My Lady of Orange Part 1

CHAPTER I

AN AUDIENCE OF ORANGE

No saint am I: nay that is true enough, else had I scarce done my work in the world and lived to sit here at sixty by my own fireside with the children chattering round me and Gabrielle's eyes still looking into mine. 'Tis thirty years ago now, and the joy of my old battles is but a dull memory, and the smoke has rolled away, and the shouts and screams have fallen to silence; but not yet have we forgotten here in Holland the days when Alva coiled himself like an iron serpent round the land, and castle and town sank down together amid blood and fire. I am English born and bred, and quarrels of Dutchman and Spaniard were no work of mine, yet something a man must do in the world, and this was the work that came to my hand: to fight Alva with his own two weapons—the sword and the lie, and with both I beat him, cordieu! with both!

At the first I said I was no saint, and that, it may be, is the reason why first I fought for Alva ere my turn came to meet him fairly in the field. I was true to him; save that at the last I left him for William of Nassau, I was ever true to him, and I fought for him as a man may at Mechlin, and Zutphen, and Harlem sack. Nought did we owe to Alva; it was no little he owed us; may not soldiers of fortune choose their leader? Did we not choose well when we 'chose Orange in Alva's stead? "Ay, ay," you answer, "choose you may; but your choice should be made once." Well, 'twas a mistake, I confess, and all men make mistakes at times—else would victories be few.

Mistake or no mistake, it was ended, and I, John Newstead, rode into Delft, to William of Nassau:

"An Englishman asks audience of the Prince!"

"Ay, ay, English ye call yourself, Spaniard ye look," grumbled the serving-man. I caught him by the collar:

"Cordieu! I a Spaniard, knave? I, John Newstead? 's wounds! Madre Dios! Do I look a Spaniard?" I cried, raising my whip.

"Well, ye swear like one," he answered, and the knave wriggled away.

A moment later I was standing in an inner room, fronting the man who had set himself alone to meet the power of Spain, the man who held out still though all his country lay in the hollow of Alva's hand. In truth, William of Nassau was a man. He sat there behind a table, with a fellow at his elbow who eyed me askance as I entered, and whispered low in his master's ear. The Prince did not answer; his steady dark eyes sought mine, and he sat with his fingers drumming on the table watching me.

"Nay, you look not like an assassin," he said quietly.

"I will cut his heart out who says it!" I cried.

"And so prove his words," said the secretary.

"Enough, Cornput. Your name and your purpose, my friend?"

"My name is John Newstead. I come to take service under your Highness."

"Your name tells me nothing," the Prince answered.

"I have three hundred stout soldiers outside the town."

"Ah! What say you, Cornput?"

"Three hundred? Ay; stout, ay, I doubt it not. How many loyal?" said the secretary.

"Each as loyal as myself!" I answered.

"That may well be," said Cornput, with a sneer. "Numbers, stoutness, loyalty, all on the surety of their commander. Faith, you value yourself too low."

"That seems uncommon in Delft," I said sharply. "For their numbers, your Highness may count them. For their loyalty, try them. For their stoutness—they fought at Harlem." Prince and secretary started.

"At Harlem?" said the Prince slowly. "You are a bold man, my friend."

"You and your men sacked Harlem under Alva?" cried the secretary.

"I said we were stout soldiers," I answered. "There was but one sack of Harlem; we were there."

"And you come here—here?" stammered the secretary.

"Oh, your questions grow wiser!" I cried.

"Why do you come to me?" asked the Prince. 'Twas not too easy to answer. Why did I leave the winning side for one that never had much to give, and now less than little? I know not even now; it was folly—folly twice told—and the world does not think me a fool.

"I lead a free company," I answered; "no money have my men had for months. They have sworn to fight for Alva no more, and so I lead them to William of Orange. And for myself, cordieu! I had rather fight for your Highness than any black Spaniard of them all!" Ay, that, methinks, was my reason; 'tis hard ever to tell why a man's deeds were done. When I think of it, it seems folly, and yet as I spoke the words in the little room at Delft I believed them. Do I believe them now? Well, perhaps. Gabrielle does.

