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Lysbeth: A Tale of the Dutch/Chapter XXV

After a week's experience of that delectable dwelling and its neighbourhood, Adrian began to grow weary of the Red Mill. Nine or ten Dutch miles to the nor'west of Haarlem is a place called Velsen, situated on the borders of the sand-dunes, to the south of what is known to-day as the North Sea Canal. In the times of which this page of history tells, however, the canal was represented by a great drainage dyke, and Velsen was but a deserted village. Indeed, hereabouts all the country was deserted, for some years before a Spanish force had passed through it, burning, slaying, laying waste, so that few were left to tend the windmills and repair the dyke. Holland is a country won from swamps and seas, and if the water is not pumped out of it, and the ditches are not cleaned, very quickly it relapses into primeval marsh; indeed, it is fortunate if the ocean, bursting through the feeble barriers reared by the industry of man, does not turn it into vast lagoons of salt water.

Once the Red Mill had been a pumping station, which, when the huge sails worked, delivered the water from the fertile meadows into the great dyke, whence it ran through sluice gates to the North Sea. Now, although the embankment of this dyke still held, the meadows had gone back into swamps. Rising out of these--for it was situated upon a low mound of earth, raised, doubtless, as a point of refuge by marsh-dwellers who lived and died before history began, towered the wreck of a narrow-waisted windmill, built of brick below and wood above, of very lonesome and commanding appearance in its gaunt solitude. There were no houses near it, no cattle grazed about its foot; it was a dead thing in a dead landscape. To the left, but separated from it by a wide and slimy dyke, whence in times of flood the thick, brackish water trickled to the plain, stretched an arid area of sand-dunes, clothed with sparse grass, that grew like bristles upon the back of a wild hog. Beyond these dunes the ocean roared and moaned and whispered hungrily as the wind and weather stirred its depths. In front, not fifty paces away, ran the big dyke like a raised road, secured by embankments, and discharging day by day its millions of gallons of water into the sea. But these embankments were weakening now, and here and there could be seen a spot which looked as though a giant ploughshare had been drawn up them, for a groove of brown earth scarred the face of green, where in some winter flood the water had poured over to find its level, cutting them like cheese, but when its volume sank, leaving them still standing, and as yet sufficient for their purpose.

To the right again and behind, were more marshes, broken only in the distance by the towers of Haarlem and the spires of village churches, marshes where the snipe and bittern boomed, the herons fed, and in summer the frogs croaked all night long.

Such was the refuge to which Ramiro and his son, Adrian, had been led by Hague Simon and Black Meg, after they had escaped with their lives from Leyden upon the night of the image-breaking in the church, that ominous night when the Abbe Dominic gave up the ghost on the arm of the lofty Rood, and Adrian had received absolution and baptism from his consecrated hand.

On the journey hither Adrian asked no questions as to their destination; he was too broken in heart and too shaken in body to be curious; life in those days was for him too much of a hideous phantasmagoria of waste and blackness out of which appeared vengeful, red-handed figures, out of which echoed dismal, despairing voices calling him to doom.

They came to the place and found its great basement and the floors above, or some of them, furnished after a fashion. The mill had been inhabited, and recently, as Adrian gathered, by smugglers, or thieves, with whom Meg and Simon were in alliance, or some such outcast evil-doers who knew that here the arm of the law could not reach them. Though, indeed, while Alva ruled in the Netherlands there was little law to be feared by those who were rich or who dared to worship God after their own manner.

"Why have we come here--father," Adrian was about to add, but the word stuck in his throat.

Ramiro shrugged his shoulders and looked round him with his one criticising eye.

"Because our guides and friends, the worthy Simon and his wife, assure me that in this spot alone our throats are for the present safe, and by St. Pancras, after what we saw in the church yonder I am inclined to agree with them. He looked a poor thing up under the roof there, the holy Father Dominic, didn't he, hanging up like a black spider from the end of his cord? Bah! my backbone aches when I think of him."

"And how long are we to stop here?"

"Till--till Don Frederic has taken Haarlem and these fat Hollanders, or those who are left of them, lick our boots for mercy," and he ground his teeth, then added: "Son, do you play cards? Good, well let us have a game. Here are dice; it will serve to turn our thoughts. Now then, a hundred guilders on it."

So they played and Adrian won, whereon, to his amazement, his father paid him the money.

"What is the use of that?" asked Adrian.

"Gentlemen should always pay their debts at cards."

"And if they cannot?"

"Then they must keep score of the amount and discharge it when they are able. Look you, young man, everything else you may forget, but what you lose over the dice is a debt of honour. There lives no man who can say that I cheated him of a guilder at cards, though I fear some others have my name standing in their books."

When they rose from their game that night Adrian had won between three and four hundred florins. Next day his winnings amounted to a thousand florins, for which his father gave him a carefully-executed note of hand; but at the third sitting the luck changed or perhaps skill began to tell, and he lost two thousand florins. These he paid up by returning his father's note, his own winnings, and all the balance of the purse of gold which his mother had given to him when he was driven from the house, so that now he was practically penniless.

The rest of the history may be guessed. At every game the stakes were increased, for since Adrian could not pay, it was a matter of indifference to him how much he wagered. Moreover, he found a kind of mild excitement in playing at the handling of such great sums of money. By the end of a week he had lost a queen's dowry. As they rose from the table that night his father filled in the usual form, requested him to be so good as to sign it, and a sour-faced woman who had arrived at the mill, Adrian knew not whence, to do the household work, to put her name as witness.

"What is the use of this farce?" asked Adrian. "Brant's treasure would scarcely pay that bill."

His father pricked his ears.

"Indeed? I lay it at as much again. What is the use? Who knows--one day you might become rich, for, as the great Emperor said, 'Fortune is a woman who reserves her favours for the young,' and then, doubtless, being the man of honour that you are, you would wish to pay your old gambling debts."

"Oh! yes, I should pay if I could," answered Adrian with a yawn. "But it seems hardly worthy while talking about, does it?" and he sauntered out of the place into the open air.

His father rose, and, standing by the great peat fire, watched him depart thoughtfully.

"Let me take stock of the position," he said to himself. "The dear child hasn't a farthing left; therefore, although he is getting bored, he can't run away. Moreover, he owes me more money than I ever saw; therefore, if he should chance to become the husband of the Jufvrouw Brant, and the legal owner of her parent's wealth, whatever disagreements may ensue between him and me I shall have earned my share of it in a clean and gentlemanly fashion. If, on the other hand, it should become necessary for me to marry the young lady, which God forbid, at least no harm is done, and he will have had the advantage of some valuable lessons from the most accomplished card-player in Spain.

"And now what we need to enliven this detestable place is the presence of Beauty herself. Our worthy friends should be back soon--bringing their sheaves with them, let us hope, for otherwise matters will be complicated. Let me see: have I thought of everything, for in such affairs one oversight--He is a Catholic, therefore can contract a legal marriage under the Proclamations--it was lucky I remembered that point of law, though it nearly cost us all our lives--and the priest, I can lay my hands on him, a discreet man, who won't hear if the lady says No, but filled beyond a question with the power and virtue of his holy office. No, I have nothing to reproach myself with in the way of precaution, nothing at all. I have sown the seed well and truly, it remains only for Providence to give the increase, or shall I say--no, I think not, for between the general and the private familiarity is always odious. Well, it is time that you met with a little success and settled down, for you have worked hard, Juan, my friend, and you are getting old--yes, Juan, you are getting old. Bah! what a hole and what weather!" and Montalvo established himself by the fireside to doze away his _ennui_.

When Adrian shut the door behind him the late November day was drawing to its close, and between the rifts in the sullen snow clouds now and again an arrow from the westering sun struck upon the tall, skeleton-like sails of the mill, through which the wind rushed with a screaming noise. Adrian had intended to walk on the marsh, but finding it too sodden, he crossed the western dyke by means of a board laid from bank to bank, and struck into the sand-dunes beyond. Even in the summer, when the air was still and flowers bloomed and larks sang, these dunes were fantastic and almost unnatural in appearance, with their deep, wind-scooped hollows of pallid sand, their sharp angles, miniature cliffs, and their crests crowned with coarse grasses. But now, beneath the dull pall of the winter sky, no spot in the world could have been more lonesome or more desolate, for never a sign of man was to be seen upon them and save for a solitary curlew, whose sad note reached Adrian's ears as it beat up wind from the sea, even the beasts and birds that dwelt there had hidden themselves away. Only the voices of Nature remained in all their majesty, the drear screams and moan of the rushing wind, and above it, now low and now voluminous as the gale veered, the deep and constant roar of the ocean.

