar," "The Scarlet Pimpernel," "El Dorado,"
"Meadowsweet," etc.


NEW YORK
GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY

Copyright, 1914,
BY THE RIDGWAY COMPANY

Copyright, 1914,
BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY




CONTENTS


AN APOLOGY

THE PROLOGUE


THE ADVENTURE

       I NEW YEAR'S EVE

      II THE FRACAS BY THE POSTERN GATE

     III AN INTERLUDE

      IV WATCH-NIGHT

       V BROTHER AND SISTER

      VI THE COUNSELS OF PRUDENCE

     VII THREE PHILOSOPHERS AND THEIR FRIENDS

    VIII THE LODGINGS WHICH WERE PAID FOR

      IX THE PAINTER OF PICTURES

       X THE LAUGHING CAVALIER

      XI THE BARGAIN

     XII THE PORTRAIT

    XIII THE SPANISH WENCH

     XIV AFTER EVENSONG

      XV THE HALT AT BENNEBROCK

     XVI LEYDEN

    XVII AN UNDERSTANDING

   XVIII THE START

     XIX IN THE KINGDOM OF THE NIGHT

      XX BACK AGAIN IN HAARLEM

     XXI A GRIEF-STRICKEN FATHER

    XXII A DOUBLE PLEDGE

   XXIII A SPY FROM THE CAMP

    XXIV THE BIRTH OF HATE

     XXV AN ARRANT KNAVE

    XXVI BACK TO HOUDEKERK

   XXVII THENCE TO ROTTERDAM

  XXVIII CHECK

    XXIX CHECK AGAIN

     XXX A NOCTURNE

    XXXI THE MOLENS

   XXXII A RUN THROUGH THE NIGHT

  XXXIII THE CAPTIVE LION

   XXXIV PROTESTATIONS

    XXXV THE WITNESS FOR THE DEFENCE

   XXXVI BROTHER PHILOSOPHERS

  XXXVII DAWN

 XXXVIII THE HOUR

   XXXIX "SAUVE QUI PEUT"

      XL THE LOSER PAYS

     XLI "VENGEANCE IS MINE"

    XLII THE FIGHT IN THE DOORWAY

   XLIII LEYDEN ONCE MORE

    XLIV BLAKE OF BLAKENEY

     XLV THE END




AN APOLOGY

Does it need one?


If so it must also come from those members of the Blakeney family in
whose veins runs the blood of that Sir Percy Blakeney who is known to
history as the Scarlet Pimpernel--for they in a manner are responsible
for the telling of this veracious chronicle.

For the past eight years now--ever since the true story of The Scarlet
Pimpernel was put on record by the present author--these gentle, kind,
inquisitive friends have asked me to trace their descent back to an
ancestor more remote than was Sir Percy, to one in fact who by his life
and by his deeds stands forth from out the distant past as a conclusive
proof that the laws which govern the principles of heredity are as
unalterable as those that rule the destinies of the universe. They have
pointed out to me that since Sir Percy Blakeney's was an exceptional
personality, possessing exceptional characteristics which his friends
pronounced sublime and his detractors arrogant--he must have had an
ancestor in the dim long ago who was, like him, exceptional, like him
possessed of qualities which call forth the devotion of friends and the
rancour of enemies. Nay, more! there must have existed at one time or
another a man who possessed that same sunny disposition, that same
irresistible laughter, that same careless insouciance and adventurous
spirit which were subsequently transmitted to his descendants, of whom
the Scarlet Pimpernel himself was the most distinguished individual.

All these were unanswerable arguments, and with the request that
accompanied them I had long intended to comply. Time has been my only
enemy in thwarting my intentions until now--time and the multiplicity of
material and documents to be gone through ere vague knowledge could be
turned into certitude.

Now at last I am in a position to present not only to the Blakeneys
themselves, but to all those who look on the Scarlet Pimpernel as their
hero and their friend--the true history of one of his most noted
forebears.

Strangely enough his history has never been written before. And yet
countless millions must during the past three centuries have stood
before his picture; we of the present generation, who are the proud
possessors of that picture now, have looked on him many a time, always
with sheer, pure joy in our hearts, our lips smiling, our eyes sparkling
in response to his; almost forgetting the genius of the artist who
portrayed him in the very realism of the personality which literally
seems to breathe and palpitate and certainly to laugh to us out of the
canvas.

Those twinkling eyes! how well we know them! that laugh! we can almost
hear it; as for the swagger, the devil-may-care arrogance, do we not
condone it, seeing that it has its mainspring behind a fine straight
brow whose noble, sweeping lines betray an undercurrent of dignity and
of thought.

And yet no biographer has--so far as is known to the author of this
veracious chronicle--ever attempted to tell us anything of this man's
life, no one has attempted hitherto to lift the veil of anonymity which
only thinly hides the identity of the Laughing Cavalier.

But here in Haarlem--in the sleepy, yet thriving little town where he
lived, the hard-frozen ground in winter seems at times to send forth a
memory-echo of his firm footstep, of the jingling of his spurs, and the
clang of his sword, and the old gate of the Spaarne through which he
passed so often is still haunted with the sound of his merry laughter,
and his pleasant voice seems still to rouse the ancient walls from
their sleep.

Here too--hearing these memory-echoes whenever the shadows of evening
draw in on the quaint old city--I had a dream. I saw him just as he
lived, three hundred years ago. He had stepped out of the canvas in
London, had crossed the sea and was walking the streets of Haarlem just
as he had done then, filling them with his swagger, with his engaging
personality, above all with his laughter. And sitting beside me in the
old tavern of the "Lame Cow," in that self-same tap-room where he was
wont to make merry, he told me the history of his life.

Since then kind friends at Haarlem have placed documents in my hands
which confirmed the story told me by the Laughing Cavalier. To them do I
tender my heartfelt and grateful thanks. But it is to the man
himself--to the memory of him which is so alive here in Haarlem--that I
am indebted for the true history of his life, and therefore I feel that
but little apology is needed for placing the true facts before all those
who have known him hitherto only by his picture, who have loved him only
for what they guessed.

The monograph which I now present with but few additions of minor
details, goes to prove what I myself had known long ago, namely, that
the Laughing Cavalier who sat to Frans Hals for his portrait in 1624 was
the direct ancestor of Sir Percy Blakeney, known to history as the
Scarlet Pimpernel.

    EMMUSKA ORCZY.

    HAARLEM, 1913.




THE PROLOGUE

HAARLEM--MARCH 29TH, 1623


The day had been spring-like--even hot; a very unusual occurrence in
Holland at this time of year.

Gilda Beresteyn had retired early to her room. She had dismissed Maria,
whose chatterings grated upon her nerves, with the promise that she
would call her later. Maria had arranged a tray of dainties on the
table, a jug of milk, some fresh white bread and a little roast meat on
a plate, for Gilda had eaten very little supper and it might happen that
she would feel hungry later on.

It would have been useless to argue with the old woman about this
matter. She considered Gilda's health to be under her own special
charge, ever since good Mevrouw Beresteyn had placed her baby girl in
Maria's strong, devoted arms ere she closed her eyes in the last long
sleep.

Gilda Beresteyn, glad to be alone, threw open the casement of the window
and peered out into the night.

The shadow of the terrible tragedy--the concluding acts of which were
being enacted day by day in the Gevangen Poort of 'S Graven Hage--had
even touched the distant city of Haarlem with its gloom. The eldest son
of John of Barneveld was awaiting final trial and inevitable
condemnation, his brother Stoutenburg was a fugitive, and their
accomplices Korenwinder, van Dyk, the redoubtable Slatius and others,
were giving away under torture the details of the aborted conspiracy
against the life of Maurice of Nassau, Stadtholder of Holland,
Gelderland, Utrecht and Overyssel, Captain and Admiral-General of the
State, Prince of Orange, and virtual ruler of Protestant and republican
Netherlands.

Traitors all of them--would-be assassins--the Stadtholder whom they had
planned to murder was showing them no mercy. As he had sent John of
Barneveld to the scaffold to assuage his own thirst for supreme power
and satisfy his own ambitions, so he was ready to send John of
Barneveld's sons to death and John of Barneveld's widow to sorrow and
loneliness.

The sons of John of Barneveld had planned to avenge their father's death
by the committal of a cruel and dastardly murder: fate and the treachery
of mercenary accomplices had intervened, and now Groeneveld was on the
eve of condemnation, and Stoutenburg was a wanderer on the face of the
earth with a price put upon his head.

Gilda Beresteyn could not endure the thought of it all. All the memories
of her childhood were linked with the Barnevelds. Stoutenburg had been
her brother Nicolaes' most intimate friend, and had been the first man
to whisper words of love in her ears, ere his boundless ambition and his
unscrupulous egoism drove him into another more profitable marriage.

Gilda's face flamed up with shame even now at recollection of his
treachery, and the deep humiliation which she had felt when she saw the
first budding blossom of her girlish love so carelessly tossed aside by
the man whom she had trusted.

A sense of oppression weighed her spirits down to-night. It almost
seemed as if the tragedy which had encompassed the entire Barneveld
family was even now hovering over the peaceful house of Mynheer
Beresteyn, deputy burgomaster and chief civic magistrate of the town of
Haarlem. The air itself felt heavy as if with the weight of impending
doom.

The little city lay quiet and at peace; a soft breeze from the south
lightly fanned the girl's cheeks. She leaned her elbows on the
window-sill and rested her chin in her hands. The moon was not up and
yet it was not dark; a mysterious light still lingered on the horizon
far away where earth and sea met in a haze of purple and indigo.

From the little garden down below there rose the subtle fragrance of
early spring--of wet earth and budding trees, and the dim veiled
distance was full of strange sweet sounds, the call of night-birds, the
shriek of sea-gulls astray from their usual haunts.

Gilda looked out and listened--unable to understand this vague sense of
oppression and of foreboding: when she put her finger up to her eyes,
she found them wet with tears.

Memories rose from out the past, sad phantoms that hovered in the scent
of the spring. Gilda had never wholly forgotten the man who had once
filled her heart with his personality, much less could she chase away
his image from her mind now that a future of misery and disgrace was all
that was left to him.

She did not know what had become of him, and dared not ask for news.
Mynheer Beresteyn, loyal to the House of Nassau and to its prince, had
cast out of his heart the sons of John of Barneveld whom he had once
loved. Assassins and traitors, he would with his own lips have condemned
them to the block, or denounced them to the vengeance of the Stadtholder
for their treachery against him.

The feeling of uncertainty as to Stoutenburg's fate softened Gilda's
heart toward him. She knew that he had become a wanderer on the face of
the earth, Cain-like, homeless, friendless, practically kinless; she
pitied him far more than she did Groeneveld or the others who were
looking death quite closely in the face.

She was infinitely sorry for him, for him and for his wife, for whose
sake he had been false to his first love. The gentle murmur of the
breeze, the distant call of the water-fowl, seemed to bring back to
Gilda's ears those whisperings of ardent passion which had come from
Stoutenburg's lips years ago. She had listened to them with joy then,
with glowing eyes cast down and cheeks that flamed up at his words.

And as she listened to these dream-sounds others more concrete mingled
with the mystic ones far away: the sound of stealthy footsteps upon the
flagged path of the garden, and of a human being breathing and panting
somewhere close by, still hidden by the gathering shadows of the night.

She held her breath to listen--not at all frightened, for the sound of
those footsteps, the presence of that human creature close by, were in
tune with her mood of expectancy of something that was foredoomed to
come.

Suddenly the breeze brought to her ear the murmur of her name, whispered
as if in an agony of pleading:

"Gilda!"

She leaned right out of the window. Her eyes, better accustomed to the
dim evening light, perceived a human figure that crouched against the
yew hedge, in the fantastic shadow cast by the quaintly shaped peacock
at the corner close to the house.

"Gilda!" came the murmur again, more insistent this time.

"Who goes there?" she called in response: and it was an undefinable
instinct stronger than her will that caused her to drop her own voice
also to a whisper.

"A fugitive hunted to his death," came the response scarce louder than
the breeze. "Give me shelter, Gilda--human bloodhounds are on my track."

Gilda's heart seemed to stop its beating; the human figure out there in
the shadows had crept stealthily nearer. The window out of which she
leaned was only a few feet from the ground; she stretched out her hand
into the night.

"There is a projection in the wall just there," she whispered hurriedly,
"and the ivy stems will help you.... Come!"

The fugitive grasped the hand that was stretched out to him in pitying
helpfulness. With the aid of the projection in the wall and of the stems
of the century-old ivy, he soon cleared the distance which separated him
from the window-sill. The next moment he had jumped into the room.

Gilda in this impulsive act of mercy had not paused to consider either
the risks or the cost. She had recognised the voice of the man whom she
had once loved, that voice called to her out of the depths of boundless
misery; it was the call of a man at bay, a human quarry hunted and
exhausted, with the hunters close upon his heels. She could not have
resisted that call even if she had allowed her reason to fight her
instinct then.

But now that he stood before her in rough fisherman's clothes, stained
and torn, his face covered with blood and grime, his eyes red and
swollen, the breath coming in quick, short gasps through his blue,
cracked lips, the first sense of fear at what she had done seized hold
of her heart.

At first he took no notice of her, but threw himself into the nearest
chair and passed his hands across his face and brow.

"My God," he murmured, "I thought they would have me to-night."

She stood in the middle of the room, feeling helpless and bewildered;
she was full of pity for the man, for there is nothing more unutterably
pathetic than the hunted human creature in its final stage of apathetic
exhaustion, but she was just beginning to co-ordinate her thoughts and
they for the moment were being invaded by fear.

She felt more than she saw, that presently he turned his hollow,
purple-rimmed eyes upon her, and that in them there was a glow half of
passionate will-power and half of anxious, agonizing doubt.

"Of what are you afraid, Gilda?" he asked suddenly, "surely not of me?"

"Not of you, my lord," she replied quietly, "only for you."

"I am a miserable outlaw now, Gilda," he rejoined bitterly, "four
thousand golden guilders await any lout who chooses to sell me for a
competence."

"I know that, my lord ... and marvel why you are here? I heard that you
were safe--in Belgium."

He laughed and shrugged his shoulders.

"I was safe there," he said, "but I could not rest. I came back a few
days ago, thinking I could help my brother to escape. Bah!" he added
roughly, "he is a snivelling coward...."

"Hush! for pity's sake," she exclaimed, "some one will hear you."

"Close that window and lock the door," he murmured hoarsely. "I am
spent--and could not resist a child if it chose to drag me at this
moment to the Stadtholder's spies."

Gilda obeyed him mechanically. First she closed the window; then she
went to the door listening against the panel with all her senses on the
alert. At the further end of the passage was the living-room where her
father must still be sitting after his supper, poring over a book on
horticulture, or mayhap attending to his tulip bulbs. If he knew that
the would-be murderer of the Stadtholder, the prime mover and
instigator of the dastardly plot was here in his house, in his
daughter's chamber ... Gilda shuddered, half-fainting with terror,
and her trembling fingers fumbled with the lock.

"Is Nicolaes home?" asked Stoutenburg, suddenly.

"Not just now," she replied, "but he, too, will be home anon.... My
father is at home...."

"Ah!... Nicolaes is my friend ... I counted on seeing him here ... he
would help me I know ... but your father, Gilda, would drag me to the
gallows with his own hand if he knew that I am here."

"You must not count on Nicolaes either, my lord," she pleaded, "nor must
you stay here a moment longer ... I heard my father's step in the
passage already. He is sure to come and bid me good-night before he goes
to bed...."

"I am spent, Gilda," he murmured, and indeed his breath came in such
feeble gasps that he could scarce speak. "I have not touched food for
two days. I landed at Scheveningen a week ago, and for five days have
hung about the Gevangen Poort of 'S Graven Hage trying to get speech
with my brother. I had gained the good will of an important official in
the prison, but Groeneveld is too much of a coward to make a fight for
freedom. Then I was recognized by a group of workmen outside my dead
father's house. I read recognition in their eyes--knowledge of me and
knowledge of the money which that recognition might mean to them. They
feigned indifference at first, but I had read their thoughts. They drew
together to concert over their future actions and I took to my heels. It
was yesterday at noon, and I have been running ever since, running,
running, with but brief intervals to regain my breath and beg for a
drink of water--when thirst became more unendurable than the thought of
capture. I did not even know which way I was running till I saw the
spires of Haarlem rising from out the evening haze; then I thought of
you, Gilda, and of the house. You would not sell me, Gilda, for you are
rich, and you loved me once," he added hoarsely, while his thin, grimy
hands clutched the arms of the chair and he half-raised himself from his
seat, as if ready to spring up and to start running again; running,
running until he dropped.

But obviously his strength was exhausted, for the next moment he fell
back against the cushions, the swollen lids fell upon the hollow eyes,
the sunken cheeks and parched lips became ashen white.


"Water!" he murmured.

She ministered to him kindly and gently, first holding the water to his
lips, then when he had quenched that raging thirst, she pulled the table
up close to his chair, and gave him milk to drink and bread and meat to
eat.

He seemed quite dazed, conscious only of bodily needs, for he ate and
drank ravenously without thought at first of thanking her. Only when he
had finished did he lean back once again against the cushions which her
kindly hand had placed behind him, and he murmured feebly like a tired
but satisfied child:

"You are an angel of goodness, Gilda. Had you not helped me to-night, I
should either have perished in a ditch, or fallen in the hands of the
Stadholder's minions."

Quickly she put a restraining hand on his shoulder. A firm step had
echoed in the flagged corridor beyond the oaken door.

"My father!" she whispered.

In a moment the instinct for life and liberty was fully aroused in the
fugitive; his apathy and exhaustion were forgotten; terror, mad,
unreasoning terror, had once more taken possession of his mind.

"Hide me, Gilda," he entreated hoarsely, and his hands clutched wildly
at her gown, "don't let him see me ... he would give me up ... he would
give me up...."

"Hush, in the name of God," she commanded, "he will hear you if you
speak."

Swiftly she blew out the candles, then with dilated anxious eyes
searched the recesses of the room for a hiding-place--the cupboard which
was too small--the wide hearth which was too exposed--the bed in the
wall....

His knees had given way under him, and, as he clutched at her gown, he
fell forward at her feet, and remained there crouching, trembling, his
circled eyes trying to pierce the surrounding gloom, to locate the
position of the door behind which lurked the most immediate danger.

"Hide me, Gilda," he murmured almost audibly under his breath, "for the
love you bore me once."

"Gilda!" came in a loud, kindly voice from the other side of the door.

"Yes, father!"

"You are not yet abed, are you, my girl?"

"I have just blown out the candles, dear," she contrived to reply with a
fairly steady voice.

"Why is your door locked?"

"I was a little nervous to-night, father dear. I don't know why."

"Well! open then! and say good-night."

"One moment, dear."

She was white to the lips, white as the gown which fell in straight
heavy folds from her hips, and which Stoutenburg was still clutching
with convulsive fingers. Alone her white figure detached itself from the
darkness around. The wretched man as he looked up could see her small
pale head, the stiff collar that rose above her shoulders, her
embroidered corslet, and the row of pearls round her neck.

"Save me, Gilda," he repeated with the agony of despair, "do not let
your father hand me over to the Stadtholder ... there will be no mercy
for me, Gilda ... hide me ... for the love of God."

Noiselessly she glided across the room, dragging him after her by the
hand. She pulled aside the bed-curtains, without a word pointed to the
recess. The bed, built into the wall, was narrow but sure; it smelt
sweetly of lavender; the hunted man, his very senses blurred by that
overwhelming desire to save his life at any cost, accepted the shelter
so innocently offered him. Gathering his long limbs together, he was
soon hidden underneath the coverlet.

"Gilda!" came more insistently from behind the heavy door.

"One moment, father. I was fastening my gown."

"Don't trouble to do that. I only wished to say good-night."

She pulled the curtains together very carefully in front of the bed: she
even took the precaution of taking off her stiff collar and embroidered
corslet. Then she lighted one of the candles, and with it in her hand
she went to the door.


Then she drew back the bolt.

"May I not come in?" said Mynheer Beresteyn gaily, for she remained
standing on the threshold.

"Well no, father!" she replied, "my room is very untidy ... I was just
getting into bed...."

"Just getting into bed," he retorted with a laugh, "why, child, you have
not begun to undress."

"I wished to undress in the dark. My head aches terribly ... it must be
the spring air ... Good-night, dear."

"Good-night, little one!" said Beresteyn, as he kissed his daughter
tenderly. "Nicolaes has just come home," he added, "he wanted to see you
too."

"Ask him to wait till to-morrow then. My head feels heavy. I can
scarcely hold it up."

"You are not ill, little one?" asked the father anxiously.

"No, no ... only oppressed with this first hot breath of spring."

"Why is not Maria here to undress you? I'll send her."

"Not just now, father. She will come presently. Her chattering wearied
me and I sent her away."

"Well! good-night again, my girl. God bless you. You will not see
Nicolaes?"

"Not to-night, father. Tell him I am not well. Good-night."

Mynheer Beresteyn went away at last, not before Gilda feared that she
must drop or faint under the stress of this nerve-racking situation.