I saw his eyes brighten as I spoke, and even the sneering secretary looked at me with more favour.

"You choose a cause that can give little—and needs much, my friend," said the Prince.

"And I can do much and ask little," I answered.

"And your men?" asked the secretary. It was a home thrust: my men had revolted—deserted—what you will—from Alva because he would not pay them. Were they likely to serve Orange better, who could not?

"My men?" I muttered. "Madre Dios, Alva would not give them their wages—well, they shall take them!"

"Three hundred men from fourteen thousand!" said the secretary coolly.

"Oh, the odds are his; I knew that," I cried, "I knew that or ever I came to Delft."

"Spain against the Netherlands? Philip against Orange?" said the Prince dreamily. "Man against time; iron against God; whose are the odds, my friend?"

I did not answer. I wondered on which side God fought when three thousand men and women were slaughtered at Harlem, for it needed then a greater man than I to believe God was on the side of Orange. Any knave believes it now.

"Desperate tasks are all I can offer," said Orange. "Scant wages if your own efforts fail"—he paused, looking at me for a moment—"scant wages and desperate tasks."

"So only they be not impossible," said I. "For the wages—Alva!"

"The impossible God does every day," he answered. "You have come to me when the clouds are very black, sir. Alva lies before Breuthe: and if Breuthe falls how will you fare?"

I stood silent; if Breuthe fell there was nothing left.

"Will you take the risk?" he said quietly; his steady eyes fixed themselves on me.

"I will take the risk of Alva's worst," I answered slowly. Call it folly if you will, you who never saw William, the first Stadt-holder. I was looking into his eyes.

He smiled.

"Alva lies before Breuthe town; hang on his rear, cut off his convoys, let him never rest. Is that to your liking?"

"I accept," said I.

The Prince wrote for a moment and gave me a parchment.

"I trust your honour," he said.

"And I pledge it," I answered.

And the next morning we rode away from Delft, trusted deserters, three hundred men to fight fourteen thousand. I, John Newstead, captain of lances, came forth to pit myself against Ferdinando of Alva, the greatest soldier in Europe. There was one of us that had cause enough to regret my audience of Orange.

 

CHAPTER II

THE USE OF A BRIDGE

"So we have e'en changed masters, captain," grunted Gaspar Wiederman, my lieutenant, as we jogged along through the woods, in the crisp air of the early morn.

"Well, it can scarce be for the worse," said I.

"Ach! Who knows?"

"Who knows?" cried Henri Vermeil at my other elbow. "Why, we all know; we cannot do more than we did for Alva, or worse; and, ma foi, we can scarce get less."

"More defeats, no pay, no plunder. They say the Orange is pious," grunted Gaspar.

"Well, well; he can pray for your sins, Gaspar," cried Henri. "The good man will live on his knees."

"True, there are the convoys," said Gaspar. "Ach! Halt!"

We had come near the road. A few yards below was a mean little inn; further away, the road crested a hill; and, coming quickly over the brow of the hill was a horseman all alone. With two lances, Gaspar and young Vermeil and I rode on towards the road. On and on came our traveller, leaving a trailing cloud of dust behind. At the inn he pulled up, and we heard him cry out for something, but we knew not what. There came out an old crone with a flagon, and he bent from the saddle and raised it to his lips. Just then across the road came a trim, bare-headed girl, and her hair shone in the sunlight. He tossed the flagon back, then, bending to his saddle-bow, he caught the girl in his arms, and drove in his spurs sharply. The horse bounded forward, and he half-turned in his saddle towards the screaming inn-woman.

"Alva's men travel free!" he said.

"Ach! so," grunted Wiederman.

On he came, galloping down the road, while the girl struggled wildly for her strength. He was just passing us when Gaspar looked sharply round at me. I nodded. The thing was done in an instant. He rushed his horse suddenly forward, caught the Spaniard's neck in his arm, threw his weight back and his horse on its haunches. Girl and Spaniard fell together.