Adrian reached the highest crest of the ridge, whence the sea, hidden hitherto, became suddenly visible, a vast, slate-coloured expanse, twisted here and there into heaps, hollowed here and there into valleys, and broken everywhere with angry lines and areas of white. In such trouble, for, after its own fashion, his heart was troubled, some temperaments might have found a kind of consolation in this sight, for while we witness them, at any rate, the throes and moods of Nature in their greatness declare a mastery of our senses, and stun or hush to silence the petty turmoil of our souls. This, at least, is so with those who have eyes to read the lesson written on Nature's face, and ears to hear the message which day by day she delivers with her lips; gifts given only to such as hold the cypher-key of imagination, and pray for grace to use it.

In Adrian's case, however, the weirdness of the sand-hills and the grandeur of the seascape with the bitter wind that blew between and the solitude which brooded over all, served only to exasperate nerves that already were strained well nigh to breaking.

Why had his father brought him to this hideous swamp bordered by a sailless sea? To save their lives from the fury of the mob? This he understood, but there was more in it than that, some plot which he did not understand, and which the ruffian, Hague Simon, and that she-fiend, his companion, had gone away to execute. Meanwhile he must sit here day after day playing cards with the wretch Ramiro, whom, for no fault of his own, God had chosen out to be his parent. By the way, why was the man so fond of playing cards? And what was the meaning of all that nonsense about notes of hand? Yes, here he must sit, and for company he had the sense of his unalterable shame, the memory of his mother's face as she spurned and rejected him, the vision of the woman whom he loved and had lost, and--the ghost of Dirk van Goorl.

He shivered as he thought of it; yes, his hair lifted and his lip twitched involuntarily, for to Adrian's racked nerves and distorted vision this ghost of the good man whom he had betrayed was no child of phantasy. He had woken in the night and seen it standing at his bedside, plague-defiled and hunger-wasted, and because of it he dreaded to sleep alone, especially in that creaking, rat-haunted mill, whose very board seemed charged with some tale of death and blood. Heavens! At this very moment he thought he could hear that dead voice calling down the gale. No, it must be the curlew, but at least he would be going home. Home--that place home--with not even a priest near to confess to and be comforted!

Thanks be to the Saints! the wind had dropped a little, but now in place of it came the snow, dense, whirling, white; so dense indeed that he could scarcely see his path. What an end that would be, to be frozen to death in the snow on these sand-hills while the spirit of Dirk van Goorl sat near and watched him die with those hollow, hungry eyes. The sweat came upon Adrian's forehead at the thought, and he broke into a run, heading for the bank of the great dyke that pierced the dunes half a mile or so away, which bank must, he knew, lead him to the mill. He reached it and trudged along what had been the towpath, though now it was overgrown with weeds and rushes. It was not a pleasant journey, for the twilight had closed in with speed and the thick flakes, that seemed to heap into his face and sting him, turned it into a darkness mottled with faint white. Still he stumbled forward with bent head and close-wrapped cloak till he judged that he must be near to the mill, and halted staring through the gloom.

Just then the snow ceased for a while and light crept back to the cold face of the earth, showing Adrian that he had done well to halt. In front of where he stood, within a few paces of his feet indeed, for a distance of quite twenty yards the lower part of the bank had slipped away, washed from the stone core with which it was faced at this point, by a slow and neglected percolation of water. Had he walked on therefore, he would have fallen his own height or more into a slough of mud, whence he might, or might not have been able to extricate himself. As it was, however, by such light as remained he could crawl upon the coping of the stonework which was still held in place with old struts of timber that, until they had been denuded by the slow and constant leakage, were buried and supported in the vanished earthwork. It was not a pleasant bridge, for to the right lay the mud-bottomed gulf, and to the left, almost level with his feet, were the black and peaty waters of the rain-fed dyke pouring onwards to the sea.

"Next flood this will go," thought Adrian to himself, "and then the marsh must become a mere which will be bad for whomever happens to be living in the Red Mill." He was on firm ground again now, and there, looming tall and spectral against the gloom, not five hundred yards away, rose the gaunt sails of the mill. To reach it he walked on six score paces or more to the little landing-quay, where a raised path ran to the building. As he drew near to it he was astonished to hear the rattle of oars working in rollocks and a man's voice say:

"Steady, here is the place, praise the Saints! Now, then, out passengers and let us be gone."

Adrian, whom events had made timid, drew beneath the shadow of the bank and watched, while from the dim outline of the boat arose three figures, or rather two figures arose, dragging the third between them.

"Hold her," said a voice that seemed familiar, "while I give these men their hire," and there followed a noise of clinking coin, mingled with some oaths and grumbling about the weather and the distance, which were abated with more coin. Then again the oars rattled and the boat was pushed off, whereon a sweet voice cried in agonised tones:

"Sirs, you who have wives and daughters, will you leave me in the hands of these wretches? In the name of God take pity upon my helplessness."

"It is a shame, and she so fair a maid," grumbled another thick and raucous voice, but the steersman cried, "Mind your business, Marsh Jan. We have done our job and got our pay, so leave the gentry to settle their own love affairs. Good night to you, passengers; give way, give way," and the boat swung round and vanished into the gloom.

For a moment Adrian's heart stood still; then he sprang forward to see before him Hague Simon, the Butcher, Black Meg his wife, and between them a bundle wrapped in shawls.

"What is this?" he asked.

"You ought to know, Heer Adrian," answered Black Meg with a chuckle, "seeing that this charming piece of goods has been brought all the way from Leyden, regardless of expense, for your especial benefit."

The bundle lifted its head, and the faint light shone upon the white and terrified face of--Elsa Brant.

"May God reward you for this evil deed, Adrian, called van Goorl," said the pitiful voice.

"This deed! What deed?" he stammered in answer. "I know nothing of it, Elsa Brant."

"You know nothing of it? Yet it was done in your name, and you are here to receive me, who was kidnapped as I walked outside Leyden to be dragged hither with force by these monsters. Oh! have you no heart and no fear of judgment that you can speak thus?"

"Free her," roared Adrian, rushing at the Butcher to see a knife gleaming in his hand and another in that of Black Meg.

"Stop your nonsense, Master Adrian, and stand back. If you have anything to say, say it to your father, the Count. Come, let us pass, for we are cold and weary," and taking Elsa by the elbows they brushed past him, nor, indeed, even had he not been too bewildered to interfere, could Adrian have stayed them, for he was unarmed. Besides, where would be the use, seeing that the boat had gone and that they were alone on a winter's night in the wind-swept wilderness, with no refuge for miles save such as the mill house could afford. So Adrian bent his head, for the snow had begun to fall again, and, sick at heart, followed them along the path. Now he understood at length why they had come to the Red Mill.

Simon opened the door and entered, but Elsa hung back at its ill-omened threshold. She even tried to struggle a little, poor girl, whereon the ruffian in front jerked her towards him with an oath, so that she caught her foot and fell upon her face. This was too much for Adrian. Springing forward he struck the Butcher full in the mouth with his fist, and next moment they were rolling over and over each other upon the floor, struggling fiercely for the knife which Simon held.

During all her life Elsa never forgot that scene. Behind her the howling blackness of the night and the open door, through which flake by flake the snow leapt into the light. In front the large round room, fashioned from the basement of the mill, lit only by the great fire of turfs and a single horn lantern, hung from the ceiling that was ribbed with beams of black and massive oak. And there, in this forbidding, naked-looking place, that rocked and quivered as the gale caught the tall arms of the mill above, seated by the hearth in a rude chair of wood and sleeping, one man, Ramiro, the Spanish sleuth-hound, who had hunted down her father, he whom above every other she held in horror and in hate; and two, Adrian and the spy, at death-grips on the floor, between them the sheen of a naked knife.

Such was the picture.

Ramiro awoke at the noise, and there was fear on his face as though some ill dream lingered in his brain. Next instant he saw and understood.

"I will run the man through who strikes another blow," he said, in a cold clear voice as he drew his sword. "Stand up, you fools, and tell me what this means."

"It means that this brute beast but now threw Elsa Brant upon her face," gasped Adrian as he rose, "and I punished him."

"It is a lie," hissed the other; "I pulled the minx on, that is all, and so would you have done, if you had been cursed with such a wild-cat for four-and-twenty hours. Why, when we took her she was more trouble to hold than any man."

"Oh! I understand," interrupted Ramiro, who had recovered his composure; "a little maidenly reluctance, that is all, my worthy Simon, and as for this young gentleman, a little lover-like anxiety--doubtless in bygone years you have felt the same," and he glanced mockingly at Black Meg. "So do not be too ready to take offence, good Simon. Youth will be youth."

"And Youth will get a knife between its ribs if it is not careful," grumbled Hague Simon, as he spat out a piece of broken tooth.

"Why am I brought here, Senor," broke in Elsa, "in defiance of laws and justice?"

"Laws! Mejufvrouw, I did not know that there were any left in the Netherlands; justice! well, all is fair in love and war, as any lady will admit. And the reason why--I think you must ask Adrian, he knows more about it than I do."

"He says that he knows nothing, Senor."