Even now when at last she was alone, when once again she was able to
close and bolt the door, she could scarcely stand. She leaned against
the wall with eyes closed, and heart that beat so furiously and so fast
that she thought she must choke.

The sound of her father's footsteps died away along the corridor. She
heard him opening and shutting a door at the further end of the passage,
where there were two or three living rooms and his own sleeping chamber.
For awhile now the house was still, so still that she could almost hear
those furious heart-beats beneath her gown. Then only did she dare to
move. With noiseless steps she crossed the room to that recess in the
wall hidden by the gay-flowered cotton curtains.

She paused close beside these.

"My lord!" she called softly.

No answer.

"My lord! my father has gone! you are in no danger for the moment!"

Still no answer, and as she paused, straining her ears to listen, she
caught the sound of slow and regular breathing. Going back to the table
she took up the candle, then with it in her hand she returned to the
recess and gently drew aside the curtain. The light from the candle fell
full upon Stoutenburg's face. Inexpressibly weary, exhausted both bodily
and mentally, not even the imminence of present danger had succeeded in
keeping him awake. The moment that he felt the downy pillow under his
head, he had dropped off to sleep as peacefully as he used to do years
ago before the shadow of premeditated crime had left its impress on his
wan face.

Gilda looking down on him sought in vain in the harsh and haggard
features, the traces of those boyish good looks which had fascinated her
years ago; she tried in vain to read on those thin, set lips those words
of passionate affection which had so readily flown from them then.

She put down the candle again and drew a chair close to the bed, then
she sat down and waited.

And he slept on calmly, watched over by the woman whom he had so
heartlessly betrayed. All love for him had died out in her heart ere
this, but pity was there now, and she was thankful that it had been in
her power to aid him at the moment of his most dire peril.

But that danger still existed of course. The household was still astir
and the servants not yet all abed. Gilda could hear Jakob, the old
henchman, making his rounds, seeing that all the lights were safely out,
the bolts pushed home and chains securely fastened, and Maria might come
back at any moment, wondering why her mistress had not yet sent for her.
Nicolaes too was at home, and had already said that he wished to see his
sister.

She tried to rouse the sleeping man, but he lay there like a log. She
dared not speak loudly to him or to call his name, and all her efforts
at shaking him by the shoulder failed to waken him.

Lonely and seriously frightened now Gilda fell on her knees beside the
bed. Clasping her hands she tried to pray. Surely God could not leave a
young girl in such terrible perplexity, when her only sin had been an
act of mercy. The candle on the bureau close by burnt low in its socket
and its flickering light outlined her delicate profile and the soft
tendrils of hair that escaped from beneath her coif. Her eyes were
closed in the endeavour to concentrate her thoughts, and time flew by
swiftly while she tried to pray. She did not perceive that after awhile
the Lord of Stoutenburg woke and that he remained for a long time in
mute contemplation of the exquisite picture which she presented, clad
all in white, with the string of pearls still round her throat, her
hands clasped, her lips parted breathing a silent prayer.

"How beautiful you are, Gilda!" he murmured quite involuntarily at last.

Then--as suddenly startled and terrified--she tried to jump up quickly,
away from him, he put out his hand and succeeded in capturing her wrists
and thus holding her pinioned and still kneeling close beside him.

"An angel of goodness," he said, "and exquisitely beautiful."

At his words, at the renewed pressure of his hand upon her wrists she
made a violent effort to recover her composure.

"I pray you, my lord, let go my hands. They were clasped in prayer for
your safety. You slept so soundly that I feared I could not wake you in
order to tell you that you must leave this house instantly."

"I will go, Gilda," he said quietly, making no attempt to move or to
relax his hold on her, "for this brief interval of sleep, your kind
ministrations and the food you gave me have already put new strength
into me. And the sight of you kneeling and praying near me has put life
into me again."

"Then, since you are better," she rejoined coldly, "I pray you rise, my
lord, and make ready to go. The garden is quite lonely, the Oude Gracht
at its furthest boundary is more lonely still. The hour is late and the
city is asleep ... you would be quite safe now."

"Do not send me away yet, Gilda, just when a breath of happiness--the
first I have tasted for four years--has been wafted from heaven upon me.
May I not stay here awhile and live for a brief moment in a dream which
is born of unforgettable memories?"

"It is not safe for you to stay here, my lord," she said coldly.

"My lord? You used to call me Willem once."

"That was long ago, my lord, ere you gave Walburg de Marnix the sole
right to call you by tender names."

"She has deserted me, Gilda. Fled from me like a coward, leaving me to
bear my misery alone."

"She shared your misery for four years, my lord; it was your disgrace
that she could not endure."

"You knew then that she had left me?"

"My father had heard of it."

"Then you know that I am a free man again?"

"The law no doubt will soon make you so."

"The law has already freed me through Walburg's own act of desertion.
You know our laws as well as I do, Gilda. If you have any doubt ask your
own father whose business it is to administer them. Walburg de Marnix
has set me free, free to begin a new life, free to follow at last the
dictates of my heart."

"For the moment, my lord," she retorted coldly, "you are not free even
to live your old life."

"I would not live it again, Gilda, now that I have seen you again. The
past seems even now to be falling away from me. Dreams and memories are
stronger than reality. And you, Gilda ... have you forgotten?"

"I have forgotten nothing, my lord."

"Our love--your vows--that day in June when you yielded your lips to my
kiss?"

"Nor that dull autumnal day, my lord, when I heard from the lips of
strangers that in order to further your own ambitious schemes you had
cast me aside like a useless shoe, and had married another woman who was
richer and of nobler birth than I."

She had at last succeeded in freeing herself from his grasp, and had
risen to her feet, and retreated further and further away from him until
she stood up now against the opposite wall, her slender, white form lost
in the darkness, her whispered words only striking clearly on his ear.

He too rose from the bed and drew up his tall lean figure with a gesture
still expressive of that ruthless ambition with which Gilda had taunted
him.

"My marriage then was pure expediency, Gilda," he said with a shrug of
the shoulders. "My father, whose differences with the Stadtholder were
reaching their acutest stage, had need of the influence of Marnix de St.
Aldegonde; my marriage with Walburg de Marnix was done in my father's
interests and went sorely against my heart ... it is meet and natural
that she herself should have severed a tie which was one only in name. A
year hence from now, the law grants me freedom to contract a new
marriage tie; my love for you, Gilda, is unchanged."

"And mine for you, my lord, is dead."

He gave a short, low laugh in which there rang a strange note of
triumph.

"Dormant mayhap, Gilda," he said as he groped his way across the
darkened room and tried to approach her. "Your ears have been poisoned
by your father's hatred of me. Let me but hold you once more in my arms,
let me but speak to you once again of the past, and you will forget all
save your real love for me."

"All this is senseless talk, my lord," she said coldly, "your life at
this moment hangs upon the finest thread that destiny can weave. Human
bloodhounds you said were upon your track; they have not wholly lost the
scent, remember."

Her self-possession acted like a fall of icy-cold water upon the ardour
of his temper. Once more that hunted look came into his face; he cast
furtive, frightened glances around him, peering into the gloom, as if
enemies might be lurking in every dark recess.

"They shall not have me," he muttered through set teeth, "not
to-night ... not now that life again holds out to me a cup brimful of
happiness. I will go, Gilda, just as you command ... they shall not find
me ... I have something to live for now ... you and revenge.... My
father, my brother, my friends, I shall avenge them all--that
treacherous Stadtholder shall not escape from my hatred the second time.
Then will I have power, wealth, a great name to offer you. Gilda, you
will remember me?"

"I will remember you, my lord, as one who has passed out of my life. My
playmate of long ago, the man whom I once loved is dead to me. He who
would stain his hands with blood is hateful in my sight. Go, go, my
lord, I entreat you, ere you make my task of helping you to life and
safety harder than I can bear."

She ran to the window and threw it open, then pointed out into the
night.

"There lies your way, my lord. God only knows if I do right in not
denouncing you even now to my father."

"You will not denounce me, Gilda," he said, drawing quite near to her,
now that he could see her graceful figure silhouetted against the
starlit sky, "you will not denounce me for unknown mayhap even to
yourself, your love for me is far from dead. As for me I feel that I
have never loved as I love you now. Your presence has intoxicated me,
your nearness fills my brain as with a subtle, aromatic wine. All
thought of my own danger fades before my longing to hold you just for
one instant close to my heart, to press for one brief yet eternal second
my lips against yours. Gilda, I love you!"

His arms quickly closed round her, she felt his hot breath against her
cheek. For one moment did she close her eyes, for she felt sick and
faint, but the staunch valour of that same Dutch blood which had
striven and fought and endured and conquered throughout the ages past
gave her just that courage, just that presence of mind which she needed.

"An you do not release me instantly," she said firmly, "I will rouse the
house with one call."

Then, as his arms instinctively dropped away from her and he drew back
with a muttered curse:

"Go!" she said, once more pointing toward the peaceful and distant
horizon now wrapped in the veil of night. "Go! while I still have the
strength to keep silent, save for a prayer for your safety."

Her attitude was so firm, her figure so rigid, that he knew that
inevitably he must obey. His life was in danger, not hers; and she had
of a truth but little to fear from him. He bowed his head in submission
and humility, then he bent the knee and raising her gown to his lips he
imprinted a kiss upon the hem. The next moment he had swung himself
lightly upon the window sill, from whence he dropped softly upon the
ground below.

For a few minutes longer she remained standing beside the open window,
listening to his footfall on the flagged path. She could just
distinguish his moving form from the surrounding gloom, as he crept
along the shadows towards the boundary of the garden. Then as for one
brief minute she saw his figure outlined above the garden wall, she
closed the window very slowly and turned away from it.

The next moment she was lying in a swoon across the floor of her room.




THE ADVENTURE




CHAPTER I

NEW YEAR'S EVE


If the snow had come down again or the weather been colder, or wetter,
or other than it was....

If one of the three men had been more thirsty, or the other more
insistent....

If it had been any other day of the year, or any other hour of any other
day....

If the three philosophers had taken their walk abroad in any other
portion of the city of Haarlem....

If....

Nay! but there's no end to the Ifs which I might adduce in order to
prove to you beyond a doubt that but for an extraordinary conglomeration
of minor circumstances, the events which I am about to relate neither
would nor could ever have taken place.

For indeed you must admit that had the snow come down again or the
weather been colder, or wetter, the three philosophers would mayhap all
have felt that priceless thirst and desire for comfort which the
interior of a well-administered tavern doth so marvellously assuage. And
had it been any other day of the year or any other hour of that same
last day of the year 1623, those three philosophers would never have
thought of whiling away the penultimate hour of the dying year by hanging
round the Grootemarkt in order to see the respectable mynheer burghers
and the mevrouws their wives, filing into the cathedral in a sober and
orderly procession, with large silver-clasped Bibles under their arms,
and that air of satisfied unctuousness upon their faces which is best
suited to the solemn occasion of watch-night service, and the desire to
put oneself right with Heaven before commencing a New Year of commercial
and industrial activity.

And had those three philosophers not felt any desire to watch this same
orderly procession they would probably have taken their walk abroad in
another portion of the city from whence....

But now I am anticipating.

Events crowded in so thickly and so fast, during the last hour of the
departing year, and the first of the newly-born one, that it were best
mayhap to proceed with their relation in the order in which they
occurred.

For look you, the links of a mighty chain had their origin on the steps
of the Stadhuis, for it is at the foot of these that three men were
standing precisely at the moment when the bell of the cathedral struck
the penultimate hour of the last day of the year 1623.

Mynheer van der Meer, Burgomaster of Haarlem, was coming down those same
steps in the company of Mynheer van Zilcken, Mynheer Beresteyn and other
worthy gentlemen, all members of the town council and all noted for
their fine collections of rare tulips, the finest in the whole of the
province of Holland.

There was great rivalry between Mynheer van der Meer, Mynheer van
Zilcken and Mynheer Beresteyn on the subject of their tulip bulbs, on
which they expended thousands of florins every year. Some people held
that the Burgomaster had exhibited finer specimens of "Semper Augustus"
than any horticulturist in the land, while others thought that the
"Schwarzer Kato" shown by Mynheer Beresteyn had been absolutely without
a rival.

And as this group of noble councillors descended the steps of the
Stadhuis, preparatory to joining their wives at home and thence
escorting them to the watch-night service at the cathedral, their talk
was of tulips and of tulip bulbs, of the specimens which they possessed
and the prices which they had paid for these.

"Fourteen thousand florins did I pay for my 'Schwarzer Kato,'" said
Mynheer Beresteyn complacently, "and now I would not sell it for twenty
thousand."

"There's a man up at Overveen who has a new hybrid now, a sport of
'Schone Juffrouw'--the bulb has matured to perfection, he is putting it
up for auction next week," said Mynheer van Zilcken.

"It will fetch in the open market sixteen thousand at least," commented
Mynheer van der Meer sententiously.

"I would give that for it and more," rejoined the other, "if it is as
perfect as the man declares it to be."

"Too late," now interposed Mynheer Beresteyn with a curt laugh, "I
purchased the bulb from the man at Overveen this afternoon. He did not
exaggerate its merits. I never saw a finer bulb."

"You bought it?" exclaimed the Burgomaster in tones that were anything
but friendly toward his fellow councillor.

"This very afternoon," replied the other. "I have it in the inner pocket
of my doublet at this moment."

And he pressed his hand to his side, making sure that the precious bulb
still reposed next to his heart.

"I gave the lout fifteen thousand florins for it," he added airily, "he
was glad not to take the risks of an auction, and I equally glad to
steal a march on my friends."

The three men, who were leaning up against the wall of the Stadhuis, and
who had overheard this conversation, declared subsequently that they
learned then and there an entirely new and absolutely comprehensive
string of oaths, the sound of which they had never even known of before,
from the two solemn and sober town-councillors who found themselves
baulked of a coveted prize. But this I do not altogether believe; for
the three eavesdroppers had already forgotten more about swearing than
all the burghers of Haarlem put together had ever known.

In the meantime the town councillors had reached the foot of the steps:
here they parted company and there was a marked coldness in the manner
of some of them toward Mynheer Beresteyn, who still pressed his hand
against his doublet, in the inner pocket of which reposed a bit of
dormant vegetation for which he had that same afternoon paid no less a
sum than fifteen thousand florins.

"There goes a lucky devil," said a mocking voice in tones wherein
ripples of laughter struggled for ever for mastery. It came from one of
the three men who had listened to the conversation between the
town-councillors on the subject of tulips and of tulip bulbs.

"To think," he continued, "that I have never even seen as much
as fifteen thousand florins all at once. By St. Bavon himself do
I swear that for the mere handling of so much money I would be
capable of the most heroic deeds ... such as killing my worst
enemy ... or ... or ... knocking that obese and self-complacent
councillor in the stomach."

"Say but the word, good Diogenes," said a gruff voice in response, "the
lucky devil ye speak of need not remain long in possession of that bulb.
He hath name Beresteyn.... I think I know whereabouts he lives ... the
hour is late ... the fog fairly dense in the narrow streets of the
city ... say but the word...."

"There is an honest man I wot of in Amsterdam," broke in a third voice,
one which was curiously high-pitched and dulcet in its tones, "an honest
dealer of Judaic faith, who would gladly give a couple of thousand for
the bulb and ask no impertinent questions."

"Say but the word, Diogenes ..." reiterated the gruff voice solemnly.

"And the bulb is ours," concluded the third speaker in his quaint
high-pitched voice.

"And three philosophers will begin the New Year with more money in their
wallets than they would know what to do with," said he of the

laughter-filled voice. "'Tis a sound scheme, O Pythagoras, and one that
under certain circumstances would certainly commend itself to me. But
just now...."

"Well?" queried the two voices--the gruff and the
high-pitched--simultaneously, like a bassoon and a flute in harmony,
"just now what?"

"Just now, worthy Socrates and wise Pythagoras, I have three whole
florins in my wallet, and my most pressing creditor died a month
ago--shot by a Spanish arquebuse at the storming of Breda--he fell like
a hero--God rest his soul! But as to me I can afford a little while--at
any rate for to-night--to act like a gentleman rather than a common
thief."

"Bah!" came in muffled and gruff tones of disgust, "you might lend me
those three florins--'twere the act of a gentleman...."

"An act moreover which would effectually free me from further scruples,
eh?" laughed the other gaily.

"The place is dull," interposed the flute-like tones, "'twill be duller
still if unworthy scruples do cause us to act like gentlemen."

"Why! 'tis the very novelty of the game that will save our lives from
dullness," said Diogenes lightly, "just let us pretend to be gentlemen
for this one night. I assure you that good philosophers though ye both
are, you will find zest in the entertainment."

It is doubtful whether this form of argument would have appealed to the
two philosophers in question. The point was never settled, for at that
precise moment Chance took it on herself to forge the second link in
that remarkable chain of events which I have made it my duty to relate.

From across the Grootemarkt there, where stands the cathedral backed by
a network of narrow streets, there came a series of ear-piercing
shrieks, accompanied by threatening cries and occasional outbursts of
rough, mocking laughter.

"A row," said Socrates laconically.

"A fight," suggested Pythagoras.

Diogenes said nothing. He was already half-way across the Markt. The
others followed him as closely as they could. His figure which was
unusually tall and broad loomed weirdly out of the darkness and out of
the fog ahead of them, and his voice with that perpetual undertone of
merriment rippling through it, called to them from time to time.

Now he stopped, waiting for his companions. The ear-piercing shrieks,
the screams and mocking laughter came more distinctly to their ears, and
from the several bye-streets that gave on the Market Place, people came
hurrying along, attracted by the noise.

"Let us go round behind the Fleischmarkt," said Diogenes, as soon as his
two friends had come within ear-shot of him, "and reach the rear of the
cathedral that way. Unless I am greatly mistaken the seat of yonder
quarrel is by a small postern gate which I spied awhile ago at the
corner of Dam Straat and where methinks I saw a number of men and women
furtively gaining admittance: they looked uncommonly like Papists and
the postern gate not unlike a Romanist chapel door."

"Then there undoubtedly will be a row," said Socrates dryly.

"And we are no longer likely to find the place dull," concluded
Pythagoras in a flute-like voice.

And the three men pulling their plumed hats well over their eyes, turned
off without hesitation in the wake of their leader. They had by tacit
understanding unsheathed their swords and were carrying them under the
folds of their mantles. They walked in single file, for the street was
very narrow, the gabled roofs almost meeting overhead at their apex,
their firm footsteps made no sound on the thick carpet of snow. The
street was quite deserted and the confused tumult in the Dam Straat only
came now as a faint and distant echo.

Thus walking with rapid strides the three men soon found themselves once
more close to the cathedral: it loomed out of the fog on their left and
the cries and the laughter on ahead sounded once more clear and shrill.

The words "for the love of Christ!" could be easily distinguished;
uttered pleadingly at intervals and by a woman's voice they sounded
ominous, more especially as they were invariably followed by cries of
"Spaniards! Spies! Papists!" and a renewal of loud and ribald laughter.

The leader of the little party had paused once more, his long legs
evidently carried him away faster than he intended: now he turned to his
friends and pointed with his hand and sword on ahead.

"Now, wise Pythagoras," he said, "wilt thou not have enjoyment and to
spare this night? Thou didst shower curses on this fog-ridden country,
and call it insufferably dull. Lo! what a pleasing picture doth present
itself to our gaze."

Whether the picture was pleasing or not depended entirely from the point
of view of spectator or participant. Certes it was animated and moving
and picturesque; and as three pairs of eyes beneath three broad-brimmed
hats took in its several details, three muffled figures uttered three
simultaneous gurgles of anticipated pleasure.

In the fog that hung thickly in the narrow street it was at first
difficult to distinguish exactly what was going on. Certain it is that a
fairly dense crowd, which swelled visibly every moment as idlers joined
in from many sides, had congregated at the corner of Dam Straat, there
where a couple of resin torches fixed in iron brackets against a tall
stuccoed wall, shed a flickering and elusive light on the forms and
faces of a group of men in the forefront of the throng.

The faces thus exposed to view appeared flushed and heated--either with
wine or ebullient temper--whilst the upraised arms, the clenched fists
and brandished staves showed a rampant desire to do mischief.

There was a low postern gate in the wall just below the resin torches.
The gate was open and in the darkness beyond vague, moving forms could
be seen huddled together in what looked like a narrow, unlighted
passage. It was from this huddled mass of humanity that the wails and
calls for divine protection proceeded, whilst the laughter and the
threats came from the crowd.

From beneath three broad-brimmed hats there once more came three
distinct chuckles of delight and three muffled figures hugged naked
swords more tightly under their cloaks.




CHAPTER II

THE FRACAS BY THE POSTERN GATE


Thus am I proved right in saying that but for the conglomeration of
minor circumstances within the past half hour, the great events which
subsequently linked the fate of a penniless foreign adventurer with that
of a highly honourable and highly esteemed family of Haarlem never would
or could have occurred.