The Thing was Done in an Instant

"Gott! You may travel free, but not far, my friend, not far," said Gaspar, looking down at him.

The girl had staggered to her feet, but the Spaniard still lay where he had fallen. Oh, the Spaniard was under, be sure of that! It was Gaspar that threw him.

"Alas! the fate of incontinence, mon cher!" cried Henri Vermeil.

"What was your errand?" I asked in Spanish. The fellow set his teeth, and said nought.

"What was your errand?" I said again. Still he was silent. "Search him," I cried to the two that had come with us.

"To Don Guzman d'Astorgas,

"These:

"Press on with all speed, for that the King's service demands you come quickly. The bearer will be your guide.—Alva."

Such was the purport of the paper he bore. I read it, and passed it to Gaspar. He shrugged his shoulders.

"He seems anxious, the great Alva," said he.

"Sangdieu! This tells little," cried Henri Vermeil.

"You think so?" I answered, and fell a-thinking.

"Where is d'Astorgas?" at last I said to the Spaniard. There was no answer.

"You are fond of silence, my kidnapper," said Gaspar.

"We can gratify you with the opportunity of eternal silence," Vermeil said with a chuckle.

"I will wait three minutes; then—speak or die," I said shortly. Ay, I knew he would never speak. Your true Spaniard is hard as iron to others, but—give the devil his due—he is cast in steel himself.

"Will you answer?" He shook his head. I nodded to our two troopers. But the girl ran forward I think we had all forgotten the girl—and caught my hands.

"No, no," she cried. "He must not die."

"Gott! 'tis his own choice," growled Gaspar.

"Will you speak?" I asked again.

"I die for the Faith and the King," he cried; and I signed to the troopers again, and turned away, while the girl hid her face.

"And I hope his Faith is a better colour than his King," grunted Gaspar. The girl looked up.

"You—are you of the Faith?" she cried.

"Oh! perhaps, mademoiselle, perhaps," said Vermeil.

"Of which Faith?" I asked.

"The Reformed—the Faith of Orange."

"Ay, ay; our Faith is our master's," said Gaspar.

"We are in the service of the Prince of Orange," I said.

"Ah!" she clasped her hands in joy. "Take me, take me with you." Vermeil smiled behind his hand.

"Teufel! The ways of women!" said Gaspar.

"Take me to the Prince," she cried again.

"The Prince? Are you mad? You—a girl from an inn?"

The little minx drew herself up with something like a smile.

"Yes, I, a girl from an inn," she said.

I looked at her, and from her to Gaspar, and from Gaspar to Vermeil. Vermeil nodded.

"You will find I am worth taking," she said. I eyed her again. Truly, she was a strange maid to come from an inn. Her hands were small and white, and on brow and neck ran the thin lines of blue under the clear white skin. A maid from an inn! Scarce only that; and so she came with us on her way to the Prince.

"And now for d'Astorgas," said I.

"We know neither where he is nor what he does; only Alva is in a hurry," quoth Gaspar.

"Not where he is, truly; he brings a convoy, I wager my horse," said I. "Shall we send him a guide?"

The two looked at me in silence.

"Seal up the parchment again. One bearer is as good as another. 'The bearer will be your guide.’"

Gaspar chuckled.

"We know not where he is," said Vermeil.

"Gott! I could smell a convoy ten miles off," cried Gaspar,

"You will go?"

"Ay, I will go, and guide him to hell if you will."

"Nay, not so far; only to Veermut bridge."

"What is the use of a bridge?"

"Much—when it's broken," said I.

So Gaspar Wiederman mounted and galloped off to smell out Don Guzman, and we rode on towards the bridge of Veermut. By my side rode the girl, sitting her horse like a queen—steed and saddle Henri Vermeil had found her. The steed was the Spaniard's—a great iron-jawed Normandy stallion. For a little there was silence. I was pondering how we had best receive Don Guzman, and ever and anon the thought would come across my mind, how would my men ever endure the service of Orange? They had been ready enough to leave Alva. Now it was done, how would they like the change? And I, who cared nought for Alva, cared more than a little for the man I had seen but once—the thin, weary man, with the great dark eyes, at Delft. Suddenly, while I pondered:

"Why did you kill him?" asked the girl.