"Does he, the rogue? Does he indeed? Well, it would be rude to contradict him, wouldn't it, so I for one unreservedly accept his statement that he knows nothing, and I advise you to do the same. No, no, my boy, do not trouble to explain, we all quite understand. Now, my good dame," he went on addressing the serving-woman who had entered the place, "take this young lady to the best room you have above. And, listen, both of you, she is to be treated with all kindness, do you hear, for if any harm comes to her, either at your hands or her own, by Heaven! you shall pay for it to the last drop of your blood. Now, no excuses and--no mistakes."

The two women, Meg and the other, nodded and motioned to Elsa to accompany them. She considered a moment, looking first at Ramiro and next at Adrian. Then her head dropped upon her breast, and turning without a word she followed them up the creaking oaken stair that rose from a niche near the wall of the ingle-nook.

"Father," said Adrian when the massive door had closed behind her and they were left alone--"father--for I suppose that I must call you so."

"There is not the slightest necessity," broke in Ramiro; "facts, my dear son, need not always be paraded in the cold light of day--fortunately. But, proceed."

"What does all this mean?"

"I wish I could tell you. It appears to mean, however, that without any effort upon your part, for you seem to me a young man singularly devoid of resource, your love affairs are prospering beyond expectation."

"I have had nothing to do with the business; I wash my hands of it."

"That is as well. Some sensitive people might think they need a deal of washing. You young fool," he went on, dropping his mocking manner, "listen to me. You are in love with this pink and white piece of goods, and I have brought her here for you to marry."

"And I refuse to marry her against her will."

"As to that you can please yourself. But somebody has got to marry her--you, or I."

"You--_you!_" gasped Adrian.

"Quite so. The adventure is not one, to be frank, that attracts me. At my age memories are sufficient. But material interests must be attended to, so if you decline--well, I am still eligible and hearty. Do you see the point?"

"No, what is it?"

"It is a sound title to the inheritance of the departed Hendrik Brant. That wealth we might, it is true, obtain by artifice or by arms; but how much better that it should come into the family in a regular fashion, thereby ousting the claim of the Crown. Things in this country are disturbed at present, but they will not always be disturbed, for in the end somebody must give way and order will prevail. Then questions might be asked, for persons in possession of great riches are always the mark of envy. But if the heiress is married to a good Catholic and loyal subject of the king, who can cavil at rights sanctified by the laws of God and man? Think it over, my dear Adrian, think it over. Step-mother or wife--you can take your choice."

With impotent rage, with turmoil of heart and torment of conscience, Adrian did think it over. All that night he thought, tossing on his rat-haunted pallet, while without the snow whirled and the wind beat. If he did not marry Elsa, his father would, and there could be no doubt as to which of these alternatives would be best and happiest for her. Elsa married to that wicked, cynical, devil-possessed, battered, fortune-hunting adventurer with a nameless past! This must be prevented at any cost. With his father her lot _must_ be a hell; with himself--after a period of storm and doubt perhaps--it could scarcely be other than happy, for was he not young, handsome, sympathetic, and--devoted? Ah! there was the real point. He loved this lady with all the earnestness of which his nature was capable, and the thought of her passing into the possession of another man gave him the acutest anguish. That the man should be Foy, his half-brother, was bad enough; that it should be Ramiro, his father, was insupportable.

At breakfast the following morning, when Elsa did not appear, the pair met.

"You look pale, Adrian," said his father presently. "I fear that this wild weather kept you awake last night, as it did me, although at your age I have slept through the roar of a battle. Well, have you thought over our conversation? I do not wish to trouble you with these incessant family matters, but times presses, and it is necessary to decide."

Adrian looked out of the lattice at the snow, which fell and fell without pause. Then he turned and said:

"Yes. Of the two it is best that she should marry me, though I think that such a crime will bring its own reward."

"Wise young man," answered his father. "Under all your cloakings of vagary I observe that you have a foundation of common-sense, just as the giddiest weathercock is bedded on a stone. As for the reward, considered properly it seems to be one upon which I can heartily congratulate you."

"Peace to that talk," said Adrian, angrily; "you forget that there are two parties to such a contract; her consent must be gained, and I will not ask it."

"No? Then I will; a few arguments occur to me. Now look here, friend, we have struck a bargain, and you will be so good as to keep it or to take the consequences--oh! never mind what they are. I will bring this lady to the altar--or, rather, to that table, and you will marry her, after which you can settle matters just exactly as you please; live with her as your wife, or make your bow and walk away, which, I care nothing so long as you are married. Now I am weary of all this talk, so be so good as to leave me in peace on the subject."

Adrian looked at him, opened his lips to speak, then changed his mind and marched out of the house into the blinding snow.

"Thank Heaven he is gone at last!" reflected his father, and called for Hague Simon, with whom he held a long and careful interview.

"You understand?" he ended.

"I understand," answered Simon, sulkily. "I am to find this priest, who should be waiting at the place you name, and to bring him here by nightfall to-morrow, which is a rough job for a Christian man in such weather as this."

"The pay, friend Simon, remember the pay."

"Oh! yes, it all sounds well enough, but I should like something on account."

"You shall have it--is not such a labourer worthy of his hire?" replied his employer with enthusiasm, and producing from his pocket the purse which Lysbeth had given Adrian, with a smile of peculiar satisfaction, for really the thing had a comic side, he counted a handsome sum into the hand of this emissary of Venus.

Simon looked at the money, concluded, after some reflection, that it would scarcely do to stand out for more at present, pouched it, and having wrapped himself in a thick frieze coat, opened the door and vanished into the falling snow.


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Author:Tanaka Giichi

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text:
Lysbeth: A Tale of the Dutch/Chapter XXVI

The day passed, and through every hour of it the snow fell incessantly. Night came, and it was still falling in large, soft flakes that floated to the earth gently as thistledown, for now there was no wind. Adrian met his father at meals only; the rest of the day he preferred to spend out of doors in the snow, or hanging about the old sheds at the back of the mill, rather than endure the society of this terrible man; this man of mocking words and iron purpose, who was forcing him into the commission of a great crime.

It was at breakfast on the following morning that Ramiro inquired of Black Mag whether the Jufvrouw Brant had sufficiently recovered from the fatigues of her journey to honour them with her presence. The woman replied that she absolutely refused to leave her room, or even to speak more than was necessary.

"Then," said Ramiro, "as it is important that I should have a few words with her, be so good as to tell the young lady, with my homage, that I will do myself the honour of waiting on her in the course of the forenoon."

Meg departed on her errand, and Adrian looked up suspiciously.

"Calm yourself, young friend," said his father, "although the interview will be private, you have really no cause for jealousy. At present, remember, I am but the second string in the bow-case, the understudy who has learnt the part, a humble position, but one which may prove useful."

At all of which gibes Adrian winced. But he did not reply, for by now he had learned that he was no match for his father's bitter wit.

Elsa received the message as she received everything else, in silence.

Three days before, as after a fearful illness during which on several occasions she was at the very doors of death, Lysbeth van Goorl had been declared out of danger, Elsa, her nurse, ventured to leave her for a few hours. That evening the town seemed to stifle her and, feeling that she needed the air of the country, she passed the Morsch poort and walked a little way along the banks of the canal, never noticing, poor girl, that her footsteps were dogged. When it began to grow dusk, she halted and stood a while gazing towards the Haarlemer Meer, letting her heart go out to the lover who, as she thought and hoped, within a day or two would be at her side.

Then it was that something was thrown over her head, and for a while all was black. She awoke to find herself lying in a boat, and watching her, two wretches, whom she recognised as those who had assailed her when first she came to Leyden from The Hague.

"Why have you kidnapped me, and where am I going?" she asked.

"Because we are paid to do it, and you are going to Adrian van Goorl," was the answer.

Then she understood, and was silent.

Thus they brought her to this lonesome, murderous-looking place, where sure enough Adrian was waiting for her, waiting with a lie upon his lips. Now, doubtless, the end was at hand. She, who loved his brother with all her heart and soul, was to be given forcibly in marriage to a man whom she despised and loathed, the vain, furious-tempered traitor, who, for revenge, jealousy, or greed, she knew not which, had not hesitated to send his benefactor, and mother's husband, to perish in the fires of the Inquisition.

What was she to do? Escape seemed out of the question, imprisoned as she was on the third story of a lofty mill standing in a lonely, snow-shrouded wilderness, cut off from the sight of every friendly face, and spied on hour after hour by two fierce-eyed women. No, there was only one escape for her--through the gate of death. Even this would be difficult, for she had no weapon, and day and night the women kept guard over her, one standing sentinel, while the other slept. Moreover, she had no mind to die, being young and healthy, with a love to live for, and from her childhood up she had been taught that self-slaughter is a sin. No, she would trust in God, and overwhelming though it was, fight her way through this trouble as best she might. The helpless find friends sometimes. Therefore, that her strength might be preserved, Elsa rested and ate of her food, and drank the wine which they brought to her, refusing to leave the room, or to speak more than she was obliged, but watching everything that passed.