For had the three philosophers adhered to their usual custom of retiring
to the warmth and comfort of the "Lame Cow," situate in the Kleine Hout
Straat, as soon as the streets no longer presented an agreeable lolling
place, they would never have known of the tumult that went on at this
hour under the very shadow of the cathedral.

But seeing it all going on before them, what could they do but join in
the fun?

The details of the picture which had the low postern gate for its
central interest were gradually becoming more defined. Now the figure of
a woman showed clearly under the flickering light of the resin torches,
a woman with rough, dark hair that hung loosely round her face, and bare
arms and legs, of which the flesh, blue with cold, gleamed weirdly
against the dark oak panelling of the gate.

She was stooping forward, with arms outstretched and feet that vainly
tried to keep a foothold of the ground which snow and frost had rendered
slippery. The hands themselves were not visible, for one of them was
lost in the shadows behind her and the other disappeared in the grip of
six or eight rough hands.

Through the mist and in the darkness it was impossible to see whether
the woman was young or old, handsome or ill-favoured, but her attitude
was unmistakable. The men in the forefront of the crowd were trying to
drag her away from the shelter of the gate to which she clung with
desperate obstinacy.

Her repeated cries of "For the love of Christ!" only provoked loud and
bibulous laughter. Obviously she was losing her hold of the ground, and
was gradually being dragged out into the open.

"For the love of Christ, let me go, kind sirs!"

"Come out quietly then," retorted one of the men in front, "let's have a
look at you."

"We only want to see the colour of your eyes," said another with mock
gallantry.

"Are you Spanish spies or are you not, that's all that we want to know,"
added a third. "How many black-eyed wenches are there among ye? Papists
we know you are."

"Papists! Spanish spies!" roared the crowd in unison.


"Shall we bait the Papists too, O Diogenes?" came in dulcet tones from
out the shadow of the stuccoed wall.

"Bah! women and old men, and only twenty of these," said his companion
with a laugh and a shrug of his broad shoulders, "whilst there are at
least an hundred of the others."

"More amusing certainly," growled Socrates under the brim of his hat.

"For the love of Christ," wailed the woman piteously, as her bare feet
buried in the snow finally slid away from the protecting threshold, and
she appeared in the full light of the resin torches, with black unkempt
hair, ragged shift and kirtle and a wild terror-stricken look in her
black eyes.

"Black eyes! I guessed as much!" shouted one of the men excitedly.
"Spaniards I tell you, friends! Spanish spies all of them! Out you come,
wench! out you come!"

"Out you come!" yelled the crowd. "Papists! Spanish spies!"

The woman gave a scream of wild terror as half a dozen stones hurled
from the rear of the crowd over the heads of the ringleaders came
crashing against the wall and the gate all around her.

One of these stones was caught in mid air.

"I thank thee, friend," cried a loud, mocking voice that rang clearly
above the din, "my nose was itching and thou didst strive to tickle it
most effectually. Tell me does thine itch too? Here's a good cloth
wherewith to wipe it."

And the stone was hurled back into the thick of the crowd by a sure and
vigorous hand even whilst a prolonged and merry laugh echoed above the
groans and curses of the throng.

For an instant after that the shouts and curses were still, the
crowd--as is usual in such cases--pausing to see whence this unexpected
diversion had come. But all that could be seen for the moment was a dark
compact mass of plumed hats and mantles standing against the wall, and a
triple glint as of steel peeping from out the shadows.

"By St. Bavon, the patron saint of this goodly city, but here's a feast
for philosophers," said that same laughter-loving voice, "four worthy
burghers grappling with a maid. Let go her arm I say or four pairs of
hands will presently litter the corner of this street, and forty fingers
be scattered amongst the refuse. Pythagoras, wilt take me at two
guilders to three that I can cut off two of these ugly, red hands with
one stroke of Bucephalus whilst Socrates and thou thyself wilt only
account for one apiece?"

Whilst the merry voice went rippling on in pleasant mocking tones, the
crowd had had ample time to recover itself and to shake off its
surprise. The four stalwarts on in front swore a very comprehensive if
heterogeneous oath. One of them did certainly let go the wench's arm
somewhat hastily, but seeing that his companions had recovered courage
and the use of their tongue, he swore once again and more loudly this
time.

"By that same St. Bavon," he shouted, "who is this smeerlap whose
interference I for one deeply resent. Come out, girl, and show thyself
at once, we'll deal with thy protector later."

After which there were some lusty shouts of applause at this determined
attitude, shouts that were interrupted by a dulcet high-pitched voice
saying quietly:

"I take thee, friend Diogenes. Two guilders to three: do thou strike at
the pair of hands nearest to thee and while I count three...."

From the torches up above there came a sharp glint of light as it struck
three steel blades, that swung out into the open.

"One--two----"

Four pairs of hands, which had been dragging on the woman's arm with
such determined force, disappeared precipitately into the darkness, and
thus suddenly released, the woman nearly fell backwards against the
gate.

"Pity!" said the dulcet voice gently, "that bet will never be decided
now."

An angry murmur of protest rose from the crowd. The four men who had
been the leaders of the gang were pushed forward from the rear amidst
shouts of derision and brandishing fists.

"Cowards! cowards! cowards! Jan Tiele, art not ashamed? Piet, go for
them! There are only three! Cowards to let yourselves be bullied!"

The crowd pushed from behind. The street being narrow, it could only
express its desire for a fight by murmurs and by shouts, it had no
elbow-room for it, and could only urge those in the forefront to pick a
quarrel with the interfering strangers.

"The blessing of God upon thee, stranger, and of the Holy Virgin...."
came in still quivering accents from out the darkness of the passage.

"Let the Holy Virgin help thee to hold thy tongue," retorted he who had
name Diogenes, "and do thou let my friend Socrates close this confounded
door."

"Jan Tiele!" shouted someone in the crowd, "dost see what they are
doing? the gate is being closed...."

"And bolted," said a flute-like voice.

"Stand aside, strangers!" yelled the crowd.

"We are not in your way," came in calm response.

The three muffled figures side by side in close if somewhat unnumerical
battle array had taken their stand in front of the postern gate, the
heavy bolts of which were heard falling into their sockets behind them
with a loud clang. A quivering voice came at the last from behind the
iron judas in the door.

"God will reward ye, strangers! we go pray for you to the Holy
Virgin...."

"Nay!" rejoined Diogenes lightly, "'twere wiser to pray for Jan Tiele,
or for Piet or their mates--some of them will have need of prayers in
about five minutes from now."

"Shame! cowards! plepshurk! At them Jan! Piet! Willem!" shouted the
crowd lustily.

Once more stones were freely hurled followed by a regular fusillade of
snowballs. One of these struck the crown of a plumed hat and knocked it
off the wearer's head. A face, merry, a trifle fleshy perhaps, but with
fine, straight brow, eyes that twinkled and mocked and a pair of full,
joyous lips adorned by a fair upturned moustache, met the gaze of an
hundred glowering eyes and towered half a head above the tallest man
there.

As his hat fell to the ground, the man made a formal bow to the yelling
and hooting crowd:

"Since one of you has been so kind as to lift my hat for me, allow me
formally to present myself and my friends here. I am known to my
compeers and to mine enemies as Diogenes," he said gravely, "a
philosopher of whom mayhap ye have never heard. On my left stands
Pythagoras, on my right Socrates. We are all at your service, including
even my best friend who is slender and is made of steel and hath name
Bucephalus--he tells me that within the next few minutes he means to
become intimately acquainted with Dutch guts, unless ye disperse and go
peaceably back to church and pray God to forgive ye this act of
cowardice on New Year's Eve!"

The answer was another volley of stones, one of which hit Socrates on
the side of the head:

"With the next stone that is hurled," continued Diogenes calmly, "I will
smash Jan Tiele's nose: and if more than one come within reach of my
hand, then Willem's nose shall go as well."

The warning was disregarded: a shower of stones came crashing against
the wall just above the postern gate.

"How badly these Dutchmen throw," growled Socrates in his gruff voice.

"This present from thy friends in the rear, Jan Tiele," rejoined
Diogenes, as he seized that worthy by the collar and brandished a stone
which he had caught in its flight. "'Tis they obviously who do not like
the shape of thy nose, else they had not sent me the wherewithal to
flatten it for thee."

"I'll do that, good Diogenes," said Pythagoras gently, as he took both
the stone and the struggling Jan Tiele from his friend's grasp, "and
Socrates will see to Willem at the same time. No trouble, I give thee my
word--I like to do these kind of jobs for my friends."

An awful and prolonged howl from Jan Tiele and from Willem testified
that the jobs had been well done.


"Papists! Spaniards! Spies!" roared the crowd, now goaded to fury.

"Bucephalus, I do humbly beg thy pardon," said Diogenes as he rested the
point of his sword for one moment on the frozen ground, then raised it
and touched it with his forehead and with his lips, "I apologize to thee
for using thee against such rabble."

"More stones please," came in a shrill falsetto from Pythagoras, "here's
Piet whose nose is itching fit to make him swear."

He was a great adept at catching missiles in mid-air. These now flew
thick and fast, stones, short staves, heavy leather pouches as well as
hard missiles made of frozen snow. But the throwers were hampered by one
another: they had no elbow-room in this narrow street.

The missiles for the most part fell wide of the mark. Still! the numbers
might tell in the end. Socrates' face was streaming with blood: a clump
of mud and snow had extinguished one of the torches, and a moment ago a
stone had caught Diogenes on the left shoulder.

The three men stood close together, sword in hand. To the excited gaze
of the crowd they scarcely seemed to be using their swords or to heed
those of their aggressors who came threateningly nigh. They stood quite
quietly up against the wall hardly making a movement, their sword hand
and wrist never appeared to stir, but many who had been in the forefront
had retired howling and the snow all around was deeply stained with red:
Jan Tiele and Willem had broken noses and Piet had lost one ear.

The three men were hatless and the faces of two of them were smeared
with blood. The third--taller and broader than the others--stood between
them, and with those that pressed him closely he bandied mocking words.

"Spaniards! Papists!" yelled the crowd.

"If I hear those words again," he retorted pleasantly, "I'll run three
of you through on Bucephalus as on a spit, and leave you thus ready for
roasting in hell. We are no Spaniards. My father was English and my
friend Pythagoras here was born in a donkey shed, whilst Socrates first
saw the light of day in a travelling menagerie. So we are none of us
Spaniards, and you can all disperse."

"Papists!"

"And if I hear that again I'll send the lot of you to hell."

"Art thou Samson then, to think thyself so strong?" shouted a shrill
voice close to him.

"Give me thy jawbone and I'll prove thee that I am," he retorted gaily.

"Spies!" they cried.

"Dondersteen!" he shouted in his turn, swearing lustily, "I am tired of
this rabble. Disperse! disperse, I tell ye! Bucephalus my friend wilt
have a taste of Dutch guts? Another ear? a nose or two? What, ye will
not go?"

"Spaniards! Spies! Papists!"

The crowd was gathering unto itself a kind of fury that greatly
resembled courage. Those that were behind pushed and those that were in
front could no longer retreat. Blood had begun to flow more freely and
the groans of the wounded had roused the bellicose instincts of those
whose skin was still whole. One or two of the more venturesome had made
close and gruesome acquaintance with the silent but swift Bucephalus,
whilst from the market place in the rear the numbers of the crowd thus
packed in this narrow street corner swelled dangerously. The new comers
did not know what had happened before their arrival. They could not see
over the heads of the crowd what was going on at this moment. So they
pushed from behind and the three combatants with their backs against the
wall had much difficulty in keeping a sufficiently wide circle around
them to allow their swords free play.

Already Socrates, dizzy from the blood that was streaming down his
sharp, hooked nose, had failed to keep three of his foremost assailants
at bay: he had been forced to yield one step and then another, and the
elbow of his sword arm was now right up against the wall. Pythagoras,
too, was equally closely pressed, and Diogenes had just sent an over
bold lout sprawling on the ground. The noise was deafening. Every one
was shouting, many were screaming or groaning. The town guard, realizing
at last that a tumult of more than usual consequence was going on in
some portion of the city, had decided to go and interfere; their slow
and weighty steps and the clang of their halberds could be heard from
over the Grootemarkt during the rare moments when shouts and clamour
subsided for a few seconds only to be upraised again with redoubled
power.

Then suddenly cries of "Help!" were raised from the further end of Dam
Straat, there where it debouches on the bank of the Spaarne. It was a
woman's voice that raised the cry, but men answered it with calls for
the guard. The tumult in front of the postern gate now reached its
climax, for the pressure from behind had become terrible, and men and
women were being knocked down and trampled on. It seemed as if the
narrow street could not hold another human soul, and yet apparently more
and more were trying to squeeze into the restricted space. The trampled,
frozen snow had become as slippery as a sheet of glass, and if the guard
with their wonted ponderous clumsiness charged into the crowd with
halberds now, then Heaven help the weak who could not elbow a way out
for themselves; they would be sure to be trampled under foot.

Every one knew that on such occasions many a corpse littered the roads
when finally the crowd disappeared. Those of sober sense realized all
this, but they were but small units in this multitude heated with its
own rage, and intoxicated with the first hope of victory. The three
strangers who, bare-headed, still held their ground with their backs to
the wall were obviously getting exhausted. But a little more
determination--five minutes respite before the arrival of the guard, a
few more stones skilfully hurled and the Papists, Spaniards or
Spies--whatever they were--would have paid dearly for their impudent
interference.

"Papists, have ye had enough?" yelled the crowd in chorus as a stone
well thrown hit the sword arm of the tallest of the three men--he whose
mocking voice had never ceased its incessant chatter.


"Not nearly enough," he replied loudly, as he quietly transferred
faithful Bucephalus from his right hand to his left.

"We are just beginning to enjoy ourselves," came in dulcet tones from
the small man beside him.

"At them! at them! Papists! Spies!"

Once more a volley of stones.

"Dondersteen! but methinks we might vary the entertainment," cried
Diogenes lustily.

Quicker than a flash of lightning he turned, and once more grasping
Bucephalus in the partially disabled hand he tore with the other the
resin torch out of its iron socket, and shouting to his two companions
to hold their ground he, with the guttering lighted torch charged
straight into the crowd.

A wild cry of terror was raised, which echoed and re-echoed from one end
of the street to the other, reverberated against the cathedral walls,
and caused all peaceable citizens who had found refuge in their homes to
thank the Lord that they were safely within.

Diogenes, with fair hair fluttering over his brow, his twinkling eyes
aglow with excitement, held the torch well in front of him, the sparks
flew in all directions, the lustiest aggressors fled to right and left,
shrieking with horror. Fire--that most invincible weapon--had
accomplished what the finest steel never could have done; it sobered
and terrified the crowd, scattered it like a flock of sheep, sent it
running hither and thither, rendering it helpless by fear.

In the space of three minutes the circle round the three combatants was
several metres wide, five minutes later the corner of the street was
clear, except for the wounded who lay groaning on the ground and one or
two hideous rags of flesh that lay scattered among heaps of stones, torn
wallets, staves and broken sticks.

From the precincts of the Grootemarkt the town guard were heard using
rough language, violent oaths and pikes and halberds against the
stragglers that were only too eager now to go peaceably back to their
homes. The fear of burnt doublets or kirtles had effectually sobered
these over-flowing tempers. There had been enough Papist baiting to
please the most inveterate seeker after excitement this night.

A few youths, who mayhap earlier in the evening had indulged too freely
in the taverns of the Grootemarkt, were for resuming the fun after the
panic had subsided. A score of them or so talked it over under the
shadow of the cathedral, but a detachment of town guard spied their
manoeuvres and turned them all back into the market-place.

The bell of the cathedral slowly struck the last hour of this memorable
year; and through the open portals of the sacred edifice the cathedral
choir was heard intoning the First Psalm.

Like frightened hens that have been scared, and now venture out again,
the worthy burghers of Haarlem sallied out from the by-streets into the
Grootemarkt, on their way to watch-night service: Mynheer the
burgomaster, and mynheer the town advocate, and the mevrouws their
wives, and the town councillors and the members of the shooting guilds,
and the governors and governesses of the Alms-houses. With ponderous
Bibles and prayer-books under their arms, and cloaks of fur closely
wrapped round their shoulders, they once more filled the Grootemarkt
with the atmosphere of their own solemnity. Their serving men carried
the torches in front of them, waiting women helped the mevrouws in their
unwieldy farthingales to walk on the slippery ground with becoming
sobriety.

The cathedral bells sent forth a merry peal to greet the incoming year.




CHAPTER III


AN INTERLUDE


And at the corner of Dam Straat, where the low postern gate cuts into
the tall stuccoed wall, there once more reigned silence as of the grave.

Those that were hurt and wounded had managed to crawl away, the town
guard had made short work of it all; the laws against street brawling
and noisy assemblies were over severe just now; it was best to hide a
wound and go nurse it quietly at home. Fortunately the fog favoured the
disturbers of the peace. Gradually they all contrived to sneak away, and
later on in the night to sally forth again for watch-night revelries,
looking for all the world as if nothing had happened.

"Tumult? Papist baiting? Was there really any Papist baiting this night?
Ah! these foreign adventurers do fill our peaceful city with their
noise."

In the Dam Straat the fog and the darkness reigned unchallenged. The
second torch lay extinguished on the ground, trampled out under the heel
of a heavy boot. And in the darkness three men were busy readjusting
their mantles and trying to regain possession of their hats.

"A very unprofitable entertainment," growled Socrates.

"Total darkness, not a soul in sight, and cold! fit to chill the inner
chambers of hell," assented Pythagoras.

"And no chance of adding anything to the stock of three guilders which
must suffice us for to-night," concluded Diogenes airily.

He was carefully wiping the shining blade of Bucephalus with the corner
of Pythagoras' mantle.

"Verrek jezelf! and what the d----l?" queried the latter in a high
falsetto.

"My mantle is almost new," said Diogenes reproachfully; "thou would'st
not have me soil it so soon?"

"I have a hole in my head fit to bury those three guilders in," murmured
Socrates, with a sigh.

"And I a blow in the stomach which has chilled me to the marrow," sighed
Pythagoras.

"And I a bruised shoulder," laughed Diogenes, "which hath engendered an
unquenchable thirst."

"I wouldn't sell my thirst for any money this night," assented
Pythagoras.

"To the 'Lame Cow,' then, O Pythagoras, and I'll toss thee for the first
drink of hot ale."

"Ugh! but my head feels mightily hot and thick," said Socrates, somewhat
huskily.

"Surely thou canst walk as far as the 'Lame Cow'?" queried Pythagoras,
anxiously.

"I doubt me," sighed the other.

"Ale!" whispered Diogenes, encouragingly; "warm, sparkling, spicy ale!"

"Hm! hm!" assented the wounded man feebly.

"Easy! easy, my friend," said Diogenes, for his brother philosopher had
fallen heavily against him.

"What are we to do?" moaned Pythagoras, in his dulcet tones. "I have a
thirst ... and we cannot leave this irresponsible fool to faint here in
the fog."

"Hoist him up by the seat of his breeches, then on to my back," retorted
Diogenes lightly. "The 'Lame Cow' is not far, and I too have a thirst."

Socrates would have protested. He did not relish the idea of being
tossed about like a bale of goods on his friend's back. But he could
only protest by word of mouth, to which the others paid no heed; and
when he tried to struggle he rolled, dizzy and faint, almost to the
ground.

"There's nothing for it," piped Pythagoras with consummate philosophy.
"I couldn't carry him if I tried."

Diogenes bent his broad back and rested his hands on his thighs, getting
as firm hold of the slippery ground as he could. Socrates for the moment
was like a helpless log. There was much groping about in the darkness, a
good deal of groaning, and a vast amount of swearing. Socrates had,
fortunately, not fainted, and after a little while was able to settle
down astride on his friend's back, his arms around the latter's neck,
Pythagoras giving vigorous pushes from the rear.

When Diogenes, firmly grasping the wounded man's legs, was at last able
to straighten himself out again, and did so to the accompaniment of a
mighty groan and still more mighty oath, he found himself confronted by
two lanthorns which were held up within a few inches of his nose.

"Dondersteen!" he ejaculated loudly, and nearly dropped his
half-conscious and swaying burden on the ground.

"What is it now, Jakob?" queried a woman's voice peremptorily.

"I cannot see clearly, lady," replied one of the lanthorn-bearers--"two
men I think."

"Then do thy thoughts proclaim thee a liar, friend," said Diogenes
lightly; "there are three men here at this lady's service, though one is
sick, the other fat, and the third a mere beast of burden."

"Let me see them, Jakob," ordered the woman. "I believe they are the
same three men who...."

The lanthorn-bearers made way for the lady, still holding the lanthorns
up so that the light fell fully on the quaint spectacle presented by the
three philosophers. There was Socrates perched up aloft, his bird-like
face smeared with blood, his eyes rolling in their effort to keep open,
his thin back bent nearly double so that indeed he looked like a huge
plucked crow the worse for a fight, and perched on an eminence where he
felt none too secure. And below him his friend with broad shoulders
bending under the burden, his plumed hat shading his brow, his merry,
twinkling eyes fixed a little suspiciously on the four figures that
loomed out of the fog in front of him, his mocking lips ready framed for
a smile or an oath, his hands which supported the legs of poor wounded
Socrates struggling visibly toward the hilt of his sword. And peeping
round from behind him the short, rotund form of Pythagoras, crowned with
a tall sugar-loaf hat which obviously had never belonged to him until
now, for it perched somewhat insecurely above his flat, round face, with
the small, upturned nose slightly tinged with pink and the tiny eyes,
round and bright as new crowns.