I looked up, startled.

"So perish all the enemies of the Faith!" quoth Vermeil.

"Nay, not without repentance!" she cried.

"Repentance!" said I. "A Spaniard repent!"

"Murder never aided a cause," she answered.

"One cannot make war in white gloves," I said, and she answered nothing.

By long and by last we came to Veermut bridge, the narrow old wooden bridge to which belongs the fame and the honour of the first hard blow struck at Alva the invincible. "To the bridge?" you ask. Ay, to the bridge. On one side were Don Guzman d'Astorgas and Gaspar Wiederman and the convoy; on the other, Alva and Breuthe town; and betwixt the two only a few miles of causeway and a river. Well, and we, too.

"Halt!" I cried, and down I sprang to see what the bridge timbers were like.

"Vermeil, take a hundred men, go you a mile or more along the road, let them pass you, hang on their rear, see to it that the guard passes the bridge last. When they are all but over, charge on the rearmost, but do not come on the bridge."

Vermeil bowed.

"And the others?" he asked.

"There will be no others, Vermeil."

It were a long tale to tell: the sun was setting when d'Astorgas and his trusty guide came down the long narrow road with Vermeil hanging like a terrier on their heels. The convoy came on the bridge; the convoy crossed; the guard were packed thick between the parapets; and then suddenly came a flash and the bridge jumped up a little at one end and fell sideways into the stream, with splash and clash and roar and shrieks all mingled, in a thick cloud of smoke. The engineer's is a useful craft. Out from the shelter of a coppice we charged on that hapless, defenceless convoy, and at the end of one wild rush Don Guzman's convoy had changed its owner.

"Gott! Alva throve on our blood, belike we shall thrive on his food," quoth a gruff voice in my ear.

"Gaspar!"

"Ay, Gaspar, captain. I like a drier road to heaven than a broken bridge."

"You led him easily?"

"Like a butcher the sheep! Gott! he asked me how to stave off Vermeil," cried Gaspar with a laugh.

"Ay, Vermeil is no fool," I answered.

"No, no fool," grunted Gaspar shortly. "No—fool."

In truth, Vermeil had done well, and he brought his men safely across the river, though by Veermut the current is strong and the banks steep.

"So we cry 'check' to Alva!" he shouted gaily.

"Ach! but not 'mate,’" quoth Gaspar.

Cantering down the hill towards us came the girl with the little guard I had left by her riding behind.

"Oh, it was splendid!" she cried while she was still far off; and then, as she came nearer and saw the men that lay bloody and torn and trampled before her horse's feet, she stopped sharply and wheeled round with a little cry.

"Ach! the ways of women," quoth Gaspar. "Now that is how I judge a charge," and he pointed to the dead beneath him.

"What if she had seen Harlem!" said Vermeil with a smile. Gaspar shrugged his shoulders with a chuckle, and I sat silent looking at her as she walked her horse slowly away, with the troopers chuckling behind her.

"Who moves next, captain, Alva or we?" asked Gaspar. I turned to stare at him.

"Dieu! the man is made of iron," cried Vermeil.

"The man need be iron whom Alva strikes," said I.

"Ay, when he strikes," grunted Gaspar with a sneer.

"How if we strike first?" I asked slowly.

"Ay, ay, that's war," quoth Gaspar. "Gott! that is no training for it, though," he said sharply, pointing to the convoy. In truth he was right: a swarm of rascals were round a waggon loaded with wine casks, and more than one cask was broached already. I galloped up.

"Cordieu! stand back, knaves," I cried.

"Fair words, captain; the fight's over; here is your health," quoth one rascal with a mock bow.

"’S death! Do I command? Stand back!"