On the second morning of her imprisonment Ramiro's message reached her, to which, as usual, she made no answer. In due course also Ramiro himself arrived, and stood bowing in the doorway.

"Have I your permission to enter, Jufvrouw?" he asked. Then Elsa, knowing that the moment of trial had come, steeled herself for the encounter.

"You are master here," she answered, in a voice cold as the falling snow without, "why then do you mock me?"

He motioned to the women to leave the room, and when they had gone, replied:

"I have little thought of such a thing, lady; the matter in hand is too serious for smart sayings," and with another bow he sat himself down on a chair near the hearth, where a fire was burning. Whereon Elsa rose and stood over against him, for upon her feet she seemed to feel stronger.

"Will you be so good as to set out this matter, Senor Ramiro? Am I brought here to be tried for heresy?"

"Even so, for heresy against the god of love, and the sentence of the Court is that you must expiate your sin, not at the stake, but at the altar."

"I do not understand."

"Then I will explain. My son Adrian, a worthy young man on the whole--you know that he _is_ my son, do you not?--has had the misfortune, or I should say the good fortune, to fall earnestly in love with you, whereas you have the bad taste--or, perhaps, the good taste--to give your affections elsewhere. Under the circumstances, Adrian, being a youth of spirit and resource, has fallen back upon primitive methods in order to bring his suit to a successful conclusion. He is here, you are here, and this evening I understand that the priest will be here. I need not dwell upon the obvious issue; indeed, it is a private matter upon which I have no right to intrude, except, of course, as a relative and a well-wisher."

Elsa made an impatient movement with her hand, as though to brush aside all this web of words.

"Why do you take so much trouble to force an unhappy girl into a hateful marriage?" she asked. "How can such a thing advantage you?"

"Ah!" answered Ramiro briskly, "I perceive I have to do with a woman of business, one who has that rarest of gifts--common sense. I will be frank. Your esteemed father died possessed of a very large fortune, which to-day is your property as his sole issue and heiress. Under the marriage laws, which I myself think unjust, that fortune will pass into the power of any husband whom you choose to take. Therefore, so soon as you are made his wife it will pass to Adrian. I am Adrian's father, and, as it happens, he is pecuniarily indebted to me to a considerable amount, so that, in the upshot, as he himself has pointed out more than once, this alliance will provide for both of us. But business details are wearisome, so I need not enlarge."

"The fortune you speak of, Senor Ramiro, is lost."

"It is lost, but I have reason to hope that it will be found."

"You mean that this is purely a matter of money?"

"So far as I am concerned, purely. For Adrian's feelings I cannot speak, since who knows the mystery of another's heart?"

"Then, if the money were forthcoming--or a clue to it--there need be no marriage?"

"So far as I am concerned, none at all."

"And if the money is not forthcoming, and I refuse to marry the Heer Adrian, or he to marry me--what then?"

"That is a riddle, but I think I see an answer at any rate to half of it. Then the marriage would still take place, but with another bridegroom."

"Another bridegroom! Who?"

"Your humble and devoted adorer."

Elsa shuddered and recoiled a step.

"Ah!" he said, "I should not have bowed, you saw my white hairs--to the young a hateful sight."

Elsa's indignation rose, and she answered:

"It is not your white hair that I shrink from, Senor, which in some would be a crown of honour, but"

"In my case suggests to you other reflections. Be gentle and spare me them. In a world of rough actions, what need to emphasise them with rough words?"

For a few minutes there was silence, which Ramiro, glancing out of the lattice, broke by remarking that "The snowfall was extraordinarily heavy for the time of year." Then followed another silence.

"I understood you just now, dear lady, to make some sort of suggestion which might lead to an arrangement satisfactory to both of us. The exact locality of this wealth is at present obscure--you mentioned some clue. Are you in a position to furnish such a clue?"

"If I am in a position, what then?"

"Then, perhaps, after a few days visit to an interesting, but little explored part of Holland, you might return to your friends as you left them--in short as a single woman."

A struggle shook Elsa, and do what she would some trace of it appeared in her face.

"Do you swear that?" she whispered.

"Most certainly."

"Do you swear before God that if you have this clue you will not force me into a marriage with the Heer Adrian, or with yourself--that you will let me go, unharmed?"

"I swear it--before God."

"Knowing that God will be revenged upon you if you break the oath, you still swear?"

"I still swear. Why these needless repetitions?"

"Then--then," and she leant towards him, speaking in a hoarse whisper, "believing that you, even you, will not dare to be false to such an oath, for you, even you, must fear death, a miserable death, and vengeance, eternal vengeance, I give you the clue: It lies in the hilt of the sword Silence."

"The sword Silence? What sword is that?"

"The great sword of Red Martin."

Stirred out of his self-control, Ramiro struck his hand upon his knee.

"And to think," he said, "that for over twelve hours I had it hanging on the wall of the Gevangenhuis! Well, I fear that I must ask you to be more explicit. Where is this sword?"

"Wherever Red Martin is, that is all I know. I can tell you no more; the plan of the hiding-place is there."

"Or was there. Well, I believe you, but to win a secret from the hilt of the sword of the man who broke his way out of the torture-chamber of the Gevangenhuis, is a labour that would have been not unworthy of Hercules. First, Red Martin must be found, then his sword must be taken, which, I think, will cost men their lives. Dear lady, I am obliged for your information, but I fear that the marriage must still go through."

"You swore, you swore," she gasped, "you swore before God!"

"Quite so, and I shall leave--the Power you refer to--to manage the matter. Doubtless He can attend to His own affairs--I must attend to mine. I hope that about seven o'clock this evening will suit you, by which time the priest and--a bridegroom will be ready."

Then Elsa broke down.

"Devil!" she cried in the torment of her despair. "To save my honour I have betrayed my father's trust; I have betrayed the secret for which Martin was ready to die by torment, and given him over to be hunted like a wild beast. Oh! God forgive me, and God help me!"

"Doubtless, dear young lady, He will do the first, for your temptations were really considerable; I, who have more experience, outwitted you, that was all. Possibly, also, He may do the second, though many have uttered that cry unheard. For my own sake, I trust that He was sleeping when you uttered yours. But it is your affair and His; I leave it to be arranged between you. Till this evening, Jufvrouw," and he bowed himself from the room.

But Elsa, shamed and broken-hearted, threw herself upon the bed and wept.

At mid-day she arose, hearing upon the stair the step of the woman who brought her food, and to hide her tear-stained face went to the barred lattice and looked out. The scene was dismal indeed, for the wind had veered suddenly, the snow had ceased, and in place of it rain was falling with a steady persistence. When the woman had gone, Elsa washed her face, and although her appetite turned from it, ate of the food, knowing how necessary it was that she should keep her strength.

Another hour passed, and there came a knock on the door. Elsa shuddered, for she thought that Ramiro had returned to torment her. Indeed it was almost a relief when, instead of him, appeared his son. Once glance at Adrian's nervous, shaken face, yes, and even the sound of his uncertain step brought hope to her heart. Her woman's instinct told her that now she had no longer to do with the merciless and terrible Ramiro, to whose eyes she was but a pretty pawn in a game that he must win, but with a young man who loved her, and whom she held, therefore, at a disadvantage--with one, moreover, who was harassed and ashamed, and upon whose conscience, therefore, she might work. She turned upon him, drawing herself up, and although she was short and Adrian was tall, of a sudden he felt as though she towered over him.

"Your pleasure?" asked Elsa.

In the old days Adrian would have answered with some magnificent compliment, or far-fetched simile lifted from the pages of romancers. In truth he had thought of several such while, like a half-starved dog seeking a home, he wandered round and round the mill-house in the snow. But he was now far beyond all rhetoric or gallantries.

"My father wished," he began humbly--"I mean that I have come to speak to you about--our marriage."

Of a sudden Elsa's delicate features seemed to turn to ice, while, to his fancy at any rate, her brown eyes became fire.

"Marriage," she said in a strange voice. "Oh! what an unutterable coward you must be to speak that word. Call what is proposed by any foul title which you will, but at least leave the holy name of marriage undefiled."

"It is not my fault," he answered sullenly, but shrinking beneath her words. "You know, Elsa, that I wished to wed you honourably enough."

"Yes," she broke in, "and because I would not listen, because you do not please me, and you could not win me as a man wins a maid, you--you laid a trap and kidnapped me, thinking to get by brute force that which my heart withheld. Oh! in all the Netherlands lives there another such an abject as Adrian called van Goorl, the base-born son of Ramiro the galley slave?"

"I have told you that it is false," he replied furiously. "I had nothing to do with your capture. I knew nothing of it till I saw you here."

Elsa laughed a very bitter laugh. "Spare your breath," she said, "for if you swore it before the face of the recording Angel I would not believe you. Remember that you are the man who betrayed your brother and your benefactor, and then guess, if you can, what worth I put upon your words."

In the bitterness of his heart Adrian groaned aloud, and from that groan Elsa, listening eagerly, gathered some kind of hope.