Undoubtedly the sight was ludicrous in the extreme, and the woman who

looked on it now burst into a merry peal of laughter.

"O Maria! dost see them?" she said, turning to her companion, an elderly
woman in sober black gown and coif of tinsel lace. "Hast ever seen
anything so quaint?"

She herself was young, and in the soft light of the two lanthorns
appeared to the three philosophers to be more than passing fair.

"Socrates, thou malapert," said Diogenes sternly, "take my hat off my
head at once, and allow me to make obeisance to the lady, or I'll drop
thee incontinently on thy back."

Then, as Socrates half mechanically lifted the plumed hat from his
friend's head, the latter bowed as well as he could under the
circumstances and said gallantly:

"Thy servants, lady, and eternally grateful are we for a sight of thee
at this moment when the world appeared peculiarly fog-ridden and
unpleasant. Having been the fortunate cause of thy merriment, might we
now crave thy permission to continue our way. The weight of my friend up
there is greater than his importance warrants, and I don't want to drop
him ere we reach a haven of refuge, where our priceless thirst will
soon, I hope, find solace."

The delicate face of the young girl had suddenly become more grave.

"Your pardon, gentle sirs," she said, with a pretty mixture of
imperiousness and humility; "my levity was indeed misplaced. I know ye
now for the same three brave fellows who were fighting a few moments ago
against overwhelming odds, in order to protect a woman against a rowdy
crowd. Oh, it was a valorous deed! My men and I were on our way to
watch-night service, and saw it all from a distance. We dared not come
nigh, the rabble looked so threatening. All I could do was to shout for
help, and summon the town guard to your aid. It was you, was it not?"
she added, regarding with great wondering blue eyes the three curious
figures who stood somewhat sheepishly before her.

"Yes, fair lady," piped Pythagoras, in his neatest falsetto, "we were
the three men who, in the face of well-nigh overwhelming odds, did save
a defenceless woman from the insolent rabble. My friend who is perched
up there was severely wounded in the fray, I myself received so violent
a blow in the stomach that a raging thirst has since taken possession of
my throat, and----"

He stopped abruptly and murmured a comprehensive oath. He had just
received a violent kick in the shins from Diogenes.

"What the h----?" he muttered.

But Diogenes paid no heed to him; looking on the dainty picture before
him, with eyes that twinkled whilst they did not attempt to conceal the
admiration which he felt, he said, with elaborate gallantry, which his
position under the burden of Socrates' swaying figure rendered
inexpressibly droll:

"For the help rendered to us all at the moment of distress, deign to
accept, mejuffrouw, our humble thanks. For the rest, believe me, our
deed was not one of valour, and such as it was it is wholly unworthy of
the praise thou dost deign to bestow upon it. I would tell thee more,"
he added, whimsically, "only that my friend behind me is violently
kicking the calves of my legs, which renders the elegant flow of
language well nigh impossible. I stopped him talking just now--he
retaliates ... it is but just."

"Gentle sir," said the girl, who obviously had much ado to preserve her
gravity, "your modesty doth but equal your gallantry. This do I see
quite plainly. But if at any time I can do aught to express in a more
practical manner the real admiration which I feel for your worth I pray
you command me. Alas! brave men are few these days! But my father's name
is known throughout Holland; his wealth and influence are vast. I pray
you tell me, can I do aught for you now?"

She spoke so artlessly and at the same time with such gentle dignity, it
was small wonder that for the nonce even the most talkative of all
philosophers was dumb, and that his habitual mocking banter failed to
cross his lips. The girl was young and exquisitely pretty; the stiff,
unwieldy costume of the time failed to conceal altogether the graceful
slenderness of her figure, just as the prim coif of gold and silver
tissue failed to hold the unruly golden curls in bondage. The light from
the lanthorns fell full on her face, and round her throat, beneath her
fur-lined cloak, there was a glimmer of starched linen and lace, whilst
gems in her ears and on her breast lent her an air of elegance and even
of splendour.

Pythagoras in the rear heaved a deep sigh; he drew in his breath
preparatory to a long and comprehensive oration. "Can I do aught for
ye?" the lady had said: a lady who was rich and influential and willing.
Ye thunders and lightnings! when but three guilders stood between three
philosophers and absolute penury! Ye hails and storms! what an
opportunity! He would have approached the lady, only Diogenes' wide
shoulders blocked him out from her view.

"Can I do aught for you now?" she reiterated gently.

"Raise thy hand to my lips," said Diogenes lightly; "momentarily I have
not the use of mine own."

She hesitated, but only for a brief moment, then did just what he asked.
She held her hand to his lips, mayhap one second longer than was
absolutely necessary, and her eyes, large, deep and shy, looked for that
one second into a pair of merry, mocking ones. Then she sighed, whether
with satisfaction or embarrassment I would not undertake to say, and
asked with a gracious smile:

"And what is your next wish, gentle sir?"

"Thy leave to continue our journey to the 'Lame Cow,'" he replied
airily; "my friend up there is getting damnably heavy."

She drew back, visibly surprised and hurt.

"I do not detain ye," she said curtly, and without another word she
turned to her lanthorn-bearers and ordered them to precede her; she also
called to her duenna to follow; but she did not bestow another look on
the three men, nor did she acknowledge the respectful farewell which
came from the lips of the beast of burden.

The next moment she had already crossed the road toward the cathedral,
and she and her escort were swallowed up by the fog.

"Well, of all the d----d idiots that ever...." swore Pythagoras, in his
shrillest tones.

Even Socrates pulled himself together in order to declare emphatically
that Diogenes was a confounded fool.

"I pray thee raise thy hand to my lips," mimicked Pythagoras mockingly.
"Verrek jezelf!" he muttered under his breath.

"If you do not hold your tongue, O wise Pythagoras," retorted Diogenes
with all his wonted merriment, "I'll even have to drop Socrates on the
top of you in order to break your head."

"But 'tis a fortune--the promise of a fortune which you let slip so
stupidly."

"There is a certain wisdom even in stupidity sometimes, Pythagoras, as
you will discover one day, when your nose is less red and your figure
less fat. Remember that I have three guilders in my pocket, and that our
thirst hath not grown less. Follow me now, we've talked enough for
to-night."

And he started walking down the street with long and rapid strides.
Socrates up aloft swaying about like a dummy figure in carnival time,
and Pythagoras--still muttering a series of diversified oaths--bringing
up the rear.




CHAPTER IV

WATCH-NIGHT


And am I not proved fully justified in my statement that but for many
seemingly paltry circumstances, the further events which I am about to
place on record, and which have been of paramount importance to the
history of no less than two great and worthy families, never would have
shaped themselves as they did.

For who could assert that but for the presence of three philosophers on
the Grootemarkt on the eve of the New Year, and their subsequent
interference in the fray outside the Papist convent door in the Dam
Straat, who could assert, I say, that but for these minor circumstances
Jongejuffrouw Beresteyn would ever have condescended to exchange half a
dozen words with three out-at-elbows, homeless, shiftless, foreign
adventurers who happened to have drifted into Haarlem--the Lord only
knew for what purpose and with what hopes.


Jongejuffrouw Beresteyn had been well and rigidly brought up; she was
well educated, and possessed more knowledge than most young girls of her
social standing or of her age. Mynheer Beresteyn, her father, was a
gentleman of vast consideration in Haarlem, and as his two children had
been motherless as soon as the younger one saw the light of day, he had
been doubly careful in his endeavours that his daughter should in no way
feel the lack of that tender supervision of which it had pleased God to
deprive her.

Thus she had been taught early in life to keep herself aloof from all
persons save those approved of by her father or her brother--a young
man of sound understanding, some half dozen years older than herself. As
for the strangers who for purposes of commerce or other less avowable
motives filled the town of Haarlem with their foreign ways--which oft
were immoral and seldom sedate--she had been strictly taught to hold
these in abhorrence and never to approach such men either with word or
gesture.

Was it likely, then, that she ever would have spoken to three thriftless
knaves?--and this at a late hour of the night--but for the fact that she
had witnessed their valour from a distance, and with queenly
condescension hoped to reward them with a gracious word.

The kiss imprinted upon her hand by respectful, if somewhat bantering,
lips had greatly pleased her: such she imagined would be the homage of a
vassal proud to have attracted the notice of his lady paramount. The
curtly expressed desire to quit her presence, in order to repair to a
tavern, had roused her indignation and her contempt.

She was angered beyond what the circumstance warranted, and while the
minister preached an admirable and learned watch-night sermon she felt
her attention drifting away from the discourse and the solemnity of the
occasion, whilst her wrath against a most unworthy object was taking the
place of more pious and charitable feelings.

The preacher had taken for his text the sublime words from the New
Testament: "The greatest of these is charity." He thought that the first
day of the New Year was a splendid opportunity for the good inhabitants
of Haarlem to cast off all gossiping and back-biting ways and to live
from this day forth in greater amity and benevolence with one another.
"Love thy neighbour as thyself," he adjured passionately, and the
burghers, with their vrouws in their Sunday best, were smitten with
remorse of past scandal-mongering, and vowed that in the future they
would live in perfect accord and good-will.

Jongejuffrouw Beresteyn, too, thought of all her friends and
acquaintances with the kindliest of feelings, and she had not a harsh
thought for anyone in her heart ... not for anyone, at any rate, who was
good and deserving.... As for that knavish malapert with the merry,
twinkling eyes and the mocking smile, surely God would not desire her to
be in charity with him; a more ungrateful, more impertinent wretch, she
had never met, and it was quite consoling to think of all that Mynheer
Beresteyn's influence could have done for those three ragamuffins, and
how in the near future they must all suffer abominable discomfort,
mayhap with shortage of food and drink, or absence of shelter, when no
doubt one of them at least would remember with contrition the
magnanimous offer of help made to him by gracious lips, and which he had
so insolently refused.

So absorbed was Jongejuffrouw Beresteyn in these thoughts that she never
even noticed that the watch-night service was over, and the minister
already filing out with the clerk. The general exodus around her
recalled her to herself and also to a sense of contrition for the absent
way in which she had assisted at this solemn service.

She whispered to Maria to wait for her outside the church with the men.

"I must yet pray for a little while alone," she said. "I will join you
at the north door in a quarter of an hour."

And she fell on her knees, and was soon absorbed in prayer.

Maria found the two serving men in the crowd, and transmitted to them
her mistress's orders. The cathedral had been very full for the service,
and the worshippers took a long time filing out; they lingered about in
the aisles, exchanging bits of city gossip and wishing one another a
happy New Year.

The verger had much ado to drive the goodly people out of the edifice,
no sooner had he persuaded one group of chatterers to continue their
conversation on the Grootemarkt outside, than another batch seemed to
loom out of the shadows, equally determined to conclude its gossip here
in the warmth, before sallying forth once more into the foggy midnight
air.

"I must close the cathedral for the night," the worthy man repeated
piteously, "do you think that I don't want to get home and eat my
watch-night supper at a reasonable hour. Move on there, my masters, move
out please! My orders are to have the church closed before one o'clock."

He came on a group of men who sat together in the shadow of a heavy
pillar close behind the pulpit.

"Now then, mynheers," he said, "'tis closing time."

But those that were there made no sign to obey.

"All right, Perk," said one of them in a whisper, "we are not going just
yet."

"Aye, but ye are," retorted the verger gruffly, for he was cross now and
wanting his supper, "what should I allow ye to stay for?"

"For the memory of Jan!" was the whispered response.

The verger's manner changed in an instant, the few words evidently bore
some portentous meaning of which he held the key--and I doubt not but
that the key was made of silver.

"All right, mynheers," he said softly, "the church will be clear in a
few minutes now."

"Go round, Perk," said he who had first spoken, "and let us know when
all is safe."


The verger touched his forelock and silently departed. Those that were
there in the shadow by the great pillar remained in silence awaiting his
return. The congregation was really dispersing now, the patter of
leather shoes on the flagstones of the floor became gradually more
faint; then it died out altogether. That portion of the Groote Kerk
where is situated the magnificent carved pulpit was already quite dark
and wholly deserted save for that group of silent, waiting figures that
looked like shadows within the shadows.

Anon the verger returned. He had only been absent a few minutes.

"Quite safe now, mynheers," he said, "the last of them has just gone
through the main door. I have locked all the doors save the West. If you
want anything you will find me there. I can leave this one light for
you, the others I must put out."

"Put them out, Perk, by all means," was the ready response. "We can find
our way about in the dark."

The verger left them undisturbed; his shuffling steps were heard gliding
along the flagstones until their murmur died away in the vastness of the
sacred edifice.

The group of men who sat behind the pulpit against the heavy pillar, now
drew their rush chairs closer to one another.

There were six of them altogether, and the light from the lamp above
illumined their faces, which were stern looking, dark and of set
determination. All six of them were young; only one amongst them might
have been more than thirty years of age; that a great purpose brought
them here to-night was obvious from their attitude, the low murmur of
their voices, that air of mystery which hung round them, fostered by the
dark cloaks which they held closely wrapped round their shoulders and
the shadows from the pillar which they sought.

One of them appeared to be the centre of their interest, a man, lean and
pallid-looking, with hollow purple-rimmed eyes, that spoke of night
vigils or mayhap of unavowed, consuming thoughts. The mouth was hard and
thin, and a febrile excitement caused his lips to quiver and his hand to
shake.

The others hung upon his words.

"Tell us some of your adventures, Stoutenburg!" said one of them
eagerly.

Stoutenburg laughed harshly and mirthlessly.

"They would take years in telling," he said, "mayhap one day I'll write
them down. They would fill many a volume."

"Enough that you did contrive to escape," said another man, "and that
you are back here amongst us once more."

"Yes! in order to avenge wrongs that are as countless by now as the
grains of sand on the sea-shore," rejoined Stoutenburg earnestly.

"You know that you are not safe inside Holland," suggested he who had
first spoken.

"Aye, my good Beresteyn, I know that well enough," said Stoutenburg with
a long and bitter sigh. "Your own father would send me to the gallows if
he had the chance, and you with me mayhap, for consorting with me."

"My father owes his position, his wealth, the prosperity of his
enterprise to the Stadtholder," said Beresteyn, speaking with as much
bitterness as his friend. "He looked upon the last conspiracy against
the life of the Prince of Orange as a crime blacker than the blackest
sin that ever deserved hell.... If he thought that I ... at the present
moment...."

"Yes I know. But he has not the power to make you false to me, has he,
Nicolaes?" asked Stoutenburg anxiously. "You are still at one with us?"

"With you to the death!" replied Beresteyn fervently, "so are we all."

"Aye! that we are," said the four others with one accord, whilst one of
them added dryly:

"And determined not to fail like the last time by trusting those paid
hirelings, who will take your money and betray you for more."

"Last February we were beset with bunglers and self-seekers," said
Stoutenburg, "my own brother Groeneveld was half-hearted in everything
save the desire to make money. Slatius was a vindictive boor, van Dyk
was a busy-body and Korenwinder a bloated fool. Well! they have paid
their penalty. Heaven have their souls! But for God's sake let us do the
work ourselves this time."

"They say that the Stadtholder is sick unto death," said one of the men
sombrely. "Disease strikes with a surer hand sometimes than doth the
poniard of an enemy."

"Bah! I have no time to waste waiting for his death," retorted
Stoutenburg roughly, "there is an opportunity closer at hand and more
swift than the weary watching for the slow ravages of disease. The
Stadtholder comes to Amsterdam next week; the burghers of his beloved
city have begged of him to be present at the consecration of the Western
Kerk, built by Mynheer van Keyser, as well as at the opening of the East
India Company's new hall. He plays up for popularity just now. The
festivals in connection with the double event at Amsterdam have tempted
him to undertake the long journey from the frontier, despite his failing
health. His visit to this part of the country is a golden opportunity
which I do not intend to miss."

"You will find it very difficult to get near the Stadtholder on such an
occasion," remarked Beresteyn. "He no longer drives about unattended as
he used to do."

"All the escort in the world will not save him from my revenge," said
Stoutenburg firmly. "Our position now is stronger than it has ever been.
I have adherents in every city of Holland and of Zealand, aye, and in
the south too as far as Breda and in the east as far as Arnhem. I tell
you, friends, that I have spread a net over this country out of which
Maurice of Orange cannot escape. My organisation too is better than it
was. I have spies within the camp at Sprang, a knot of determined men
all along the line between Breda and Amsterdam, at Gouda, at
Delft ... especially at Delft."

"Why specially there?" asked Beresteyn.

"Because I have it in my mind that mayhap we need not take the risks of
accomplishing our coup in Amsterdam itself. As you say it might be very
difficult and very dangerous to get at the Stadtholder on a public
occasion.... But Delft is on the way.... Maurice of Orange is certain to
halt at Delft, if only in order to make a pilgrimage to the spot where
his father was murdered. He will, I am sure, sleep more than one night
at the Prinsenhof.... And from Delft the way leads northwards past
Ryswyk--Ryswyk close to which I have had my headquarters three weeks
past--Ryswyk, my friends!" he continued, speaking very rapidly almost
incoherently in his excitement, "where I have arms and ammunition,
Ryswyk, which is the rallying point for all my friends ... the molens!
you remember?... close to the wooden bridge which spans the Schie.... I
have enough gunpowder stored at that molens to blow up twenty wooden
bridges ... and the Stadtholder with his escort must cross the wooden
bridge which spans the Schie not far from the molens where I have my
headquarters.... I have it all in my mind already.... I only wait to
hear news of the actual day when the Stadtholder leaves his camp.... I
can tell you more to-morrow, but in the meanwhile I want to know if
there are a few men about here on whom I can rely at a moment's
notice ... whom I can use as spies or messengers ... or even to lend me
a hand at Ryswyk in case of need ... thirty or forty would be
sufficient ... if they are good fighting men.... I said something about
this in my message to you all."

"And I for one acted on your suggestion at once," said one of the
others. "I have recruited ten stout fellows: Germans and Swiss, who
know not a word of our language. I pay them well and they ask no
questions. They will fight for you, spy for you, run for you, do
anything you choose, and can betray nothing, since they know nothing.
They are at your disposal at any moment."

"That is good, and I thank you, my dear Heemskerk."

"I have half a dozen peasants on my own estate on whom I can rely," said
another of Stoutenburg's friends. "They are good fighters, hard-headed
and ready to go through fire and water for me. They are as safe as
foreign mercenaries, for they will do anything I tell them and will do
it without asking the reason why."

"I have another eight or ten foreigners to offer you," said a third,
"they come from a part of Britain called Scotland so I understand. I
picked them up a week ago when they landed at Scheveningen and engaged
them in my service then and there."

"And I can lay my hand at any moment on a dozen or so young apprentices
in my father's factory," added a fourth, "they are always ready for a
frolic or a fight and ready to follow me to hell if need be."

"You see that you can easily count on three dozen men," concluded
Beresteyn.

"Three dozen men ready to hand," said Stoutenburg, "for our present
needs they should indeed suffice. Knowing that I can reckon on them I
can strike the decisive blow when and how I think it best. It is the
blow that counts," he continued between set teeth, "after that
everything is easy enough. The waverers hang back until success is
assured. But our secret adherents in Holland can be counted by the
score, in Zealand and Utrecht by the hundred. When Maurice of Orange has
paid with his own blood the penalty which his crimes have incurred, when
I can proclaim myself over his dead body Stadtholder of the Northern
Provinces, Captain and Admiral General of the State, thousands will
rally round us and flock to our banner. Thousands feel as we do, think
as we do, and know what we know, that John of Barneveld will not rest in
his grave till I, his last surviving son, have avenged him. Who made
this Republic what she is? My father. Who gave the Stadtholder the might
which he possesses? My father. My father whose name was revered and
honoured throughout the length and breadth of Europe and whom an
ingrate's hand hath branded with the mark of traitor. The Stadtholder
brought my father to the scaffold, heaping upon him accusations of
treachery which he himself must have known were groundless. When the
Stadtholder sent John of Barneveld to the scaffold he committed a crime
which can only be atoned for by his own blood. Last year we failed. The
mercenaries whom we employed betrayed us. My brother, our friends went
the way my father led, victims all of them of the rapacious ambition,
the vengeful spite of the Stadtholder. But I escaped as by a miracle!--a
miracle I say it was, my friends, a miracle wrought by the God of
vengeance, who hath said: 'I will repay!' He hath also said that
whosoever sheds the blood of man, by man shall his blood be shed! I am
the instrument of his vengeance. Vengeance is mine! 'tis I who will
repay!"