"Surely," she went on, with a changed and softened manner, "surely you will not do this wickedness. The blood of Dirk van Goorl lies on your head; will you add mine to his? For be sure of this, I swear it by my Maker, that before I am indeed a wife to you I shall be dead--or mayhap you will be dead, or both of us. Do you understand?"

"I understand, but"

"But what? Where is the use of this wickedness? For your soul's sake, refuse to have aught to do with such a sin."

"But if so, my father will marry you."

It was a chance arrow, but it went home, for of a sudden Elsa's strength and eloquence seemed to leave her. She ran to him with her hands clasped, she flung herself upon her knees.

"Oh! help me to escape," she moaned, "and I will bless you all my life."

"It is impossible," he answered. "Escape from this guarded place, through those leagues of melting snow? I tell you that it is impossible."

"Then," and her eyes grew wild, "then kill him and free me. He is a devil, he is your evil genius; it would be a righteous deed. Kill him and free me."

"I should like to," answered Adrian; "I nearly did once, but, for my soul's sake, I can't put a sword through my own father; it is the most horrible of crimes. When I confessed"

"Then," she broke in, "if this farce, this infamy must be gone through, swear at least that you will treat it as such, that you will respect me."

"It is a hard thing to ask of a husband who loves you more than any woman in the world," he answered turning aside his head.

"Remember," she went on, with another flash of defiant spirit, "that if you do not, you will soon love me better than any woman out of the world, or perhaps we shall both settle what lies between us before the Judgment Seat of God. Will you swear?"

He hesitated.

Oh! she reflected, what if he should answer--"Rather than this I hand you over to Ramiro"? What if he should think of that argument? Happily for her, at the moment he did not.

"Swear," she implored, "swear," clinging with her hands to the lappet of his coat and lifting to him her white and piteous face.

"I make it an offering in expiation of my sins," he groaned, "you shall go free of me."

Elsa uttered a sigh of relief. She put no faith whatever in Adrian's promises, but at the worst it would give her time.

"I thought that I should not appeal in vain"

"To so amusing and egregious a donkey," said Ramiro's mocking voice speaking from the gloom of the doorway, which now Elsa observed for the first time had swung open mysteriously.

"My dear son and daughter-in-law, how can I thank you sufficiently for the entertainment with which you have enlivened one of the most dreary afternoons I remember. Don't look dangerous, my boy; recall what you have just told this young lady, that the crime of removing a parent is one which, though agreeable, is not lightly to be indulged. Then, as to your future arrangements, how touching! The soul of a Diana, I declare, and the self-sacrifice of a--no, I fear that the heroes of antiquity can furnish no suitable example. And now, adieu, I go to welcome the gentleman you both of you so eagerly expect."

He went, and a minute later without speaking, for the situation seemed beyond words, Adrian crept down the stairs after him, more miserable and crushed even than he had crept up them half an hour before.

Another two hours went by. Elsa was in her apartment with Black Meg for company, who watched her as a cat watches a mouse in a trap. Adrian had taken refuge in the place where he slept above. It was a dreary, vacuous chamber, that once had held stones and other machinery of the mill now removed, the home of spiders and half-starved rats, that a lean black cat hunted continually. Across its ceiling ran great beams, whereof the interlacing ends, among which sharp draughts whistled, lost themselves in gloom, while, with an endless and exasperating sound, as of a knuckle upon a board, the water dripped from the leaky roof.

In the round living-chamber below Ramiro was alone. No lamp had been lit, but the glow from the great turf fire played upon his face as he sat there, watching, waiting, and scheming in the chair of black oak. Presently a noise from without caught his quick ear, and calling to the serving woman to light the lamp, he went to the door, opened it, and saw a lantern floating towards him through the thick steam of falling rain. Another minute and the bearer of the lantern, Hague Simon, arrived, followed by two other men.

"Here he is," said Simon, nodding at the figure behind him, a short round figure wrapped in a thick frieze cloak, from which water ran. "The other is the head boatman."

"Good," said Ramiro. "Tell him and his companions to wait in the shed without, where liquor will be sent to them; they may be wanted later on."

Then followed talk and oaths, and at length the man retreated grumbling.

"Enter, Father Thomas," said Ramiro; "you have had a wet journey, I fear. Enter and give us your blessing."

Before he answered the priest threw off his dripping, hooded cape of Frisian cloth, revealing a coarse, wicked face, red and blear-eyed from intemperance.

"My blessing?" he said in a raucous voice. "Here it is, Senor Ramiro, or whatever you call yourself now. Curse you all for bringing out a holy priest upon one of your devil's errands in weather which is only fit for a bald-headed coot to travel through. There is going to be a flood; already the water is running over the banks of the dam, and it gathers every moment as the snow melts. I tell you there is going to be such a flood as we have not seen for years."

"The more reason, Father, for getting through this little business quickly; but first you will wish for something to drink."

Father Thomas nodded, and Ramiro filling a small mug with brandy, gave it to him. He gulped it off.

"Another," he said. "Don't be afraid. A chosen vessel should also be a seasoned vessel; at any rate this one is. Ah! that's better. Now then, what's the exact job?"

Ramiro took him apart and they talked together for a while.

"Very good," said the priest at length, "I will take the risk and do it, for where heretics are concerned such things are not too closely inquired into nowadays. But first down with the money; no paper or promises, if you please."

"Ah! you churchmen," said Ramiro, with a faint smile, "in things spiritual or temporal how much have we poor laity to learn of you!" With a sigh he produced the required sum, then paused and added, "No; with your leave we will see the papers first. You have them with you?"

"Here they are," answered the priest, drawing some documents from his pocket. "But they haven't been married yet; the rule is, marry first, then certify. Until the ceremony is actually performed, anything might happen, you know."

"Quite so, Father. Anything might happen either before or after; but still, with your leave, I think that in this case we may as well certify first; you might want to be getting away, and it will save so much trouble later. Will you be so kind as to write your certificate?"

Father Thomas hesitated, while Ramiro gently clinked the gold coins in his hand and murmured,

"I should be sorry to think, Father, that you had taken such a rough journey for nothing."

"What trick are you at now?" growled the priest. "Well, after all it is a mere form. Give me the names."

Ramiro gave them; Father Thomas scrawled them down, adding some words and his own signature, then said, "There you are, that will hold good against anyone except the Pope."

"A mere form," repeated Ramiro, "of course. But the world attaches so much importance to forms, so I think that we will have this one witnessed--No, not by myself, who am an interested party--by someone independent," and calling Hague Simon and the waiting-woman he bade them set their names at the foot of the documents.

"Papers signed in advance--fees paid in advance!" he went on, handing over the money, "and now, just one more glass to drink the health of the bride and bridegroom, also in advance. You will not refuse, nor you, worthy Simon, nor you, most excellent Abigail. Ah! I thought not, the night is cold."

"And the brandy strong," muttered the priest thickly, as this third dose of raw spirit took effect upon him. "Now get on with the business, for I want to be out of this hole before the flood comes."

"Quite so. Friends, will you be so good as to summon my son and the lady? The lady first, I think--and all three of you might go to escort her. Brides sometimes consider it right to fain a slight reluctance--you understand? On second thoughts, you need not trouble the Senor Adrian. I have a new words of ante-nuptial advice to offer, so I will go to him."

A minute later father and son stood face to face. Adrian leaped up; he shook his fist, he raved and stormed at the cold, impassive man before him.

"You fool, you contemptible fool!" said Ramiro when he had done. "Heavens! to think that such a creature should have sprung from me, a human jackass only fit to bear the blows and burdens of others, to fill the field with empty brayings, and wear himself out by kicking at the air. Oh! don't twist up your face at me, for I am your master as well as your father, however much you may hate me. You are mine, body and soul, don't you understand; a bond-slave, nothing more. You lost the only chance you ever had in the game when you got me down at Leyden. You daren't draw a sword on me again for your soul's sake, dear Adrian, for your soul's sake; and if you dared, I would run you through. Now, are you coming?"

"No," answered Adrian.

"Think a minute. If you don't marry her I shall, and before she is half an hour older; also--" and he leant forward and whispered into his son's ear.

"Oh! you devil, you devil!" Adrian gasped; then he moved towards the door.

"What? Changed your mind, have you, Mr. Weathercock? Well, it is the prerogative of all feminine natures--but, your doublet is awry, and allow me to suggest that you should brush your hair. There, that's better; now, come on. No, you go first, if you please, I'd rather have you in front of me."

When they reached the room below the bride was already there. Gripped on either side by Black Meg and the other woman, white as death and trembling, but still defiant, stood Elsa.

"Let's get through with this," growled the half-drunken, ruffian priest. "I take the willingness of the parties for granted."

"I am not willing," cried Elsa. "I have been brought here by force. I call everyone present to witness that whatever is done is against my will. I appeal to God to help me."

The priest turned upon Ramiro.

"How am I to marry them in the face of this?" he asked. "If only she were silent it might be done"

"The difficulty has occurred to me," answered Ramiro. He made a sign, whereon Simon seized Elsa's wrists, and Black Meg, slipping behind her, deftly fastened a handkerchief over her mouth in such fashion that she was gagged, but could still breathe through the nostrils.

Elsa struggled a little, then was quiet, and turned her piteous eyes on Adrian, who stepped forward and opened his lips.

"You remember the alternative," said his father in a low voice, and he stopped.

"I suppose," broke in Father Thomas, "that we may at any rate reckon upon the consent, or at least upon the silence of the Heer bridegroom."

"You may reckon on his silence, Father Thomas," replied Ramiro.

Then the ceremony began. They dragged Elsa to the table. Thrice she flung herself to the ground, and thrice they lifted her to her feet, but at length, weary of the weight of her body, suffered her to rest upon her knees, where she remained as though in prayer, gagged like some victim on the scaffold. It was a strange and brutal scene, and every detail of it burned itself into Adrian's mind. The round, rude room, with its glowing fire of turfs and its rough, oaken furniture, half in light and half in dense shadow, as the lamp-rays chanced to fall; the death-like, kneeling bride, with a white cloth across her tortured face; the red-chopped, hanging-lipped hedge priest gabbling from a book, his back almost turned that he might not see her attitude and struggles; the horrible, unsexed women; the flat-faced villain, Simon, grinning by the hearth; Ramiro, cynical, mocking, triumphant, and yet somewhat anxious, his one bright eye fixed in mingled contempt and amusement upon him, Adrian--those were its outlines. There was something else also that caught and oppressed his sense, a sound which at the time Adrian thought he heard in his head alone, a soft, heavy sound with a moan in it, not unlike that of the wind, which grew gradually to a dull roar.

It was over. A ring had been forced on to Elsa's unwilling hand, and, until the thing was undone by some competent and authorised Court, she was in name the wife of Adrian. The handkerchief was unbound, her hands were loosed, physically, Elsa was free again, but, in that day and land of outrage, tied, as the poor girl knew well, by a chain more terrible than any that hemp or steel could fashion.

"Congratulations! Senora," muttered Father Thomas, eyeing her nervously. "I fear you felt a little faint during the service, but a sacrament"

"Cease your mockings, you false priest," cried Elsa. "Oh! let the swift vengeance of God fall upon every one of you, and first of all upon you, false priest."

Drawing the ring from her finger, as she spoke she cast it down upon the oaken table, whence it sprang up to drop again and rattle itself to silence. Then with one tragic motion of despair, Elsa turned and fled back to her chamber.

The red face of Father Thomas went white, and his yellow teeth chattered. "A virgin's curse," he muttered, crossing himself. "Misfortune always follows, and it is sometimes death--yes, by St. Thomas, death. And you, you brought me here to do this wickedness, you dog, you galley slave!"

"Father," broke in Ramiro, "you know I have warned you against it before at The Hague; sooner or later it always breaks up the nerves," and he nodded towards the flagon of spirits. "Bread and water, Father, bread and water for forty days, that is what I prescribe, and"

As he spoke the door was burst open, and two men rushed in, their eyes starting, their very beards bristling with terror.

"Come forth!" they cried.

"What has chanced?" screamed the priest.

"The great dyke has burst--hark, hark, hark! The floods are upon you, the mill will be swept away."

God in Heaven--it was true! Now through the open doorway they heard the roar of waters, whose note Adrian had caught before, yes, and in the gloom appeared their foaming crest as they rushed through the great and ever-widening breach in the lofty dyke down upon the flooded lowland.

Father Thomas bounded through the door yelling, "The boat, the boat!" For a moment Ramiro thought, considering the situation, then he said:

"Fetch the Jufvrouw. No, not you, Adrian; she would die rather than come with you. You, Simon, and you, Meg. Swift, obey."

They departed on their errand.

"Men," went on Ramiro, "take this gentleman and lead him to the boat. Hold him if he tries to escape. I will follow with the lady. Go, you fool, go, there is not a second to be lost," and Adrian, hanging back and protesting, was dragged away by the boatmen.

Now Ramiro was alone, and though, as he had said, there was little time to spare, again for a few moments he thought deeply. His face flushed and went pale; then entered into it a great resolve. "I don't like doing it, for it is against my vow, but the chance is good. She is safely married, and at best she would be very troublesome hereafter, and might bring us to justice or to the galleys since others seek her wealth," he muttered with a shiver, adding, "as for the spies, we are well rid of them and their evidence." Then, with swift resolution, stepping to the door at the foot of the stairs, Ramiro shut it and shot the great iron bolt!

He ran from the mill; the raised path was already three feet deep in water; he could scarcely make his way along it. Ah! there lay the boat. Now he was in it, and now they were flying before the crest of a huge wave. The dam of the cutting had given altogether, and fed from sea and land at once, by snow, by rain, and by the inrush of the high tide, its waters were pouring in a measureless volume over the doomed marshes.

"Where is Elsa?" screamed Adrian.

"I don't know. I couldn't find her," answered Ramiro. "Row, row for your lives! We can take her off in the morning, and the priest too, if he won back."

At length the cold winter sun rose over the watery waste, calm enough now, for the floods were out, in places ten and fifteen feet deep. Through the mists that brooded on the face of them Ramiro and his crew groped their way back to where the Red Mill should be. It was gone!

There stood the brick walls of the bottom story rising above the flood level, but the wooden upper part had snapped before the first great wave when the bank went bodily, and afterwards been swept away by the rushing current, swept away with those within.

"What is that?" said one of the boatmen, pointing to a dark object which floated among the tangled _debris_ of sere weeds and woodwork collected against the base of the mill.

They rowed to the thing. It was the body of Father Thomas, who must have missed his footing as he ran along the pathway, and fallen into deep water.

"Um!" said Ramiro, "'a virgin's curse.' Observe, friends, how the merest coincidences may give rise to superstition. Allow me," and, holding the dead man by one hand, he felt in his pockets with the other, till, with a smile of satisfaction, he found the purse containing the gold which he had paid him on the previous evening.

"Oh! Elsa, Elsa," moaned Adrian.

"Comfort yourself, my son," said Ramiro as the boat put about, leaving the dead Father Thomas bobbing up and down in the ripple; "you have indeed lost a wife whose temper gave you little prospect of happiness, but at least I have your marriage papers duly signed and witnessed, and--you are her heir."

He did not add that he in turn was Adrian's. But Adrian thought of it, and even in the midst of his shame and misery wondered with a shiver how long he who was Ramiro's next of kin was likely to adorn this world.

Till he had something that was worth inheriting, perhaps.


text:
Lysbeth: A Tale of the Dutch/Chapter XXVII

It will be remembered that some weeks before Elsa's forced marriage in the Red Mill, Foy, on their escape from the Gevangenhuis, had been carried upon the naked back of Martin to the shelter of Mother Martha's lair in the Haarlemer Meer. Here he lay sick many days, for the sword cut in his thigh festered so badly that at one time his life was threatened by gangrene, but, in the end, his own strength and healthy constitution, helped with Martha's simples, cured him. So soon as he was strong again, accompanied by Martin, he travelled into Leyden, which now it was safe enough for him to visit, since the Spaniards were driven from the town.

How his young heart swelled as, still limping a little and somewhat pale from recent illness, he approached the well-known house in the Bree Straat, the home that sheltered his mother and his love. Presently he would see them again, for the news had been brought to him that Lysbeth was out of danger and Elsa must still be nursing her.

Lysbeth he found indeed, turned into an old woman by grief and sore sickness, but Elsa he did not find. She had vanished. On the previous night she had gone out to take the air, and returned no more. What had become of her none could say. All the town talked of it, and his mother was half-crazed with anxiety and fear, fear of the worst.

Hither and thither they went inquiring, seeking, tracking, but no trace of Elsa could they discover. She had been seen to pass the Morsch poort; then she disappeared. For a while Foy was mad. At length he grew calmer and began to think. Drawing from his pocket the letter which Martha had brought to him on the night of the church-burning, he re-read it in the hope of finding a clue, since it was just possible that for private reasons Elsa might have set out on some journey of her own. It was a very sweet letter, telling him of her deep joy and gratitude at his escape; of the events that had happened in the town; of the death of his father in the Gevangenhuis, and ending thus:

"Dear Foy, my betrothed, I cannot come to you because of your mother's sickness, for I am sure that it would be your wish, as it is my desire and duty, that I should stay to nurse her. Soon, however, I hope that you will be able to come to her and me. Yet, in these dreadful times who can tell what may happen? Therefore, Foy, whatever chances, I am sure you will remember that in life or in death I am yours only--yes, to you, dead or living, you dead and I living, or you living and I dead, while or wherever I have sense or memory, I will be true; through life, through death, through whatever may lie beyond our deaths, I will be true as woman may be to man. So, dear Foy, for this present fare you well until we meet again in the days to come, or after all earthly days are done with for you and me. My love be with you, the blessing of God be with you, and when you lie down at night and when you wake at morn, think of me and put up a prayer for me as your true lover Elsa does for you. Martha waits. Most loved, most dear, most desired, fare you well."