He had never raised his voice during this long peroration, but his
diction had been none the less impressive because it was spoken under
his breath. The others had listened in silence, awed, no doubt, by the
bitter flood of hate which coursed through every vein of this man's body
and poured in profusion from his lips. The death of father and brother
and of many friends, countless wrongs, years of misery, loss of caste,
of money and of home had numbed him against every feeling save that of
revenge.

"This time I'll let no man do the work for me," he said after a moment's
silence, "if you will all stand by me, I will smite the Stadtholder with
mine own hand."

This time he had raised his voice, just enough to wake the echo that
slept in the deserted edifice.

"Hush!" whispered one of his friends, "Hush! for God's sake!"

"Bah! the church is empty," retorted Stoutenburg, "and the verger too
far away to hear. I'll say it again, and proclaim it loudly now in this
very church before the altar of God: I will kill the Stadtholder with
mine own hand!"

"Silence in the name of God!"

More than one muffled voice had uttered the warning and Beresteyn's hand
fell heavily on Stoutenburg's arm.

"Hush, I say!" he whispered hoarsely, "there's something moving there in
the darkness."

"A rat mayhap!" quoth Stoutenburg lightly.

"No, no ... listen!... some one moves ... some one has been
there ... all along...."

"A spy!" murmured the others under their breath.

In a moment every man there had his hand on his sword: Stoutenburg and
Beresteyn actually drew theirs. They did not speak to one another for
they had caught one another's swift glance, and the glance had in it the
forecast of a grim resolve.

Whoever it was who thus moved silently out of the shadows--spy or merely
indiscreet listener--would pay with his life for the knowledge which he
had obtained. These men here could no longer afford to take any risks.
The words spoken by Stoutenburg and registered by them all could be made
the stepping stones to the scaffold if strange ears had caught their
purport.

They meant death to someone, either to the speakers or to the
eavesdropper; and six men were determined that it should be the
eavesdropper who must pay for his presence here.

They forced their eyes to penetrate the dense gloom which surrounded
them, and one and all held their breath, like furtive animals that
await their prey. They stood there silent and rigid, a tense look on
every face; the one light fixed in the pillar above them played weirdly
on their starched ruffs scarce whiter than the pallid hue of their
cheeks.

Then suddenly a sound caught their ears, which caused each man to start
and to look at his nearest companion with set inquiring eyes; it was the
sound of a woman's skirt swishing against the stone-work of the floor.
The seconds went by leaden-footed and full of portentous meaning. Each
heart-beat beneath the vaulted roof of the cathedral to-night seemed
like a knell from eternity.

How slow the darkness was in yielding up its secret!


At last as the conspirators gazed, they saw the form of a woman emerging
out of the shadows. At first they could only see her starched kerchief
and a glimmer of jewels beneath her cloak. Then gradually the
figure--ghostlike in this dim light--came more fully into view; the face
of a woman, her lace coif, the gold embroidery of her stomacher all
became detached one by one, but only for a few seconds, for the woman
was walking rapidly, nor did she look to right or left, but glided along
the floor like a vision--white, silent, swift--which might have been
conjured up by a fevered brain.

"A ghost!" whispered one of the young men hoarsely.

"No. A woman," said another, and the words came like a hissing sound
through his teeth.

Beresteyn and Stoutenburg said nothing for a while. They looked silently
on one another, the same burning anxiety glowing in their eyes, the same
glance of mute despair passing from one to the other.

"Gilda!" murmured Stoutenburg at last.

The swish of the woman's skirt had died away in the distance; not one of
the men had attempted to follow her or to intercept her passage.

Jongejuffrouw Beresteyn, no spy of course, just a chance eavesdropper!
but possessed nevertheless now of a secret which meant death to them
all!

"How much did she hear think you?" asked Stoutenburg at last.

He had replaced his sword in his scabbard with a gesture that expressed
his own sense of fatality. He could not use his sword against a
woman--even had that woman not been Gilda Beresteyn.

"She cannot have heard much," said one of the others, "we spoke in
whispers."

"If she had heard anything she would have known that only the west door
was to remain open. Yet she has made straight for the north portal,"
suggested another.

"If she did not hear the verger speaking she could not have heard what
we said," argued a third somewhat lamely.

Every one of them had some suggestion to put forward, some surmise to
express, some hope to urge. Only Beresteyn said nothing. He had stood
by, fierce and silent ever since he had first recognized his sister;
beneath his lowering brows the resolve had not died out of his eyes, and
he still held his sword unsheathed in his hand.

Stoutenburg now appealed directly to him.

"What do you think of it, Beresteyn?" he asked.

"I think that my sister did hear something of our conversation," he
answered quietly.

"Great God!" ejaculated the others.

"But," added Beresteyn slowly, "I pledge you mine oath that she will not
betray us."

"How will you make sure of that?" retorted Stoutenburg, not without a
sneer.

"That is mine affair."

"And ours too. We can do nothing, decide on nothing until we are sure."

"Then I pray you wait for me here," concluded Beresteyn. "I will bring
you a surety before we part this night."

"Let me go and speak to her," urged Stoutenburg.

"No, no, 'tis best that I should go."

Stoutenburg made a movement as if he would detain him, then seemed to
think better of it, and finally let him go.

Beresteyn did not wait for further comment from his friends but quickly
turned on his heel. The next moment he was speeding away across the vast
edifice and his tall figure was soon swallowed up by the gloom.




CHAPTER V

BROTHER AND SISTER



The verger on guard at the west door had quietly dropped to sleep. He
did not wake apparently when Jongejuffrouw Beresteyn slipped past him
and out through the door.

Beresteyn followed close on his sister's heels. He touched her shoulder
just as she stood outside the portal, wrapping her fur cloak more snugly
over her shoulders and looking round her, anxious where to find her
servants.

"'Tis late for you to be out this night, Gilda," he said, "and alone."

"I am only alone for the moment," she replied quietly. "Maria and Jakob
and Piet are waiting for me at the north door. I did not know it would
be closed."

"But why are you so late?"

"I stayed in church after the service."

"But why?" he insisted more impatiently.

"I could not pray during service," she said. "My thoughts wandered. I
wanted to be alone for a few moments with God."

"Did you not know then that you were not alone?"

"No. Not at first."

"But ... afterwards...?"

"Your voice, Nicolaes, struck on my ear. I did not want to hear. I
wanted to pray."

"Yet you listened?"

"No. I did not wish to listen."

"But you heard?"

She gave no actual reply, but he could see her profile straight and
white, the curved lips firmly pressed together, the brow slightly
puckered, and from the expression of her face and of her whole attitude,
he knew that she had heard.

He drew in his breath, like one who has received a blow and has not yet
realized how deeply it would hurt. His right hand which was resting on
his hip tore at the cloth of his doublet, else mayhap it would already
have wandered to the hilt of his sword.

He had expected it of course. Already when he saw Gilda gliding out of
the shadows with that awed, tense expression on her face, he knew that
she must have heard ... something at least ... something that had
horrified her to the soul.

But now of course there was no longer any room for doubt. She had heard
everything and the question was what that knowledge, lodged in her
brain, might mean to him and to his friends.

Just for a moment the frozen, misty atmosphere took on a reddish hue,
his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth, a cold sweat broke out upon
his forehead.

He looked around him furtively, fearfully, wondering whence came that
hideous, insinuating whisper which was freezing the marrow in his bones.
No doubt that had she spoken then, had she reproached or adjured, he
would have found it impossible to regain mastery over himself. But she
looked so unimpassioned, so still, so detached, that self-control came
back to him, and for the moment she was safe.

"Will you tell me what you did hear?" he asked after awhile, with
seeming calm, though he felt as if his words must choke him, and her
answer strike him dead.

"I heard," she said, speaking very slowly and very quietly, "that the
Lord of Stoutenburg has returned, and is trying to drag you and others
into iniquity to further his own ambitious schemes."

"You wrong him there, Gilda. The Lord of Stoutenburg has certain wrongs
to avenge which cry aloud to Heaven."

"We will not argue about that, Nicolaes," she said coldly. "Murder is
hideous, call it what you will. The brand of Cain doth defame a man and
carries its curse with it. No man can justify so dastardly a crime. 'Tis
sophistry to suggest it."

"Then in sending Barneveld to the scaffold did the Prince of Orange call
that curse upon himself, a curse which--please the God of
vengeance!--will come home to him now at last."

"'Tis not for you, Nicolaes, to condemn him, who has heaped favours,
kindness, bounties upon our father and upon us. 'Tis not for you, the
Stadtholder's debtor for everything you are, for everything that you
possess, 'tis not for you to avenge Barneveld's wrongs."

"'Tis not for you, my sister," he retorted hotly, "to preach to me your
elder brother. I alone am responsible for mine actions, and have no
account to give to any one."

"You owe an account of your actions to your father and to me, Nicolaes,
since your dishonour will fall upon us too."

"Take care, Gilda, take care!" he exclaimed hoarsely, "you speak of
things which are beyond your ken, but in speaking them you presume on my
forebearance ... and on your sex."

"There is no one in sight," she said calmly, "you may strike me without
fear. One crime more or less on your conscience will soon cease to
trouble you."

"Gilda!" he cried with sudden passionate reproach.

At this involuntary cry--in which the expression of latent affection for
her struggled with that of his rage and of his burning anxiety--all her
own tender feelings for him, her womanliness, her motherly instincts
were re-awakened in an instant. They had only been dormant for awhile,
because of her horror of what she had heard. And that horror of a
monstrous deed, that sense of shame that he--her brother--should be so
ready to acquiesce in a crime had momentarily silenced the call of
sisterly love. But this love once re-awakened was strong enough to do
battle in her heart on his behalf: the tense rigidity of her attitude
relaxed, her mouth softened, her eyes filled with tears. The next moment
she had turned fully to him and was looking pleadingly into his face.

"Little brother," she murmured gently, "tell me that it is not true.
That it was all a hideous dream."

He looked down on her for a moment. It pleased him to think that her
affection for him was still there, that at any rate his personal safety
might prove a potent argument against the slightest thought of
indiscretion on her part. She tried to read his thoughts, but everything
was dark around them both, the outline of his brow and mouth alone stood
clearly out from the gloom: the expression of his eyes she could not
fathom. But womanlike she was ready to believe that he would relent. It
is so difficult for a woman to imagine that one whom she loves is really
prone to evil. She loved this brother dearly, and did not grasp the fact
that he had reached a point in his life when a woman's pleading had not
the power to turn him from his purpose. She did not know how deeply he
had plunged into the slough of conspiracy, and that the excitement of it
had fired his blood to the exclusion of righteousness and of loyalty.
She hoped--in the simplicity of her heart--that he was only misled, that
evil counsels had only temporarily prevailed. Like a true woman she
still saw the child in this brother who had grown to manhood by her
side.

Therefore she appealed and she pleaded, she murmured tender words and
made fond suggestions, all the while that his heart was hard to
everything except to the one purpose which she was trying to thwart.

Not unkindly but quite firmly he detached her clinging arms from round
his neck.

"Let us call it a dream, little sister," he said firmly, "and do you try
and forget it."

"That I cannot, Nicolaes," she replied, "unless you will promise me...."

"To betray my friends?" he sneered.

"I would not ask you to do that: but you can draw back ... it is not too
late.... For our father's sake, and for mine, Nicolaes," she pleaded
once more earnestly. "Oh think, little brother, think! It cannot be that
you could countenance such a hideous crime, you who were always so loyal
and so brave! I remember when you were quite a tiny boy what contempt
you had for little Jakob Steyn because he told lies, and how you
thrashed Frans van Overstein because he ill-treated a dog.... Little
brother, when our father was ruined, penniless, after that awful siege
of Haarlem, which is still a hideous memory to him, the Prince of Orange
helped him with friendship and money to re-establish his commerce, he
stood by him loyally, constantly, until more prosperous days dawned upon
our house. Little brother, you have oft heard our father tell the tale,
think ... oh, think of the blow you would be dealing him if you lent a
hand to conspiracy against the Prince. Little brother, for our father's
sake, for mine, do not let yourself be dragged into the toils of that
treacherous Stoutenburg."

"You call him treacherous now, but you loved him once."

"It is because I loved him once," she rejoined earnestly, "that I call
him treacherous now."

He made no comment on this, for he knew in his heart of hearts that what
she said was true. He knew nothing of course of the events of that night
in the early spring of the year when Gilda had sheltered and comforted
the man who had so basely betrayed her; but for her ministration to him
then, when exhausted and half-starved he sought shelter under her roof,
in her very room--he would not have lived for this further plotting and
this further infamy, nor yet to drag her brother down with him into the
abyss of his own disgrace.

Of this nocturnal visit Gilda had never spoken to anyone, not even to
Nicolaes who she knew was Stoutenburg's friend, least of all to her
father, whose wrath would have fallen heavily on her had he known that
she had harboured a traitor in his house.

"Stoutenburg lied to me, Nicolaes," she now said, seeing that still her
brother remained silent and morose, "he lied to me when he stole my
love, only to cast it away from him as soon as ambition called him from
my side. And as he lied then, so will he lie to you, little brother, he
will steal your allegiance, use you for his own ends and cast you
ruthlessly from him if he find you no longer useful. Yes, I did love him
once," she continued earnestly, "when he thought of staining his hands
with murder my love finally turned to contempt. This new infamy which he
plots hath filled the measure of my hate. Turn from him, little brother,
I do entreat you with my whole soul. He has been false to his God, false
to his prince, false to me! he will be false to you!"

"It is too late, Gilda," he retorted sombrely, "even if I were so
minded, which please God! I am not."

"It is never too late to draw back from such an abyss of shame."

"Be silent, girl," he said more roughly, angered that he was making no
headway against her obstinacy. "God-verdomme! but I am a fool indeed to
stand and parley here with you, when grave affairs wait upon my time.
You talk at random and of things you do not understand: I had no mind to
argue this matter out with you."

"I do not detain you, Nicolaes," she said simply, with a sigh of bitter
disappointment. "If you will but call Maria and the men who wait at the
north door, I can easily relieve you of my presence."

"Yes, and you can go home to your pots and pans, to your sewing and your
linen-chest, and remember to hold your tongue, as a woman should do, for
if you breathe of what you have heard, if you betray Stoutenburg who is
my friend, it is me--your only brother--whom you will be sending to the
scaffold."

"I would not betray you, Nicolaes," she said.

"Or any of my friends?"

"Or any of your friends."

"You swear it?" he urged.

"There is no need for an oath."

"Yes, there is a pressing need for an oath, Gilda," he retorted sternly.
"My friends expect it of you, and you must pledge yourself to them, to
forget all that you heard to-night and never to breathe of it to any
living soul."

"I cannot swear," she replied, "to forget that which my memory will
retain in spite of my will: nor would I wish to forget, because I mean
to exert all the power I possess to dissuade you from this abominable
crime, and because I mean to pray to God with all my might that He may
prevent the crime from being committed."

"You may pray as much as you like," he said roughly, "but I'll not have
you breathe a word of it to any living soul."

"My father has the right to know of the disgrace that threatens him."

"You would not tell him?" he exclaimed hoarsely.

"Not unless...."

"Unless what?"

"I cannot say. 'Tis all in God's hands and I do not know yet what my
duty is. As you say I am only a woman, and my place is with my pots and
pans, my sewing and my spindle. I have no right to have thoughts of mine
own. Perhaps you are right, and in that case my father must indeed be
the one to act. But this I do swear to you, Nicolaes, that before you
stain your hand with the blood of one who, besides being your sovereign
lord, is your father's benefactor and friend, I will implore God above,
that my father and I may both die ere we see you and ourselves so
disgraced."

Before he could detain her by word or gesture she had slipped past him
and turned to walk quickly toward the façade of the cathedral. An
outstanding piece of masonry soon hid her from his view. For the moment
he had thoughts of following her. Nicolaes Beresteyn was not a man who
liked being thwarted, least of all by a woman, and there was a sense of
insecurity for him in what she had said at the last. His life and that
of his friends lay in the hands of that young girl who had spoken some
very hard words to him just now. He loved her as a brother should, and
would not for his very life have seen her in any danger, but he had all
a man's desire for mastery and hatred of dependence: she had angered and
defied him, and yet remained in a sense his master.

He and his friends were dependent on her whim--he would not call it
loyalty or sense of duty to be done--it was her whim that would hold the
threads of a conspiracy which he firmly believed had the welfare of
Holland and of religion for its object, and it was her whim that would
hold the threat of the scaffold over himself and Stoutenburg and the
others. The situation was intolerable.

He ground his heel upon the stone and muttered an oath under his breath.
If only Gilda had been a man how simple would his course of action have
been. A man can be coerced by physical means, but a woman ... and that
woman his own sister!

It was hard for Nicolaes Beresteyn, to have to think the situation out
calmly, dispassionately, to procrastinate, to let the matter rest at any
rate until the next day. But this he knew that he must do. He felt that
he had exhausted all the arguments, all the reasonings that were
consistent with his own pride; and how could he hope to coerce her into
oaths or promises of submission here in the open street and with Maria
and Jakob and Piet close by--eavesdropping mayhap?

Gilda was obstinate and had always been allowed more latitude in the way
of thinking things out for herself than was good for any woman; but
Nicolaes knew that she would not take any momentous step in a hurry. She
would turn the whole of the circumstances over in her mind and as she
said do some praying too. What she would do afterwards he dared not even
conjecture.

For the moment he was forced to leave her alone, and primarily he
decided to let his friends know at once how the matter stood.

He found them waiting anxiously for his return. I doubt if they had
spoken much during his absence. A chorus of laconic inquiry greeted him
as soon as his firm step rang out upon the flagstones.

"Well?"

"She has heard everything," he said quietly, "but, she will not betray
us. To this I pledge ye my word."




CHAPTER VI

THE COUNSELS OF PRUDENCE


Neither Stoutenburg nor any of the others had made reply to Beresteyn's
firmly spoken oath. They were hard-headed Dutchmen, every one of them:
men of action rather than men of words: for good or ill the rest of the
world can judge them forever after by their deeds alone.

Therefore when the spectre of betrayal and of subsequent death appeared
so suddenly before them they neither murmured nor protested. They could
not in reason blame Beresteyn for his sister's presence in the cathedral
this night, nor yet that her thoughts and feelings in the matter of the
enmity between the Stadtholder and the Barneveld family did not coincide
with their own.

Silently they walked across the vast and lonely cathedral and filed one
by one out of the western door where Perk still held faithful watch.
Stoutenburg, their leader, had his lodgings in a small house situate at
the top of the Kleine Hout Straat, close to the well-known hostelry at
the sign of the "Lame Cow." This latter was an hostelry of unimpeachable
repute and thither did the six friends decide to go ere finally going
home for the night.

It had been decided between them some time ago that those who were able
to do so would show themselves in public as much as possible during the
next few days, so as to ward off any suspicion of intrigue which their
frequent consorting in secluded places might otherwise have aroused.

Out in the open they thought it best to disperse, electing to walk away
two and two rather than in a compact group which might call forth the
close attention of the night watchmen.

Stoutenburg linked his arm in that of Beresteyn.

"Let the others go on ahead," he said confidentially, "you and I,
friend, must understand one another ere we part for this night."

Then as Beresteyn made no immediate reply, he continued calmly:

"This will mean hanging for the lot of us this time, Nicolaes!"

"I pray to God ..." exclaimed the other hoarsely.

"God will have nought to say in the matter, my friend," retorted
Stoutenburg dryly, "'tis only the Stadtholder who will have his say, and
do you think that he is like to pardon...."

"Gilda will never...."

"Oh, yes, she will," broke in Stoutenburg firmly; "be not deluded into
thoughts of security. Gilda will think the whole of this matter over for
four and twenty hours at the longest, after which, feeling herself in an
impasse between her affection for you and her horror of me, she will
think it her duty to tell your father all that she heard in the
cathedral to-night."

"Even then," said Beresteyn, hotly, "my father would not send his only
son to the gallows."

"Do you care to take that risk?" was the other man's calm retort.

"What can I do?"

"You must act decisively and at once, my friend," said Stoutenburg
dryly, "an you do not desire to see your friends marched off to torture
and the scaffold with yourself following in their wake."

"But how? how?" exclaimed Beresteyn.

His was by far the weaker nature of the two: easily led, easily swayed
by a will stronger than his own. Stoutenburg wielded vast influence over
him; he had drawn him into the net of his own ambitious schemes, and had
by promises and cajolery won his entire allegiance. Now that destruction
and death threatened Nicolaes through his own sister--whom he sincerely
loved--he turned instinctively to Stoutenburg for help and for advice.

"It is quite simple," said the latter slowly. "Gilda must be temporarily
made powerless to do us any harm."

"How?" reiterated Beresteyn helplessly.

"Surely you can think of some means yourself," retorted Stoutenburg
somewhat impatiently. "Self-preservation is an efficient sharpener of
wits as a rule, and your own life is in the hands of a woman now, my
friend."

"You seem to forget that that woman is my sister. How can I conspire to
do her bodily harm?"

"Who spake of bodily harm, you simpleton?" quoth Stoutenburg with a
harsh laugh, "'tis you who seem to forget that if Gilda is your sister
she is also the woman whom I love more than my life ... more than my
ambition ... more even than my revenge...."