Here was no hint of any journey, so if such had been taken it must be without Elsa's own consent.

"Martin, what do you make of it?" asked Foy, staring at him with anxious, hollow eyes.

"Ramiro--Adrian--stolen away--" answered Martin.

"Why do you say that?"

"Hague Simon was seen hanging about outside the town yesterday, and there was a strange boat upon the river. Last night the Jufvrouw went through the Morsch poort. The rest you can guess."

"Why would they take her?" asked Foy hoarsely.

"Who can tell?" said Martin shrugging his great shoulders. "Yet I see two reasons. Hendrik Brant's wealth is supposed to be hers when it can be found; therefore, being a thief, Ramiro would want her. Adrian is in love with her; therefore, being a man, of course he would want her. These seem enough, the pair being what they are."

"When I find them I will kill them both," said Foy, grinding his teeth.

"Of course, so will I, but first we have got to find them--and her, which is the same thing."

"How, Martin, how?"

"I don't know."

"Can't you think, man?"

"I am trying to, master; it's you who don't think. You talk too much. Be silent a while."

"Well," asked Foy thirty seconds later, "have you finished thinking?"

"No, master, it's no use, there is nothing to think about. We must leave this and go back to Martha. If anyone can track her out she can. Here we can learn no more."

So they returned to the Haarlemer Meer and told Martha their sad tale.

"Bide here a day or two and be patient," she said; "I will go out and search."

"Never," answered Foy, "we will come with you."

"If you choose, but it will make matters more difficult. Martin, get ready the big boat."

Two nights had gone by, and it was an hour or more past noon on the third day, the day of Elsa's forced marriage. The snow had ceased falling and the rain had come instead, rain, pitiless, bitter and continual. Hidden in a nook at the north end of the Haarlemer Meer and almost buried beneath bundles of reeds, partly as a protection from the weather and partly to escape the eyes of Spaniards, of whom companies were gathering from every direction to besiege Haarlem, lay the big boat. In it were Red Martin and Foy van Goorl. Mother Martha was not there for she had gone alone to an inn at a distance, to gather information if she could. To hundreds of the boers in these parts she was a known and trusted friend, although many of them might not choose to recognise her openly, and from among them, unless, indeed, she had been taken right away to Flanders, or even to Spain, she hoped to gather tidings of Elsa's whereabouts.

For two weary nights and days the Mare had been employed thus, but as yet without a shadow of success. Foy and Martin sat in the boat staring at each other gloomily; indeed Foy's face was piteous to see.

"What are you thinking of, master?" asked Martin presently.

"I am thinking," he answered, "that even if we find her now it will be too late; whatever was to be done, murder or marriage, will be done."

"Time to trouble about that when we have found her," said Martin, for he knew not what else to say, and added, "listen, I hear footsteps."

Foy drew apart two of the bundles of reeds and looked out into the driving rain.

"All right," he said, "it is Martha and a man."

Martin let his hand fall from the hilt of the sword Silence, for in those days hand and sword must be near together. Another minute and Martha and her companion were in the boat.

"Who is this man?" asked Foy.

"He is a friend of mine named Marsh Jan."

"Have you news?"

"Yes, at least Marsh Jan has."

"Speak, and be swift," said Foy, turning on the man fiercely.

"Am I safe from vengeance?" asked Marsh Jan, who was a good fellow enough although he had drifted into evil company, looking doubtfully at Foy and Martin.

"Have I not said so," answered Martha, "and does the Mare break her word?"

Then Marsh Jan told his tale: How he was one of the party that two nights before had rowed Elsa, or at least a young woman who answered to her description, to the Red Mill, not far from Velzen, and how she was in the immediate charge of a man and a woman who could be no other than Hague Simon and Black Meg. Also he told of her piteous appeal to the boatmen in the names of their wives and daughters, and at the telling of it Foy wept with fear and rage, and even Martha gnashed her teeth. Only Martin cast off the boat and began to punt her out into deep water.

"Is that all?" asked Foy.

"That is all, Mynheer, I know nothing more, but I can explain to you where the place is."

"You can show us, you mean," said Foy.

The man expostulated. The weather was bad, there would be a flood, his wife was ill and expected him, and so forth. Then he tried to get out of the boat, whereon, catching hold of him suddenly, Martin threw him into the stern-sheets, saying:

"You could travel to this mill once taking with you a girl whom you knew to be kidnapped, now you can travel there again to get her out. Sit still and steer straight, or I will make you food for fishes."

Then Marsh Jan professed himself quite willing to sail to the Red Mill, which he said they ought to reach by nightfall.

All that afternoon they sailed and rowed, till, with the darkness, before ever the mill was in sight, the great flood came down upon them and drove them hither and thither, such a flood as had not been seen in those districts for a dozen years. But Marsh Jan knew his bearings well; he had the instinct of locality that is bred in those whose forefathers for generations have won a living from the fens, and through it all he held upon a straight course.

Once Foy thought that he heard a voice calling for help in the darkness, but it was not repeated and they went forward. At last the sky cleared and the moon shone out upon such a waste of waters as Noah might have beheld from the ark. Only there were things floating in them that Noah would scarcely have seen; hayricks, dead and drowning cattle, household furniture, and once even a coffin washed from some graveyard, while beyond stretched the dreary outline of the sand dunes.

"The mill should be near," said Marsh Jan, "let us put about." So they turned, rowing with weary arms, for the wind had fallen.

Let us go back a little. Elsa, on escaping from the scene of her mock marriage, fled to her room and bolted its door. A few seconds later she heard hands hammering at it, and the voices of Hague Simon and Black Meg calling to her to open. She took no note, the hammering ceased, and then it was that for the first time she became aware of a dreadful, roaring noise, a noise of many waters. Time passed as it passes in a nightmare, till suddenly, above the dull roar, came sharp sounds as of wood cracking and splitting, and Elsa felt that the whole fabric of the mill had tilted. Beneath the pressure of the flood it had given where it was weakest, at its narrow waist, and now its red cap hung over like a wind-laid tree.

Terror took hold of Elsa, and running to the door she opened it hoping to escape down the stairs. Behold! water was creeping up them, she could see it by the lantern in her hand--her retreat was cut off. But there were other stairs leading to the top storey of the mill that now lay at a steep angle, and along these she climbed, since the water was pouring through her doorway and there was nowhere else to go. In the very roof of the place was a manhole with a rotten hatch. She passed through this, to find herself upon the top of the mill just where one of the great naked arms of the sails projected from it. Her lantern was blown out by now, but she clung to the arm, and became aware that the wooden cap of the structure, still anchored to its brick foundation, lay upon its side rocking to and fro like a boat upon an angry sea. The water was near her; that she knew by its seethe and rush, although she could not see it, but as yet it did not even wet her feet.

The hours went by, how many, she never learned, till at length the clouds cleared; the moon became visible, and by its light she saw an awful scene. Everywhere around was water; it lapped within a yard, and it was rising still. Now Elsa saw that in the great beam she clasped were placed short spokes for the use of those who set the sails above. Up these she climbed as best she might, till she was able to pass her body between two of the vanes and support her breast upon the flat surface of one of them, as a person does who leans out of a window. From her window there was something to see. Quite near to her, but separated by fifteen or twenty feet of yellow frothing water, a little portion of the swelling shape of the mill stood clear of the flood. To this foam-lapped island clung two human beings--Hague Simon and Black Meg. They saw her also and screamed for help, but she had none to give. Surely it was a dream--nothing so awful could happen outside a dream.

The fabric of the mill tilted more and more; the space to which the two vile creatures hung grew less and less. There was no longer room for both of them. They began to quarrel, to curse and jibber at each other, their fierce, bestial faces not an inch apart as they crouched there on hands and knees. The water rose a little, they were kneeling in it now, and the man, putting down his bald head, butted at the woman, almost thrusting her from her perch. But she was strong and active, she struggled back again; she did more, with an eel-like wriggle she climbed upon his back, weighing him down. He strove to shake her off but could not, for on that heaving, rolling surface he dared not loose his hand-grip, so he turned his flat and florid face, and, seizing her leg between his teeth, bit and worried at it. In her pain and rage Meg screeched aloud--that was the cry which Foy had heard. Then suddenly she drew a knife from her bosom--Elsa saw it flash in the moonlight--and stabbed downwards once, twice, thrice.

Elsa shut her eyes. When she opened them again the woman was alone upon the little patch of red boarding, her body splayed out over it like that of a dead frog. So she lay a while till suddenly the cap of the Red Mill dipped slowly like a lady who makes a Court curtsey, and she vanished. It rose again and Meg was still there, moaning in her terror and water running from her dress. Then again it dipped, this time more deeply, and when the patch of rusty boarding slowly reappeared, it was empty. No, not quite, for clinging to it, yowling and spitting, was the half-wild black cat which Elsa had seen wandering about the mill. But of Black Meg there was no trace.