He paused a moment, for despite his usual self-control his passion at
this moment threatened to master him. His voice rose harsh and
quivering, and was like to attract the notice of passers-by. After a
moment or two he conquered his emotion and said more calmly:

"Friend, we must think of our country and of our faith; we must think of
the success of our schemes: and, though Gilda be dear to us
both--infinitely dear to me--she must not be allowed to interfere with
the great object which we hope to attain. Think out a way therefore of
placing her in such a position that she cannot harm us: have her
conveyed to some place where she can be kept a prisoner for a few days
until I have accomplished what I have set out to do."


Then as Beresteyn said nothing, seeming to be absorbed in some new
train of thought, Stoutenburg continued more persuasively:

"I would I could carry her away myself and hold her--a beloved
prisoner--while others did my work for me. But that I cannot do: for
'twere playing the part of a coward and I have sworn before the altar of
God that I would kill the Stadtholder with mine own hand. Nor would I
have the courage so to offend her: for let me tell you this, Nicolaes,
that soaring even above my most ambitious dreams, is the hope that when
these have been realized, I may ask Gilda to share my triumph with me."

"Nor would I have the courage so to offend my sister ... my father,"
said Beresteyn. "You speak of carrying her off, and holding her a
prisoner for eight days perhaps, or even a fortnight. How can I, her own
brother, do that? 'Tis an outrage she would never forgive: my father
would curse me ... disinherit me ... turn me out of house and home...."

"And will he not curse you now, when he knows--when to-morrow mayhap,
Gilda will have told him that you, his son, have joined hands with the
Lord of Stoutenburg in a conspiracy to murder the Prince of Orange--will
he not disinherit you then? turn you out of house and home?"

"Hold on for mercy's sake," exclaimed Beresteyn, who bewildered by the
terrible alternative thus put ruthlessly before him, felt that he must
collect his thoughts, and must--for the moment at any rate--put away
from him the tempter who insinuated thoughts of cowardice into his
brain.

"I'll say no more, then," said Stoutenburg quietly, "think it all over,
Nicolaes. My life, your own, those of all our friends are entirely in
your hands: the welfare of the State, the triumph of our faith depend on
the means which you will devise for silencing Gilda for a few brief
days."

After which there was silence between the two men. Beresteyn walked more
rapidly along, his fur-lined cloak wrapped closely round him, his arms
folded tightly across his chest and his hands clenched underneath his
cloak. Stoutenburg on the other hand was also willing to let the matter
drop and to allow the subtle poison which he had instilled into his
friend's mind to ferment and bring forth such thoughts as would suit his
own plans.


He knew how to gauge exactly the somewhat vacillating character of
Nicolaes Beresteyn, and had carefully touched every string of that
highly nervous organization till he left it quivering with horror at the
present and deathly fear for the future.

Gilda was a terrible danger, of that there could be no doubt. Nicolaes
had realized this to the full: the instinct of self-preservation was
strong in him; he would think over Stoutenburg's bold suggestion and
would find a way how to act on it. And at the bottom of his tortuous
heart Stoutenburg already cherished the hope that this new complication
which had dragged Gilda into the net of his own intrigues would also
ultimately throw her--a willing victim--into his loving arms.




CHAPTER VII

THREE PHILOSOPHERS AND THEIR FRIENDS


Whereupon Chance forged yet another link in the chain of a man's
destiny.

I pray you follow me now to the tapperij of the "Lame Cow." I had not
asked you to accompany me thither were it not for the fact that the
"Lame Cow" situate in the Kleine Hout Straat not far from the Cathedral,
was a well-ordered and highly respectable tavern, where indeed the sober
merry-makers of Haarlem as well as the gay and gilded youth of the city
were wont to seek both pleasure and solace.

You all know the house with its flat façade of red brick, its small
windows and tall, very tall gabled roof that ends in a point high up
above the front door. The tapperij is on your left as you enter. It is
wainscotted with oak which was already black with age in the year 1623;
above the wainscot the walls are white-washed, and Mynheer Beek, the
host of the "Lame Cow," who is a pious man, has hung the walls round
with scriptural texts, appropriate to his establishment, such as: "Eat,
drink and be merry!" and "Drink thy wine with a merry heart!"

From which I hope that I have convinced you that the "Lame Cow" was an
eminently orderly place of conviviality, where worthy burghers of
Haarlem could drink ale and hot posset in the company of mevrouws, their
wives.

And it was to this highly praised and greatly respected establishment
that three tired-out and very thirsty philosophers repaired this New
Year's night, instead of attending the watch-night service at one of the
churches.


Diogenes, feeling that three guilders still reposed safely in his
wallet, declared his intention of continuing his career as a gentleman,
and a gentleman of course could not resort to one of those low-class
taverns which were usually good enough for foreign adventurers.

And thus did Fate have her will with him and brought him here this
night.

Moreover the tap-room of the "Lame Cow" wore a very gay appearance
always on New Year's night. It was noted for its clientèle on that
occasion, for the good Rhenish wine which it dispensed, and for the gay
sight engendered by the Sunday gowns of the burghers and their ladies
who came here after service for a glass of wine and multifarious relish.

As the night was fine, despite the hard frost, Mynheer Beek expected to
be unusually busy. Already he had arranged on the polished tables the
rows of pewter platters heaped up with delicacies which he knew would be
in great request when the guests would begin to arrive: smoked sausage
garnished with horseradish, roasted liver and slabs of cheese.

The serving wenches with the sleeves of their linen shifts tucked well
up above their round red arms, their stolid faces streaming with
perspiration, were busy polishing tables that already were over-polished
and making pewter mugs to shine that already shone with a dazzling
radiance.

For the nonce the place was still empty and the philosophers when they
entered were able to select the table at which they wished to sit--one
near the hearth in which blazed gigantic logs, and at which they could
stretch out their limbs with comfort.

At Diogenes' suggestion they all made hasty repairs to their disordered
toilet, and re-adjusted the set of their collars and cuffs with the help
of the small mirror that hung close by against the wall.

Three strange forms of a truth that were thus mirrored in turns.

Socrates with a hole in his head, now freshly bandaged with a bit of
clean linen by the sympathetic hand of a serving maid: his hooked nose
neatly washed till it shone like the pewter handle of a knife, his
pointed cranium but sparsely furnished with lanky black hair peeping out
above the bandage like a yellow wurzel in wrappings of paper. His arms
and legs were unusually long and unusually thin, and he had long lean
hands and long narrow feet, but his body was short and slightly bent
forward as if under the weight of his head, which also was narrow and
long. His neck was like that of a stork that has been half-plucked, it
rose from out the centre of his ruffled collar with a curious undulating
movement, which suggested that he could turn it right round and look at
the middle of his own back. He wore a brown doublet of duffle and brown
trunks and hose, and boots that appeared to be too big even for his huge
feet.

Beside him Pythagoras looked like the full stop in a semi-colon, for he
was but little over five feet in height and very fat. His doublet of
thick green cloth had long ago burst its buttons across his protuberent
chest. His face, which was round as a full moon, was highly coloured
even to the tip of his small upturned nose, and his forehead, crowned by
a thick mass of red-brown hair which fell in heavy and lanky waves down
to his eyebrows, was always wet and shiny. He had a habit of standing
with legs wide apart, his abdomen thrust forward and his small podgy
hands resting upon it. His eyes were very small and blinked incessantly.
Below his double chin he wore a huge bow of starched white linen, which
at this moment was sadly crumpled and stained, and his collar which also
had seen more prosperous days was held together by a piece of string.

Like his friend Socrates, his trunk and hose were of worsted, and he
wore high leather boots which reached well above the knee and looked to
have been intended for a much taller person. The hat, with the tall
sugar-loaf crown, which he had picked up after the fray in the Dam
Straat, was much too small for his big round head. He tried, before the
mirror, to adjust it at a becoming angle.

In strange contrast to these two worthies was their friend whom they
called Diogenes. He himself, had you questioned him ever so closely,
could not have told you from what ancestry or what unknown parent had
come to him that air of swagger and of assurance which his avowed penury
had never the power to subdue. Tall above the average, powerfully built
and solidly planted on firm limbs he looked what he easily might have
been, a gentleman to the last inch of him. The brow was fine and broad,
the nose sensitive and well shaped, the mouth a perfect expression of
gentle irony. The soft brown hair, abundant and unruly, lent perhaps a
certain air of untamed wildness to the face, whilst the upturned
moustache and the tiny tuft below the upper lip accentuated the look of
devil-may-care independence which was the chief characteristic of the
mouth.

But the eyes were the most remarkable feature of all. They shone with an
unconquerable merriment, they twinkled and sparkled, and smiled and
mocked, they winked and they beckoned. They were eyes to which you were
obliged to smile in response, eyes that made you laugh if you felt ever
so sad, eyes that jested even before the mouth had spoken, and the mouth
itself was permanently curved into a smile.


Unlike his two companions, Diogenes was dressed not only with scrupulous
care but with a show of elegance. His doublet though well-worn was
fashioned of fine black cloth, the slashed sleeves still showed the
remnants of gold embroidery, whilst the lace of his pleated collar was
of beautiful design.

       *       *       *       *       *

Having completed their toilet the three friends sat at their table and
sipped their ale and wine in comparative silence for a time. Socrates,
weary with his wound, soon fell asleep with his arms stretched out
before him and his head resting in the bend of his elbow.

Pythagoras too nodded in his chair; but Diogenes remained wide awake,
and no doubt Mynheer Beek's wine gave him pleasing thoughts, for the
merry look never fled from his eyes.

Half an hour later you would scarce have recognised the tapperij from
its previous orderly silence, for at about one o'clock it began to fill
very fast. Mynheer Beek's guests were arriving.

It was still bitterly cold and they all came into the warm room clapping
their hands together and stamping the frozen snow off their feet, loudly
demanding hot ale or mulled wine, to be supplemented later on by more
substantial fare.

The two serving wenches were more busy, hotter and more profusely
streaming with moisture than they had ever been before. It was "Käthi
here!" and "Luise, why don't you hurry?" all over the tapperij now; and
every moment the noise became louder and more cheery.

Every corner of the low, raftered room was filled to over-flowing with
chairs and tables. People sat everywhere where a perch was to be
found--on the corners of the tables and on the window sill and many sat
on the floor who could not find room elsewhere. The women sat on the
men's knees, and many of them had children in their arms as well. For
indeed, on watch-night, room had to be found for every one who wanted to
come in; no one who wanted to drink and to make merry must be left to
wander out in the cold.

A veritable babel of tongues made the white-washed walls echo from end
to end, for Haarlem now was a mightily prosperous city, and there were a
great many foreign traders inside her walls, and some of these had
thought to make merry this night in the famed tap-room of the "Lame
Cow." French merchants with their silks, English ones with fine cloths
and paper, then there were the Jew dealers from Frankfurt and Amsterdam,
and the Walloon cattle drovers from Flanders.

Here and there the splendid uniform of a member of one of the shooting
guilds struck a note of splendour among the drabs and russets of worsted
doublets and the brilliant crimson or purple sashes gleamed in the
feeble light of the tallow candles which spluttered and flickered in
their sconces.

Then amongst them all were the foreign mercenaries, from Italy or
Brabant or Germany, or from God knows where, loud of speech, aggressive
in appearance, carrying swords and wearing spurs, filling the place with
their swagger and their ribaldry.

They had come to the Netherlands at the expiration of the truce with
Spain, offering to sell their sword and their skin to the highest
bidder. They seemed all to be friends and boon companions together,
called each other queer, fantastic names and shouted their rough jests
to one another across the width of the room. Homeless, shiftless,
thriftless, they knew no other names save those which chance or the
coarse buffoonery of their friends had endowed them with. There was a
man here to-night who was called Wry-face and another who went by the
name of Gutter-rat. Not one amongst them mayhap could have told you who
his father was or who his mother, nor where he himself had first seen
the light of day; but they all knew of one another's career, of one
another's prowess in the field at Prague or Ghent or Magdeburg, and they
formed a band of brothers--offensive and defensive--which was the
despair of the town-guard whenever the law had to be enforced against
anyone of them.

It was at the hour when Mynheer Beek was beginning to hope that his
guests would soon bethink themselves of returning home and leaving him
to his own supper and bed, that a party of these worthies made noisy
interruption into the room. They brought with them an atmosphere of
boisterous gaiety with their clanking spurs and swords, their loud
verbiage and burly personality.

"Hech da!" yelled one of these in a stentorian voice, "whom have we
there, snug and cosy in the warmest corner of this hole but our three
well-beloved philosophers. Diogenes, old compeer," he shouted still
louder than before, "is there room in your tub for your friends?"

"Plenty round this table, O noble Gutter-rat," shouted Diogenes in
joyful response, "but let me give you warning that space as well as
common funds are running short, and that every newcomer who wants to sit
must stand the others a draught of ale apiece; that is the price of a
corner of this bench on which ye may sit if ye have a mind."

"Done with you," agreed all the newcomers lustily, and with scant
ceremony they pushed their way through the closely packed throng.

They took no notice of the mutterings of more sober customers, angered
at seeing their mantles crushed or feeling their toes trodden on. It
suddenly seemed as if the whole place belonged to these men and that the
peaceful burghers of the city were only here on suffrance.

The three philosophers had already called for some old Rhenish wine on
draught. Käthi and Luise brought pewter jugs and more goblets along.
Soon Gutter-rat and his friends were installed at the table, squeezed
against one another on the narrow wooden benches. Pythagoras had already
rolled off his corner seat and was sitting on the floor; Diogenes was
perched on the corner of the table.

Socrates roused by the noise, opened a pair of heavy eyes and blinked
round him in astonishment. Gutter-rat deposited his bulky form close
beside him and brought his large and grimy hand down on the shoulder of
the sleepy philosopher.

"Hello, wise Socrates," he cried in his rough, husky voice, "I hope you
have been having pleasant dreams."

"No, I have not," growled Socrates laconically.

"Take no heed of him," laughed Diogenes, "he has a hole in his head
through which his good temper has been oozing out bit by bit. And yet if
you'll all believe me he has been reposing there so peacefully and
snoring so lustily that I thought he must be dreaming of Heaven and the
last trumpet call."

"I was dreaming of all the chances which Pythagoras and I have missed
to-night owing to your d----d nonsense," said Socrates, who was more
sulky now than he had been before he went to sleep.

Pythagoras uttered a prolonged sigh and gazed meditatively down into the
depths of his mug of ale. Gutter-rat and the others looked inquiringly
from one philosopher to the other.

"Diogenes been at his tricks again?" asked Gutter-rat.

Socrates and Pythagoras nodded in their gloomy response.

"Gallantry, eh? some beauteous damsel, to succour whom we throw our
life, our best chances away?" continued the other with ironical
sympathy, the while Diogenes' entire face was wreathed in one huge,
all-embracing smile. Gutter-rat admonished him with solemn voice and
uplifted finger.

"Conduct unworthy a philosopher," he said.

"If he had only injured himself," growled Socrates.

"And let us enjoy the gifts which a beneficent goddess was ready to pour
into our lap," added Pythagoras dulcetly from the floor.

"Let's hear the story," concluded Gutter-rat.

The others clapped their mugs against the table-top and shouted: "The
story! the story!" to the accompaniment of din that drowned all other
noises in the room.

Pythagoras from his lowly position began his narrative in a faint,
injured tone of voice. He related the incidents of this night from the
moment when the chance of possessing oneself with but little trouble of
a tulip bulb worth fifteen thousand florins was so airily flouted, down
to the awful moment when a young and beauteous lady made offers of
influence and of money which were equally airily refused.

Gutter-rat and the others listened attentively. They specially relished
the exciting incidents connected with the affray in Dam Straat, the
breaking of Jan Tiele's nose and the dispersal of the mob with the aid
of a lighted torch.

"Bravo! splendid!" they shouted at intervals and loudly expressed their
regret at having missed such furious fun.

Socrates threw in a word or two now and then, when Pythagoras did not
fully explain his own valorous position in the fight, but Diogenes said
nothing at all; he allowed his comrade to tell the tale his own way; the
recollection of it seemed to afford him vast amusement for he hummed a
lively tune to himself all the while.

Pythagoras now was mimicking his friend, throwing into this performance
all the disgust which he felt.

"Raise thy hand to my lips, mejuffrouw," he said mincing his words,
"momentarily I have not the use of mine own."

His round, beady eyes appealed to his listeners for sympathy, and there
is no doubt that he got that in plenty. Gutter-rat more especially
highly disapproved of the dénouement of what might have proved a
lucrative adventure.

"The rich jongejuffrouw might even have fallen in love with you," he
said sternly to Diogenes, "and endowed you with her father's wealth and
influence."

"That's just my complaint," said Pythagoras, "but no! what else do you
think he said earlier in the evening?"

"Well?"

"To-night we'll behave like gentlemen," quoted the other with
ever-growing disgust, "and not like common thieves."

"Why to-night?" queried Gutter-rat in amazement. "Why more especially
to-night?"

Pythagoras and Socrates both shrugged their shoulders and suggested no
explanation. After which there was more vigorous clapping of mugs
against the table-top and Diogenes was loudly summoned to explain.

"Why to-night? why to-night?" was shouted at him from every side.

Diogenes' face became for one brief moment quite grave--quite grave be
it said, but for his eyes which believe me could not have looked grave
had they tried.

"Because," he said at last when the shouts around him had somewhat
subsided, "I had three guilders in my wallet, because my night's lodging
is assured for the next three nights and because my chief creditor has
died like a hero. Therefore, O comrades all! I could afford the luxury."

"What luxury?" sneered Gutter-rat in disgust, "to refuse the patronage
of an influential burgher of this city, backed by the enthusiasm of the
beauteous damsel, his daughter?"

"To refuse all patronage, good comrade," assented Diogenes with
emphasis.

"Bah! for twenty-four hours!..."

"Yes! for twenty-four hours, friend Gutter-rat, while those three
florins last and I have a roof over my head for which I have already
paid ... I can for those four and twenty hours afford the luxury of
doing exactly and only what it pleases me to do."

He threw up his head and stretched out his massive limbs with a gesture
of infinite satisfaction, his merry mocking glance sweeping over the
company of watch-night revellers, out-at-elbows ragamuffins, and sober
burghers with their respectable vrouws, all of whom were gaping on him
open-mouthed.

"For four and twenty hours, my dear Gutter-rat," he continued after a
long sigh of contentment, "that is during this day which has just dawned
and the night which must inevitably follow it, I am going to give myself
the luxury of speaking only when I choose and of being dumb if the fancy
so takes me ... while my three florins last and I know that I need not
sleep under the stars, I shall owe my fealty only to my whim--I shall
dream when and what I like, sing what I like, walk in company or
alone. For four and twenty hours I need not be the ivy that clings nor
the hose that is ragged at the knee. I shall be at liberty to wear my
sash awry, my shoes unbuckled, my hat tilted at an angle which pleases
me best. Above all, O worthy rat of the gutter, I need not stoop for
four and twenty hours one inch lower than I choose, or render aught to
Cæsar for Cæsar will have rendered naught to me. On this the first day
of the New Year there is no man or woman living who can dictate to me
what I shall do, and to-night in the lodgings for which I have paid,
when I am asleep I can dream that I am climbing up the heights toward a
mountain top which mayhap doth not quite stretch as far as the clouds,
but which I can reach alone. To-day and to-night I am a man and not a
bit of ribbon that flutters at the breath of man or woman who has paid
for the fluttering with patronage."

Gradually as he spoke and his fresh young voice, sonorous with
enthusiasm rang clearly from end to end of the raftered room,
conversation, laughter, bibulous songs were stilled and every one turned
to look at the speaker, wondering who he could be. The good burghers of
Haarlem had no liking for the foreign mercenaries for whom they
professed vast contempt because of their calling, and because of the
excesses which they committed at the storming of these very walls, which
event was within the memory of most. Therefore, though they were
attracted by the speaker, they were disgusted to find that he belonged
to that rabble; but the women thought that he was goodly to look upon,
with those merry, twinkling eyes of his, and that atmosphere of
light-heartedness and a gaiety which he diffused around him. Some of the
men who were there and who professed knowledge in such matters, declared
that this man's speech betrayed him for an Englishman.

"I like not the race," said a pompous man who sat with wife and kindred
round a table loaded with good things. "I remember the English Leicester
and his crowd, men of loose morals and doubtful piety; braggarts and
roisterers we all thought them. This man is very like some of them in
appearance."

"Thou speakest truly, O wise citizen of this worthy republic," said
Diogenes, boldly answering the man's low-spoken words, "my father was
one of the roisterers who came in English Leicester's train. An
Englishman he, of loose morals and doubtful piety no doubt, but your
sound Dutch example and my mother's Dutch blood--Heaven rest her
soul--have both sobered me since then."

He looked round at the crowd of faces, all of which were now turned
toward him, kindly faces and angry ones, contemptuous eyes and
good-natured ones, and some that expressed both compassion and reproof.

"By the Lord," he said, and as he spoke he threw back his head and burst
into a loud and prolonged fit of laughter, "but I have never in my life
seen so many ugly faces before."