It was dreadfully cold up there hanging to the sail-bar, for now that the rain had finished, it began to freeze. Indeed, had it not chanced that Elsa was dressed in her warm winter gown with fur upon it, and dry from her head to her feet, it is probable that she would have fallen off and perished in the water. As it was gradually her body became numb and her senses faded. She seemed to know that all this matter of her forced marriage, of the flood, and of the end of Simon and Meg, was nothing but a dream, a very evil nightmare from which she would awake presently to find herself snug and warm in her own bed in the Bree Straat. Of course it must be a nightmare, for look, there, on the bare patch of boarding beneath, the hideous struggle repeated itself. There lay Hague Simon gnawing at his wife's foot, only his fat, white face was gone, and in place of it he wore the head of a cat, for she, the watcher, could see its glowing eyes fixed upon her. And Meg--look how her lean limbs gripped him round the body. Listen to the thudding noise as the great knife fell between his shoulders. And now, see--she was growing tall, she had become a giantess, her face shot across the gulf of water and swam upwards through the shadows till it was within a foot of her. Oh! she must fall, but first she would scream for help--surely the dead themselves could hear that cry. Better not have uttered it, it might bring Ramiro back; better go to join the dead. What did the voice say, Meg's voice, but how changed? That she was not to be afraid? That the thudding was the sound of oars not of knife thrusts? This would be Ramiro's boat coming to seize her. Of him and Adrian she could bear no more; she would throw herself into the water and trust to God. One, two, three--then utter darkness.

Elsa became aware that light was shining about her, also that somebody was kissing her upon the face and lips. A horrible doubt struck her that it might be Adrian, and she opened her eyes ever so little to look. No, no, how very strange, it was not Adrian, it was Foy! Well, doubtless this must be all part of her vision, and as in dream or out of it Foy had a perfect right to kiss her if he chose, she saw no reason to interfere. Now she seemed to hear a familiar voice, that of Red Martin, asking someone how long it would take them to make Haarlem with this wind, to which another voice answered, "About three-quarters of an hour."

It was very odd, and why did he say Haarlem and not Leyden? Next the second voice, which also seemed familiar, said:

"Look out, Foy, she's coming to herself." Then someone poured wine down her throat, whereupon, unable to bear this bewilderment any longer, Elsa sat up and opened her eyes wide, to see before her Foy, and none other than Foy in the flesh.

She gasped, and began to sink back again with joy and weakness, whereon he cast his arms about her and drew her to his breast. Then she remembered everything.

"Oh! Foy, Foy," she cried, "you must not kiss me."

"Why not?" he asked.

"Because--because I am married."

Of a sudden his happy face became ghastly. "Married!" he stammered. "Who to?"

"To--your brother, Adrian."

He stared at her in amazement, then asked slowly:

"Did you run away from Leyden to marry him?"

"How dare you ask such a question?" replied Elsa with a flash of spirit.

"Perhaps, then, you would explain?"

"What is there to explain? I thought that you knew. They dragged me away, and last night, just before the flood burst, I was gagged and married by force."

"Oh! Adrian, my friend," groaned Foy, "wait till I catch you, my friend Adrian."

"To be just," explained Elsa, "I don't think Adrian wanted to marry me much, but he had to choose between marrying me himself or seeing his father Ramiro marry me."

"So he sacrificed himself--the good, kind-hearted man," interrupted Foy, grinding his teeth.

"Yes," said Elsa.

"And where is your self-denying--oh! I can't say the word."

"I don't know. I suppose that he and Ramiro escaped in the boat, or perhaps he was drowned."

"In which case you are a widow sooner than you could have expected," said Foy more cheerfully, edging himself towards her.

But Elsa moved a little away and Foy saw with a sinking of the heart that, however distasteful it might be to her, clearly she attached some weight to this marriage.

"I do not know," she answered, "how can I tell? I suppose that we shall hear sometime, and then, if he is still alive, I must set to work to get free of him. But, till then, Foy," she added, warningly, "I suppose that I am his wife in law, although I will never speak to him again. Where are we going?"

"To Haarlem. The Spaniards are closing in upon the city, and we dare not try to break through their lines. Those are Spanish boats behind us. But eat and drink a little, Elsa, then tell us your story."

"One question first, Foy. How did you find me?"

"We heard a woman scream twice, once far away and once near at hand, and rowing to the sound, saw someone hanging to the arm of an overturned windmill only three or four feet above the water. Of course we knew that you had been taken to the mill; that man there told us. Do you remember him? But at first we could not find it in the darkness and the flood."

Then, after she had swallowed something, Elsa told her story, while the three of them clustered round her forward of the sail, and Marsh Jan managed the helm. When she had finished it, Martin whispered to Foy, and as though by a common impulse all four of them kneeled down upon the boards in the bottom of the boat, and returned thanks to the Almighty that this maiden, quite unharmed, had been delivered out of such manifold and terrible dangers, and this by the hands of her own friends and of the man to whom she was affianced. When they had finished their service of thanksgiving, which was as simple as it was solemn and heartfelt, they rose, and now Elsa did not forbid that Foy should hold her hand.

"Say, sweetheart," he asked, "is it true that you think anything of this forced marriage?"

"Hear me before you answer," broke in Martha. "It is no marriage at all, for none can be wed without the consent of their own will, and you gave no such consent."

"It is no marriage," echoed Martin, "and if it be, and I live, then the sword shall cut its knot."

"It is no marriage," said Foy, "for although we have not stood together before the altar, yet our hearts are wed, so how can you be made the wife of another man?"

"Dearest," replied Elsa, when they had all spoken, "I too am sure that it is no marriage, yet a priest spoke the marriage words over me, and a ring was thrust upon my hand, so, to the law, if there be any law left in the Netherlands, I am perhaps in some sort a wife. Therefore, before I can become wife to you these facts must be made public, and I must appeal to the law to free me, lest in days to come others should be troubled."

"And if the law cannot, or will not, Elsa, what then?"

"Then, dear, our consciences being clean, we will be a law to ourselves. But first we must wait a while. Are you satisfied now, Foy?"

"No," answered Foy sulkily, "for it is monstrous that such devil's work should keep us apart even for an hour. Yet in this, as in all, I will obey you, dear."

"Marrying and giving in marriage!" broke in Martha in a shrill voice. "Talk no more of such things, for there is other work before us. Look yonder, girl, what do you see?" and she pointed to the dry land. "The hosts of the Amalekites marching in their thousands to slaughter us and our brethren, the children of the Lord. Look behind you, what do you see? The ships of the tyrant sailing up to encompass the city of the children of the Lord. It is the day of death and desolation, the day of Armageddon, and ere the sun sets red upon it many a thousand must pass through the gates of doom, we, mayhap, among them. Then up with the flag of freedom; out with the steel of truth, gird on the buckler of righteousness, and snatch the shield of hope. Fight, fight for the liberty of the land that bore you, for the memory of Christ, the King who died for you, for the faith to which you are born; fight, fight, and when the fray is done, then, and not before, think of peace and love.

"Nay, children, look not so fearful, for I, the mad mere-wife, tell you, by the Grace of God, that you have naught to fear. Who preserved you in the torture den, Foy van Goorl? What hand was it that held your life and honour safe when you sojourned among devils in the Red Mill yonder and kept your head above the waters of the flood, Elsa Brant? You know well, and I, Martha, tell you that this same hand shall hold you safe until the end. Yes, I know it, I know it; thousands shall fall upon your right hand and tens of thousands upon your left, but you shall live through the hunger; the arrows of pestilence shall pass you by, the sword of the wicked shall not harm you. For me it is otherwise, at length my doom draws near and I am well content; but for you twain, Foy and Elsa, I foretell many years of earthly joy."

Thus spoke Martha, and it seemed to those who watched her that her wild, disfigured face shone with a light of inspiration, nor did they who knew her story, and still believed that the spirit of prophecy could open the eyes of chosen seers, deem it strange that vision of the things to be should visit her. At the least they took comfort from her words, and for a while were no more afraid.

Yet they had much to fear. By a fateful accident they had been delivered from great dangers only to fall into dangers greater still, for as it chanced, on this tenth of December, 1572, they sailed straight into the grasp of the thousands of the Spanish armies which had been drawn like a net round the doomed city of Haarlem. There was no escape for them; nothing that had not wings could pass those lines of ships and soldiers. Their only refuge was the city, and in that city they must bide till the struggle, one of the most fearful of all that hideous war, was ended. But at least they had this comfort, they would face the foe together, and with them were two who loved them, Martha, the "Spanish Scourge," and Red Martin, the free Frisian, the mighty man of war whom God had appointed to them as a shield of defence.

So they smiled on each other, these two lovers of long ago, and sailed bravely on to the closing gates of Haarlem.