There was a murmur and many angry words among the assembly. One or two
of the men half rose from their seats, scowling viciously and clenching
their fists. Master Beek perspiring with anxiety saw these signs of a
possible fray. The thought drove him well-nigh frantic. An affray in his
establishment on New Year's morning! it was unthinkable! He rushed round
to his customers with a veritable dictionary of soothing words upon his
tongue.

"Gentlemen! gentlemen," he entreated, "I beg of you to calm
yourselves.... I humbly beseech you to pay no heed to these men...."

"Plepshurk! Insolent rabble!" quoth a corpulent gentleman who was
crimson with wrath.

"Yes, mynheer, yes, yes," stammered Beek meekly, "but they are
foreigners ... they ... they do not understand our Dutch ways ... but
they mean no harm ... they...."

Some of the younger men were not easily pacified.

"Throw them out, Beek," said one of them curtly.

"They make the place insufferable with their bragging and their
insolence," muttered another.

Diogenes and his friends could not help but see these signs of latent
storm, and Mynheer Beek's feeble efforts at pacifying his wrathful
guests. Diogenes had laughed long and loudly, now he had to stop in

order to wipe his eyes which were streaming; then quite casually he drew
Bucephalus from its scabbard and thoughtfully examined its blade.

Almost simultaneously the fraternity of merry-makers at his table also
showed a sudden desire to examine the blade of their swords and
immediately half a dozen glints of steel caught the reflection of tallow
candles.

I would not assert that order was restored because of these unconscious
gestures on the part of the insolent rabble aforesaid, but certain it is
that within the next few seconds decorum once more prevailed as if magic
had called it forth.

Mynheer Beek heaved a sigh of relief.

"All that you said just now was well spoken, sir," broke in a firm voice
which proceeded from a group of gentlemen who sat at a table next to the
one occupied by the philosophers and their friends, "but 'twere
interesting to hear what you propose doing on the second day of this New
Year."

Diogenes was in no hurry to reply. The man who had just spoken sat
directly behind him, and Bucephalus--so it seemed--still required his
close attention. When he had once more replaced his faithful friend into
its delicately wrought scabbard he turned leisurely round and from the
elevated position which he still occupied on the corner of the table he
faced his interlocutor.

"What I propose doing?" he quoth politely.

"Why yes. You said just now that for four and twenty hours you were free
to dream and to act as you will, but how will it be to-morrow?"

"To-morrow, sir," rejoined Diogenes lightly, "I shall be as poor in
pocket as the burghers of Haarlem are in wits, and then...."

"Yes? and then?"

"Why then, sir, I shall once more become an integral portion of that
rabble to which you and your friends think no doubt that I rightly
belong. I shall not have one silver coin in my wallet and in order to
obtain a handful I shall be ready to sell my soul to the devil, my skin
to the Stadtholder...."

"And your honour, sir?" queried the other with a sneer, "to whom will
you sell that precious guerdon to-morrow?"

"To you, sir," retorted Diogenes promptly, "an you are short of the
commodity."

An angry word rose to the other man's lips, but his eyes encountered
those of his antagonist and something in the latter's look, something in
the mocking eyes, the merry face, seemed to disarm him and to quench his
wrath. He even laughed good-humouredly and said:

"Well spoken, sir. You had me fairly there with the point of your
tongue. No doubt you are equally skilful with the point of your
rapier...."

"It shall be at your service after to-morrow, sir," rejoined Diogenes
lightly.

"You live by the profession of arms, sir? No offence, 'tis a noble
calling, though none too lucrative I understand."

"My wits supply, sir, what my sword cannot always command."

"You are ambitious?"

"I told my friends just now wherein lay my ambition."

"Money--an independent competence ... so I understand. But surely at
your age, and--if you will pardon mine outspokenness--with your looks,
sir, women or mayhap one woman must play some part in your dreams of the
future."

"Women, sir," retorted Diogenes dryly, "should never play a leading
rôle in the comedy of a philosopher's life. As a means to an
end--perhaps ... the final dénouement...."

"Always that one aim I see--a desire for complete independence which the
possession of wealth alone can give."

"Always," replied the other curtly.

"And beyond that desire, what is your chief ambition, sir?"

"To be left alone when I have no mind to talk," said Diogenes with a
smile which was so pleasant, so merry, so full of self-deprecating irony
that it tempered the incivility of his reply.

Again the other bit his lip, checking an angry word; for some
unexplained reason he appeared determined not to quarrel with this
insolent young knave. The others stared at their friend in utter
astonishment.

"What fly hath bitten Beresteyn's ear?" whispered one of them under his
breath. "I have never known him so civil to a stranger or so unwilling
to take offence."

Certainly the other man's good humour did not seem to have abated one
jot; after an imperceptible moment's pause, he rejoined with perfect
suavity:

"You do not belie your name, sir, I heard your friends calling you
Diogenes, and I feel proud that you should look on me as Alexander and
call on me to stand out of your sunshine."

"I crave your pardon, sir," said Diogenes somewhat more seriously, "my
incivility is unwarrantable in the face of your courtesy. No doubt it
had its origin in the fact that like my namesake I happened to want
nothing at the moment. To-morrow, sir, an you are minded to pay for my
services, to ask for my sword, my soul or my wits, and in exchange will
offer me the chance of winning a fortune or of marrying a wife who is
both rich and comely, why sir, I shall be your man, and will e'en
endeavour to satisfy you with the politeness of my speech and the
promptness and efficiency of my deeds. To-morrow, sir, you and the devil
will have an equal chance of purchasing my soul for a few thousand
guilders, my wits for a paltry hundred, my skin for a good supper and a
downy bed--to-morrow the desire will seize me once again to possess
wealth at any cost, and my friends here will have no cause to complain
of my playing a part which becomes a penniless wastrel like myself so
ill--the part of a gentleman. Until then, sir, I bid you good-night. The
hour is late and Mynheer Beek is desirous of closing this abode of
pleasure. As for me, my lodgings being paid for I do not care to leave
them unoccupied."

Whereupon he rose and to Mynheer Beek--who came to him with that same
ubiquitous smile which did duty for all the customers of the "Lame
Cow"--he threw the three silver guilders which the latter demanded in
payment for the wine and ale supplied to the honourable gentleman: then
as he met the mocking glance of his former interlocutor he said with a
recrudescence of gaiety:

"I still have my lodgings, gentle sir, and need not sell my soul or my
skin until after I have felt a gnawing desire for breakfast."

With a graceful flourish of his plumed hat he bowed to the assembled
company and walked out of the tap-room of the "Lame Cow" with swagger
that would have befitted the audience chamber of a king.

In his wake followed the band of his boon companions, they too strode
out of the place with much jingle of steel and loud clatter of heavy
boots and accoutrements. They laughed and talked loudly as they left and
gesticulated with an air of independence which once more drew upon them
the wrathful looks and contemptuous shrugs of the sober townsfolk.

Diogenes alone as he finally turned once again in the doorway
encountered many a timid glance levelled at him that were soft and
kindly. These glances came from the women, from the young and from the
old, for women are strange creatures of whims and of fancies, and there
was something in the swaggering insolence of that young malapert that
made them think of breezy days upon the sea-shore, of the song of the
soaring lark, of hyacinths in bloom and the young larches on the edge of
the wood.

And I imagine that their sluggish Dutch blood yielded to these
influences and was greatly stirred by memories of youth.




CHAPTER VIII

THE LODGINGS WHICH WERE PAID FOR


And once again Chance set to with a will and forged yet another link in
that mighty chain which she had in hand.

For was it not in the natural course of things that the three
philosophers, weary and thirsty as they were, should go and seek solace
and material comfort under the pleasing roof of the "Lame Cow"--which as
I remarked before was reputed one of the best conducted hostelries in
Haarlem, and possessing a cellar full of wines and ales which had not
its equal even in Amsterdam.

And was it not equally natural since the Lord of Stoutenburg lodged not
far from that self-same hostelry--again I repeat one of the soberest in
Haarlem--that his friends should choose to join him in the tap-room
there ere parting from one another on this eventful night.

Stoutenburg and his family were but little known in these parts and the
hue and cry after the escaped traitor had somewhat abated these few
months past: moreover he was well disguised with beard and cloak and he
kept a broad-brimmed hat pulled well down over his brow. On watch-night
too, the burghers and their vrouws as well as the civic and military
dignitaries of the town had plenty to do to think on their own enjoyment
and the entertainment of their friends: they certes were not on the
look-out for conspiracies and dangerous enemies within their gates.

Stoutenburg had sat well screened from general observation within a dark
recess of the monumental fireplace. Nicolaes Beresteyn, the most
intimate of all his friends, sat close to him, but neither of them
spoke much. Beresteyn was exceptionally moody; he appeared absorbed in
thought and hardly gave answer to those who attempted to draw him into
conversation. Stoutenburg, on the other hand affected a kind of grim
humour, and made repeated allusions to scaffold or gallows as if he had
already wholly resigned himself to an inevitable fate.

The others sipped their mulled wine and tried to cheat themselves out of
the burning anxiety which Jongejuffrouw Beresteyn's presence in the
cathedral had awakened in their hearts. They had made great efforts not
to seem pre-occupied and to be outwardly at least as gay as any of the
other watch-night revellers in the room.

But with their thoughts fixed upon that vision of awhile ago--a woman
appearing before them within twenty paces of the spot where death to the
Stadtholder had just been loudly proclaimed amongst them--with that
vision fixed upon their minds, they found light conversation and
ordinary manner very difficult to keep up.

The peroration of the young adventurer had proved a welcome diversion:
it had immediately aroused Stoutenburg's interest. He it was who first
drew Beresteyn's attention to it, and he again who checked the angry
words which more than once rose to his friend's lips at the insolent
attitude affected by the knave.

And now when the latter finally swaggered out of the room it was
Stoutenburg who made a sign to Beresteyn and then immediately rose to
go.

Beresteyn paid his account and went out too, in the wake of his friend.

With the advent of the small morning hours the snow once more began to
fall in large sparse flakes that lay thick and glistening where they
fell. At the end of the Kleine Hout Straat where the two men presently
found themselves, the feeble light of a street lamp glimmered through
this white fluttering veil: with its help the group of foreign
mercenaries could be dimly seen in the distance as they took leave of
one another.

The tall form of Diogenes, crowned with his plumed hat, was easily
distinguishable amongst them. He with his two special friends, fat
Pythagoras and lean Socrates, remained standing for a few moments at the
corner of the street after the others had departed: then only did the
three of them turn and walk off in the direction of the Oude Gracht.

For some reason, as unexplainable as that which had guided their conduct
at the "Lame Cow," Beresteyn and Stoutenburg, quite unconscious of the
cold, elected to follow.

Was it not Chance that willed it so? Chance who was busy forging a chain
and who had need of these two men's extraordinary interest in a nameless
adventurer in order to make the links of that chain fit as neatly as she
desired.

At the bottom of the Kleine Hout Straat, where it abuts on the Oude
Gracht, the three philosophers had again paused, obviously this time in
order to take leave of one another. The houses here were of a peculiarly
woe-begone appearance, with tiny windows which could not possibly have
allowed either air or light to penetrate within, and doors that were
left ajar and were creaking on their hinges, showing occasional glimpses
of dark unventilated passages beyond and of drifts of snow heaped up
against the skirting of the worm-eaten, broken-down wooden floors. They
were miserable lodging-houses of flimsy construction and low rentals,
which the close proximity of the sluggish canal rendered undesirable.

The ground floor was in most instances occupied by squalid-looking
shops, from which fetid odours emanated through the chinks and cracks of
the walls. The upper rooms were let out as night-lodgings to those who
were too poor to afford better quarters.

Diogenes with all his swagger and his airs of an out-at-elbows gentleman
evidently was one of those, for he was now seen standing on the
threshold of one of these dilapidated houses and his two friends were
finally bidding him good-night.

By tacit consent Beresteyn and Stoutenburg drew back further into the
shadow of the houses opposite. There appeared to be some understanding
between these two men, an understanding anent a matter of supremely
grave import, which caused them to stand here on the watch with feet
buried in the snow that lay thick in the doorways, silently taking note
of every word spoken and of every act that occurred on the other side of
this evil-smelling street.

There seemed to be no need for speech between them; for the nonce each
knew that the other's thoughts were running in the same groove as his
own; and momentarily these thoughts were centred into a desire to
ascertain definitely if it was the tallest and youngest of those three
knaves over there who lodged in that particular house.

It was only when the fat man and the lean one had finally turned away
and left their comrade on the doorstep that the watchers appeared
satisfied and nodding silently to one another made ready to go home.
They had turned their steps once more toward the more salubrious and
elegant quarter of the city, and had gone but a few steps in that
direction when something occurred behind them which arrested their
attention and caused them to look back once more.

The Something was a woman's cry, pitiful in the extreme: not an unusual
sound in the streets of a prosperous city surely, and one which under
ordinary circumstances would certainly not have aroused Stoutenburg's or
Beresteyn's interest. But the circumstances were not ordinary; the cry
came from the very spot where the two men had last seen the young
stranger standing in the doorway of his lodgings and the appeal was
obviously directed toward him.

"Kind sir," the woman was saying in a quavering voice, "half a guilder I
entreat you for the love of Christ."

"Half a guilder, my good woman," Diogenes said in response, "'Tis a
fortune to such as I. I have not a kreutzer left in my wallet, 'pon my
honour!"

Whereupon the two men who watched this scene from the opposite side of
the street saw that the woman fell on her knees, and that beside her
there stood an old man who made ready to follow her example.

"It's no use wearing out your stockings on this snow-covered ground, my
good girl," said Diogenes good-humouredly. "All the kneeling in the
world will not put half a guilder into my pocket nor apparently into
yours."

"And father and I must sleep under the canal bridge and it is so
bitterly cold," the woman moaned more feebly.

"Distinctly an uncomfortable place whereat to spend a night," rejoined
the philosopher, "I have slept there myself before now, so I know."

Seemingly he made an attempt to turn incontinently on his heel, for the
woman put out her hands and held on to his cloak.

"Father is crippled with ague, kind sir, he will die if he sleeps out
there to-night," she cried.

"I am afraid he will," said Diogenes blandly.

In the meanwhile, Pythagoras and Socrates, who evidently had not gone
very far, returned in order to see what was going on, on their friend's
doorstep. It was Pythagoras who first recognized the wench.

"Thunder and lightning," he exclaimed, "'tis the Papist!"

"Which Papist?" queried Diogenes.

"Yes, gentle sirs," said the woman piteously, "you rescued me nobly this
evening from that awful, howling mob. My father and I were able to go to
midnight mass in peace. May God reward you all. But," she added naïvely,
"'twas no good preventing those horrid men from killing us, if we are to
die from cold and hunger under the bridge of the canal."

All of which was not incomprehensible to the two men on the watch who
had heard a graphic account of the affray in Dam Straat as it was told
by Pythagoras in the tap-room of the "Lame Cow." And they both drew a
little nearer so as not to lose a word of the scene which they were
watching with ever growing interest. Neither of them attempted to
interfere in it, however, though Beresteyn at any rate could have poured
many a guilder in the hands of those two starving wretches, without
being any the poorer himself and though he was in truth not a
hard-hearted man.

"The wench is right," now said Diogenes firmly, "the life which we
helped to save, we must not allow to be frittered away. I talked
of stockings, girl," he added lightly, "but I see thy feet are
bare.... Brrr! I freeze when I look at thee...."

"For a quarter guilder father and I could find a lodging...."

"But Dondersteen!" he exclaimed, "did I not tell thee that I have not
one kreutzer in my wallet, and unless my friends can help thee...."

"Diogenes thou speakest trash," interposed Pythagoras softly.

"We must both starve of cold this night," moaned the woman in despair.

"Nay ye shall not!" said Diogenes with sudden decision. "There is a room
in this very house which has been paid for three nights in advance. Go
to it, wench, 'tis at the very top of the stairs, crawl thither as fast
as thou canst, dragging thy ramshackle parent in thy wake. What ho
there!" he shouted at the top of his ringing voice, "what ho my worthy
landlord! What ho!"

And with his powerful fists he began pounding against the panels of the
door which swung loosely under the heavy blows.

Stoutenburg and Beresteyn drew yet a little nearer: they were more
deeply interested than ever in all that was going on outside this
squalid lodging house.

The three philosophers were making a sufficiency of noise to wake half
the street and within a very few minutes they succeeded in their
purpose. Through one or two of the narrow frames overhead heads appeared
enveloped in shawls or cloaks, and anon the landlord of the house came
shuffling down the passage, carrying a lighted, guttering taper.

The two silent watchers could not see this man, but they could hear him
grumbling and scolding audibly in short jerky sentences which he
appeared to throw somewhat tentatively at his rowdy lodger.

"Late hour of the night," they heard him muttering. "New Year's
morning.... Respectable house ... noise to attract the town guard...."

"Hadst thou turned out of thy bed sooner, O well-beloved lord of this
abode of peace," said Diogenes cheerily, "there would have been less
noise outside its portals. Had I not loved thee as I do, I would not
have wakened thee from thy sleep, but would have acted in accordance
with my rights and without bringing to thy ken a matter which would
vastly have astonished thee in the morning."

The man continued to mutter, more impatiently this time:

"New Year's morning ... respectable citizen ... work to do in the
morning ... undesirable lodgers...."

"All lodgers are desirable who pay for their lodging, O wise landlord,"
continued Diogenes imperturbably, "I have paid thee for mine, for three
nights from this day and I herewith desire thee to place my palatial
residence at the disposal of this jongejuffrouw and of mynheer her
father."

The man's mutterings became still more distinct.

"Baggage ... how do I know?... not bound to receive them...."

"Nay! but thou art a liar, Master Landlord," quoth Diogenes still
speaking quite pleasantly, "for the lodgings being mine, I have the
right to receive in them anybody whom I choose. Therefore now do I give
thee the option, either to show my guests straightway and with
meticulous politeness into my room, or to taste the power and weight of
my boot in the small of thy back and the hardness of my sword-hilt
across thy shoulders."

This time the man's mutterings became inaudible. Nicolaes Beresteyn and
Stoutenburg could only guess what was passing in the narrow corridor of
the house opposite. The one moment there was a heart-rending howl, which
suggested that the landlord's obduracy had lasted a few moments too long
for the impatient temper of a philosopher; but the howl was not repeated
and soon Diogenes' clear voice rang out lustily again:

"There! I knew that gentle persuasion would prevail. Dearly beloved
landlord, now I pray thee guide the jongejuffrouw and mynheer her father
to my sleeping chamber. It is at thy disposal, wench, for three nights,"
he added airily, "make the most of it; and if thou hast aught to
complain of my friend the landlord, let me know. I am always to be found
at certain hours of the day within the congenial four walls of the 'Lame
Cow.' Good-night then and pleasant dreams."

What went on after that the watchers could, of course, not see. The
wench and the old man had disappeared inside the house, where, if they
had a spark of gratitude in them, they would undoubtedly be kneeling
even now at the feet of their whimsical benefactor.

The next moment the interested spectators of this stirring little scene
beheld the three philosophers once more standing together at the corner
of the street under the feebly flickering lamp and the slowly falling
snow; the door of the lodging-house had been slammed to behind them and
the muffled heads had disappeared from out the framework of the windows
above.

"And now, perhaps you will tell us what you are going to do," said
Pythagoras in flute-like tones.

"There is not a bed vacant in the dormitory where I sleep," said
Socrates.

"Nor would I desire to sleep in one of those kennels fit only for dogs
which I cannot imagine how you both can stomach," quoth Diogenes
lightly; "the close proximity of Pythagoras and yourself and of all
those who are most like you in the world would chase pleasing sleep from
mine eyelids. I prefer the Canal."

"You cannot sleep out of doors in this h----l of a cold night," growled
Socrates.

"And I cannot go back to the 'Lame Cow' for I have not a kreutzer left
in my wallet wherewith to pay for a sip."

"Then what the d----l are you going to do?" reiterated Pythagoras
plaintively.

"I have a friend," said Diogenes after a slight pause.

"Hm?" was the somewhat dubious comment on this fairly simple statement.

"He will give me breakfast early in the morning."

"Hm!"

"'Tis but a few hours to spend in lonely communion with nature."

"Hm!"

"The cathedral clock has struck three, at seven my good Hals will ply me
with hot ale and half his hunk of bread and cheese."


"Hals?" queried Socrates.

"Frans Hals," replied Diogenes; "he paints pictures and contrives to
live on the proceeds. If his wife does not happen to throw me out, he
will console me for the discomforts of this night."

"Bah!" ejaculated Pythagoras in disgust, "a painter of pictures!"

"And a brave man when he is sober."

"With a scold for a wife! Ugh! what about your playing the part of a
gentleman now?"

"The play was short, O wise Pythagoras," retorted Diogenes with
imperturbable good humour, "the curtain has already come down upon the
last act. I am once more a knave, a merchant ready to flatter the
customer who will buy his wares: Hech there, sir, my lord! what are your
needs? My sword, my skin, they are yours to command! so many guilders,
sir, and I will kill your enemy for you, fight your battles, abduct the
wench that pleases you. So many guilders! and when they are safely in my
pocket I can throw my glove in your face lest you think I have further
need of your patronage."

"'Tis well to brag," muttered Pythagoras, "but you'll starve with cold
this night."

"But at dawn I'll eat a hearty breakfast offered me by my friend Frans
Hals for the privilege of painting my portrait."

"Doth he really paint thy portrait, O handsome Diogenes?" said
Pythagoras unctuously.

"Aye! thou ugly old toad. He has begun a new one, for which I have
promised to sit. I'll pay for the breakfast he gives me, by donning a
gorgeous gold embroidered doublet which he once stole from somewhere,
by putting my hand on my hip, tilting my hat at a becoming angle, and
winking at him by the hour whilst he paints away."

"Hm! after a night of wandering by the canal in the fog and snow and
sharing the meagre breakfast of a half-starved painter, methinks the
portrait will be that of a knight of the rueful countenance."

"Indeed not, old compeer," said Diogenes with a hearty laugh, "it shall
be the portrait of a Laughing Cavalier."




CHAPTER IX

THE PAINTER OF PICTURES


After this episode Chance had little to do with the further events of
this veracious chronicle.

Men took their destiny in their own hands and laughed at Fate and at the
links of the chain which she had been forging so carefully and so
patiently ever since she began the business on the steps of the Stadhuis
a few short hours ago.

Beresteyn and Stoutenburg walking home together in the small hours of
New Year's morning spoke very little together at first. They strode
along side by side, each buried in his own thoughts, and only a few curt
remarks passed at intervals between them.

But something lay on the minds of both--something of which each desired
to speak to the other, yet neither of them seemed willing to be the
first to broach the absorbing topic.

It was Stoutenburg who at last broke the silence.

"A curious personality, that knave," he said carelessly after awhile,
"an unscrupulous devil as daring as he is reckless of consequences I
should say ... yet trustworthy withal ... what think you?"

"A curious personality as you say," replied Beresteyn vaguely.

"He might have been useful to us had we cared to pay for
his services ... but now 'tis too late to think of further
accomplices ... new men won or bought for our cause only mean more
victims for the gallows."

"You take a gloomy view of the situation," said Beresteyn sombrely.

"No! only a fatalistic one. With our secret in a woman's keeping ... and
that woman free and even anxious to impart it to one of my most bitter
enemies ... I can see nought that can ward off the inevitable."

"Except...."

"Yes, of course," rejoined Stoutenburg earnestly, "if you, Nicolaes, are
ready to make the sacrifice which alone could save us all."

"It is a sacrifice which will involve my honour, my sister's love for
me, my father's trust...."

"If you act wisely and circumspectly, my friend," retorted Stoutenburg
dryly, "neither your father nor Gilda herself need ever know that you
had a share in ... in what you propose to do."

Beresteyn made no reply and he and his friend walked on in silence until
they reached the small house close to the "Lame Cow" where Stoutenburg
had his lodgings. Here they shook hands before parting and Stoutenburg
held his friend's hand in his tightly grasped for a moment or two while
he said earnestly:

"It is only for a few days, Nicolaes, a few days during which I swear to
you that--though absent and engaged in the greatest task that any man
can undertake on this earth--I swear to you that I will keep watch over
Gilda and defend her honour with my life. If you will make the sacrifice
for me and for our cause, Heaven and your country will reward you beyond
your dreams. With the death of the Stadtholder my power in the
Netherlands will be supreme, and herewith, with my hand in yours, I
solemnly plight my troth to Gilda. She was the first woman I ever loved,
and I have never ceased to love her. Now she fills my heart and soul
even--at times--to the exclusion of my most ambitious hopes.
Nicolaes--my friend--it is in your power to save my life as well as your
own: an you will do it, there will be no bounds to my gratitude."

And Beresteyn replied calmly:

"The sacrifice which you ask of me I will make: I will take the risk for
the sake of my country and of my faith. To-morrow at noon I will come to
your lodgings and tell you in detail all the arrangements which I shall
have made by then. I have no fear for Gilda. I believe that Heaven has
guided my thoughts and footsteps to-night for the furtherance of our
cause."

After which the two men took final leave of one another: Stoutenburg's
tall lean form quickly disappeared under the doorway of the house,
whilst Beresteyn walked rapidly away up the street.

       *       *       *       *       *

Now it was close on ten o'clock of New Year's morning. Nicolaes
Beresteyn had spent several hours in tossing restlessly under the warm
eiderdown and between the fine linen sheets embroidered by his sister's
deft hands. During these hours of sleeplessness a plan had matured in
his mind which though it had finally issued from his own consciousness
had really found its origin in the reckless brain of Willem van
Stoutenburg.

Beresteyn now saw himself as the saviour of his friends and of their
patriotic cause. He felt that in order to carry out the plan which he
firmly believed that he himself had conceived, he was making a noble
sacrifice for his country and for his faith, and he was proud to think
that it lay in his power to offer the sacrifice. That this same
sacrifice would have his own sister for victim, he cared seemingly very
little. He was one of those men in whose hearts political aims outweigh
every tender emotion, and he firmly believed that Gilda would be richly
rewarded by the fulfilment of that solemn promise made by Stoutenburg.

Exquisite visions of satisfied ambition, of triumph and of glory chased
away sleep: he saw his friend as supreme ruler of the State, with powers
greater than the Princes of Orange had ever wielded: he saw Gilda--his
sister--grateful to him for the part which he had played in re-uniting
her to the man whom she had always loved, she too supreme in power as
the proud wife of the new Stadtholder. And he saw himself as the Lord
High Advocate of the Netherlands standing in the very shoes of that same
John of Barneveld whose death he would have helped to avenge.

These and other thoughts had stirred Nicolaes Beresteyn's fancy while he
lay awake during these the first hours of the New Year, and it was
during those self-same hours that a nameless stranger whom his compeers
called Diogenes had tramped up and down the snow-covered streets of
Haarlem trying to keep himself warm.

I am very sorry to have to put it on record that during that time he
swore more than once at his own softheartedness which had caused him to
give up his hard but sheltered paillasse to a pair of Papists who were
nothing to him and whom probably he would never see again.

"I begin to agree with that bloated puff-ball Pythagoras," he mused
dejectedly once, when an icy wind, blowing straight from the North Sea,
drove the falling snow into his boots, and under his collar, and up his
sleeves, and nearly froze the marrow in his bones, "it is but sorry
pleasure to play at being a gentleman. And I had not many hours of it
either," he added ruefully.

Even the most leaden-footed hours do come to an end however. At one half
after six Diogenes turned his steps toward the Peuselaarsteeg where
dwelt his friend Frans Hals, the painter of pictures. Fortunately
Mevrouw Hals was in a fairly good temper, the last portrait group of the
officers of St. Joris' Shooting Guild had just been paid for, and there
was practically a new commission to paint yet another group of these
gentlemen.

And Mynheer van Zeller the deputy bailiff had bought the fancy picture
too, for which that knave Diogenes had sat last year, so Mevrouw Hals
was willing to provide the young man with a savoury and hot breakfast if
he were willing once again to allow Frans to make a picture of his
pleasant face.

Mevrouw Hals being in rare good humour, the breakfast was both
substantial and savoury. Diogenes, who was starved with cold as well as
with hunger, did great honour to all that was laid before him: he ate
heartily while recounting his adventures of the past night to his
friend.

"All that trouble for a Papist wench," said the painter as
contemptuously as Pythagoras himself would have done, "and maybe a
Spaniard too."

"Good-looking girl," quoth Diogenes dryly, "and would make you a good
model, Frans. For a few kreutzers she'd be glad enough to do it."

"I'll have none of these vixens inside my house," interposed Mevrouw
Hals decisively, "and don't you teach Frans any of your loose ways, my
man."

Diogenes made no reply, he only winked at his friend. No doubt he
thought that Hals no longer needed teaching.

The two men repaired to the studio, a huge bare room littered with
canvases, but void of furniture, save for an earthenware stove in which
fortunately a cheerful fire was blazing, a big easel roughly fashioned
of deal, a platform for the model to stand on, and two or three
rush-bottomed chairs: there was also a ramshackle dowry chest, black
with age, which mayhap had once held the piles of homemade linen brought
as a dowry by the first Mevrouw Hals: now it seemed to contain a
heterogeneous collection of gaudy rags, together with a few fine
articles of attire, richly embroidered relics of more prosperous days.

The artist went straight up to the chest and from out the litter he
selected a bundle of clothes which he handed over to his friend.

"Slip into them as quickly as you can, old compeer," he said, "my
fingers are itching to get to work."

And while he fixed the commenced picture on the easel and set out his
palette, Diogenes threw off his shabby clothes and donned the gorgeous
doublet and sash which the painter had given him.




CHAPTER X

THE LAUGHING CAVALIER


We all know every fold of that doublet now, with its magnificent
sleeves, crimson-lined and richly embroidered, its slashings which
afford peeps of snowy linen, and its accessories of exquisite lace; the
immortal picture then painted by Frans Hals, and which he called the
Laughing Cavalier, has put its every line on record for all times.

Diogenes wore it with delight. Its splendour suited his swaggering air
to perfection: its fine black cloth, delicate lace and rich silk sash
set off to perfection his well-proportioned massive figure.

A joy to the artist every bit of him, the tone, the pose, the line, the
colour and that face full of life, of the joy of living, that merry
twinkle in the eyes, that laugh that for ever hovers on the lips.

We all stand before it, marvelling at the artist's skill, for we know
that the portrait is true to the life; we know that it is true, because
we know the man; his whole character is there indelibly writ upon the
canvas by the master-hand of a genius:--Diogenes the soldier of fortune
is there, the man who bows to no will save to his own, too independent
to bow to kindred or to power, the man who takes life as he finds it,
but leavens it with his own gaiety and the priceless richness of his own
humour: we know him for his light-hearted gaiety, we condone his
swagger, we forgive his reckless disregard of all that makes for
sobriety and respectability. The eyes twinkle at us, the mouth all but
speaks, and we know and recognize every detail as true; only the fine,
straight brow, the noble forehead, the delicate contour of the nose and
jaw puzzle us at times, for those we cannot reconcile with the man's
calling or with his namelessness, until we remember his boast in the
tavern of the "Lame Cow" on New Year's morning: "My father was one of
those who came in English Leicester's train."

So we see him now standing quite still, while the artist is absorbed in
his work: his tall figure very erect, the head slightly thrown back, the
well-shaped hand resting on the hip and veiled in folds of filmy lace.
And so did Mynheer Nicolaes Beresteyn see him as he entered the artist's
studio at ten o'clock of that same New Year's morning.

"A happy New Year to you, my good Hals," he said with easy
condescension. "Vervloekte weather, eh--for the incoming year! there
must be half a foot of snow in the by-streets by now."

With that same air of graciousness he acknowledged the artist's
obsequious bow. His father Mynheer Councillor Beresteyn was an avowed
patron of Frans Hals and the hour had not yet struck in civilized Europe
when wealth would go hat in hand bowing to genius and soliciting its
recognition. In this year of grace 1624 genius had still to hold the hat
and to acknowledge if not to solicit the kindly favours of wealth.

Nicolaes Beresteyn did not know exactly how to greet the man with whom
he had a few hours ago bandied arguments in the tap room of a tavern,
and whom--to tell the truth--he had expressly come to find. The
complaisant nod which he had bestowed on Frans Hals did not somehow seem
appropriate for that swaggering young knight of industry, who looked
down on him from the high eminence of the model's platform so that
Nicolaes was obliged to look well up, if he wished to meet his glance at
all.

It was the obscure soldier of fortune who relieved the pompous burgher
of his embarrassment.

"Fate hath evidently not meant that we should remain strangers, sir," he
said lightly, "this meeting after last night's pleasing amenities is
indeed unexpected."

"And most welcome, sir, as far as I am concerned," rejoined Nicolaes
pleasantly. "My name is Nicolaes Beresteyn and right glad am I to renew
our acquaintance of last night. I had no idea that my friend Hals could
command so perfect a model. No wonder that his pictures have become the
talk of the town."

He turned back to Hals now with a resumption of his patronizing manner.

"I came to confirm my father's suggestion, my good Hals, that you should
paint his portrait and at the price you named yourself. The officers of
St. Joris' Guild are also desirous, as I understand, of possessing yet
another group from your brush."

"I shall be honoured," said the artist simply.

"'Tis many an ugly face you'll have to paint within the next few months,
my friend," added Diogenes lightly.

"My father is reckoned one of the handsomest men in Holland," retorted
Beresteyn with becoming dignity.

"And the owner of the finest tulip bulbs in the land," said the other
imperturbably. "I heard him tell last night that he had just given more
florins for one bit of dried onion than I have ever fingered in the
whole course of my life."

"Fortune, sir, has not dealt with you hitherto in accordance with your
deserts."

"No! 'tis my sternest reproach against her."

"There is always a tide, sir, in a man's fortunes."

"Mine I feel, sir, is rising at your call."

There was a moment's pause now while the two men looked on one another
eye to eye, appraising one another, each counting on his opponent's
worth. Then Nicolaes suddenly turned back to Frans Hals.

"My good Hals," he said, "might I crave a favour from your friendship?"

"I am at your service, mynheer, now as always as you know," murmured the
artist, who indeed was marvelling what favour so illustrious a gentleman
could ask of a penniless painter of portraits.

"'Tis but a small matter to you," rejoined Nicolaes, "but it would be of
great service to me. I desire to hold private conversation with this
gentleman. Could I do so in your house without attracting anybody's
attention?"

"Easily, sir. This room though none too comfortable is at your disposal.
I have plenty of work to do in another part of my house. No one will
come in here. You will be quite undisturbed."

"I am infinitely obliged to you. 'Tis but half-an-hour's privacy I
desire ... providing this gentleman will grant me the interview."

"Like my friend Hals," rejoined Diogenes suavely, "I am, sir, at your
service. The tides are rising around me, I feel them swelling even as I
speak. I have an overwhelming desire to ride on the crest of the waves,
rather than to duck under them against my will."

"I hope this intrusion will not retard your work too much, my good
Hals," said Beresteyn with somewhat perfunctory solicitude when he saw
that the artist finally put his brushes and palette on one side, and in
an abstracted manner began to dust a couple of ricketty chairs and then
place them close to the stove.

"Oh!" interposed Diogenes airily, "the joy of being of service to so
bountiful a patron will more than compensate Frans Hals for this
interruption to his work. Am I not right, old friend?" he added with
just a soupçon of seriousness in the mocking tones of his voice.

Hals murmured a few words under his breath which certainly seemed to
satisfy Beresteyn for the latter made no further attempt at apology,
and only watched with obvious impatience the artist's slow progress out
of the room.

As soon as the heavy oaken door had fallen-to behind the master of this
house, Beresteyn turned with marked eagerness to Diogenes.

"Now, sir," he said, "will you accord me your close attention for a
moment. On my honour it will be to your advantage so to do."

"And to your own, I take it, sir," rejoined Diogenes, as he stepped down
from the elevated platform and sat himself astride one of the ricketty
chairs facing his interlocutor who had remained standing. "To your own
too, sir, else you had not spent half an hour in that vervloekte weather
last night pacing an insalubrious street in order to find out where I
lodged."

Nicolaes bit his lip with vexation.

"You saw me?" he asked.

"I have eyes at the back of my head," replied the young man. "I knew
that you followed me in company with a friend all the way from the door
of the 'Lame Cow' and that you were not far off when I announced my
intention of sleeping under the stars and asking my friend Frans Hals
for some breakfast later on."

Beresteyn had quickly recovered his equanimity.

"I have no cause to deny it," he said.

"None," assented Diogenes.

"Something, sir, in your manner and your speech last night aroused my
interest. Surely you would not take offence at that."

"Certainly not."

"And hearing you speak, a certain instinct prompted me to try and not
lose sight of you if I could by some means ascertain where you lodged.
My friend and I did follow you: I own it, and we witnessed a little
scene which I confess did you infinite credit."

Diogenes merely bowed his head this time in acknowledgment.

"It showed, sir," resumed Nicolaes after a slight pause, "that you are
chivalrous to a fault, brave and kindly: and these are just the three
qualities which I--even like your illustrious namesake--have oft sought
for in vain."

"Shall we add, also for the sake of truth, sir," said Diogenes

pleasantly, "that I am obviously penniless, presumably unscrupulous and
certainly daring, and that these are just the three qualities which
you ... and your friend ... most require at the present moment in the
man whom you wish to pay for certain services."

"You read my thoughts, sir."


"Have I not said that I have eyes at the back of my head?"

And Nicolaes Beresteyn wondered if that second pair of eyes were as
merry and mocking and withal as inscrutable as those that met his now.

"Well," he said as if with suddenly conceived determination, "again I
see no cause why I should deny it. Yes, sir, you have made a shrewd
guess. I have need of your services, of your chivalry and of your valour
and ... well, yes," he added after an instant's hesitation, "of your
daring and your paucity of scruples too. As for your penury, why, sir,
if you like, its pangs need worry you no longer."

"It all sounds very tempting, sir," said Diogenes with his most winning
smile, "suppose now that we put preliminaries aside and proceed more
directly with our business."

"As you will."

Nicolaes Beresteyn now took the other chair and brought it close to his
interlocutor. Then he sat down and sinking his voice to a whisper he
began:

"I will be as brief and to the point as I can, sir. There are secrets as
you know the knowledge of which is oft-times dangerous. Such an one was
spoken of in the cathedral last night after watch-night service by six
men who hold their lives in their hands and are ready to sacrifice it
for the good of their country and of their faith."

"In other words," interposed Diogenes with dry humour, "six men in the
cathedral last night decided to murder some one for the good of this
country and of their faith and for the complete satisfaction of the
devil."

"'Tis false!" cried Beresteyn involuntarily.

"Be not angered, sir, I was merely guessing--and not guessing methinks
very wide of the mark. I pray you proceed. You vastly interest me. We
left then six men in the cathedral after watch-night service plotting
for the welfare of Holland and the established Faith."

"Their lives, sir," resumed Beresteyn more calmly, "depend on the
inviolability of their secret. You are good at guessing--will you guess
what would happen to those six men if their conversation last night had
been overheard and their secret betrayed."

"The scaffold," said Diogenes laconically.

"And torture."

"Of course. Holland always has taken the lead in civilization of late."

"Torture and death, sir," reiterated Beresteyn vehemently. "There are
six men in this city to-day whose lives are at the mercy of one woman."

"Oho! 'twas a woman then who surprised those six men in their endeavour
to do good to Holland and to uphold the Faith."

"Rightly spoken, sir! To do good to Holland and to uphold the Faith!
those are the two motives which guide six ardent patriots in their
present actions and cause them to risk their lives and more, that they
may bring about the sublime end. A woman has surprised their secret, a
woman pure and good as the stars but a woman for all that, weak in
matters of sentiment and like to be swayed by a mistaken sense of what
she would call her duty. A woman now, sir, holds the future happiness of
Holland, the triumph of Faith and the lives of six stalwart patriots in
the hollow of her hand."

"And 'tis with the lives of six stalwart patriots that we are most
concerned at the moment, are we not?" asked Diogenes blandly.

"Put it as you will, sir. I cannot expect you--a stranger--to take the
welfare of Holland and of her Faith so earnestly as we Dutchmen do. Our
present concern is with the woman."

"Is she young?"

"Yes."

"Pretty?"

"What matter?"

"I don't know. The fact might influence mine actions. For of course you
wish to put the woman out of the way."

"Only for a time and from my soul I wish her no harm. I only want to
place her out of the reach of doing us all a grievous wrong. Already she
has half threatened to speak of it all to my father. The idea of it is
unthinkable. I want her out of the way for a few days, not more than ten
days at most. I want her taken out of Haarlem, to a place of safety
which I will point out to you anon, and under the care of faithful
dependents who would see that not a hair on her head be injured. You
see, sir, that what I would ask of you would call forth your chivalry
and need not shame it; it would call forth your daring and your
recklessness of consequences and if you will undertake to do me service
in this, my gratitude and that of my friends as well as the sum of 2,000
guilders will be yours to command."

"About a tenth part of the money in fact which your father, sir, doth
oft give for a bulb."

"Call it 3,000, sir," said Nicolaes Beresteyn, "we would still be your
debtors."

"You are liberal, sir."

"It means my life and that of my friends, and most of us are rich."

"But the lady--I must know more about her. Ah sir! this is a hard matter
for me--A lady--young--presumably fair--of a truth I care naught for
women, but please God I have never hurt a woman yet."

"Who spoke of hurting her, man?" queried Nicolaes haughtily.

"This abduction--the State secret--the matter of life and death--the
faithful dependent--how do I know, sir, that all this is true?"

"On the word of honour of a gentleman!" retorted Beresteyn hotly.

"A gentleman's honour is easily attenuated where a woman is concerned."

"The lady is my own sister, sir."

Diogenes gave a long, low whistle.

"Your sister!" he exclaimed.

"My only sister and one who is dearly loved. You see

Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/33208