"All in good——" he began, but the sentence was never ended. It was no time to parley. I reached forward over my horse's neck and fired, and the rascal's blood mixed with the spilt wine on the ground.

"Do I command?" I thundered. "Ere morning we march. A fair portion of meat and wine to every man, and, cordieu! no more. Vermeil, this is work for you."

Gaspar and I rode back up the hill to settle our plans, and as we passed the girl suddenly she turned her horse towards me.

"Is two murders a day your custom, sir?" she asked.

I did not answer; a woman's scorn is not easy to answer.

"Will you send me to the Prince?" she asked again.

"When I can safely," said I.

"And till then, sir?"

"Till then you must trust me."

"Trust—you!" she cried, and her eyes flashed cold, like steel.

CHAPTER III

THE POSTERN GATE

The moon had set, and all around us was dark as we broke our bivouac at Veermut and moved through the pinewoods towards Breuthe, with a cloud of skirmishers feeling our way. "Touch not the cat but the glove," saith the proverb, and in truth Alva was a mighty cat. Three hundred men were we: four thousand, and Alva himself, lay before Breuthe town, and many more no long journey away. What could we do against them? Yet there lay Alva, and the town was doomed if no help came, and, Breuthe taken, the country lay at his feet. All that was clear enough, and no less clear was it when Gaspar put it bluntly into words as we sat by the camp fire.

"And so nought is possible, think you?" said I at last.

"There is little probable," quoth Gaspar, "at Breuthe."

"Then Orange is lost," I muttered, half to myself.

"Teufel! What would you have?" cried Gaspar sharply. Men grow angry before inevitable ill. "What would you have? We are but men: the odds are his."

From behind us came a sharp, short, scornful laugh. We both started: it was the girl.

"The odds are his!" she said to herself, and she laughed again. In the firelight I saw Gaspar flush, and I felt the blood rise to my own face; and Gaspar muttered a German oath and wiped his brow. Neither dared meet the other's eyes, for if aught will rouse a man it is a woman who tells him he is a coward.

I rose and walked to and fro in the shadow, gnawing my lip. "The odds are his!" I had said that too—and I had had my answer. And the glory, if it could be done! The glory, ay, and the gold! We should have a claim on Orange then—a claim that would mean broad crowns. So my thoughts ran.

"Well?" asked Gaspar, as I lay down again.

"We try Breuthe," I said curtly.

"Ay, ay, I thought so," he grumbled. "Why not wait for the convoys?"

"We try Breuthe!"

So we rode on in the darkness on a rash errand, because a girl laughed, while Gaspar swore and grumbled, and Henri Vermeil broke jests at all and sundry, and I rode silent with my eyes on my horse's mane, and the reins dangling loose in my hand.

There lay Alva; his tents loomed white through the darkness to eastward of the town. The pinewood sloped down to the very tent doors on his eastward side, but to the south the ground rose bare and steep. I sprang down and felt the brushwood. It crackled in my hand.

"’S death! If we knew where the gates were," I muttered.

"The main gate is on the east side." I started and turned. It was the girl who had spoken.

"Are you certain?" I asked quickly. "Cordieu! not that it aids us; we can scarce ride through Alva's camp."

"And the postern is to the south."

"Ach! so," grunted Gaspar. "How wide?"

"Wide enough for a miller's wain."

"You know it?" I cried; she nodded. "He can scarce have his lines close drawn with that force," said I, looking at Gaspar.

"No; but he wakes easily, Ferdinando Alvarez."

"Cordieu! we will wake him! Double-horse half the convoy! Fire the other waggons! Spare the powder! Twist fuse there!"

Then did we fire the brushwood and the pines, and the flames swept roaring down before the east wind on Alva's tents; and down the bare hill we sent the powder-barrels bounding with a lighted fuse hissing at the end of each, till there was much noise among the Spaniards, and some of them woke hurriedly, and some of them never woke again. To and fro they ran, beating the flames, and the blazing staves of the powder-barrels danced gaily amid the tents. So the grey morning light broke over Breuthe town with a camp burning yellow against the sun, and soldiers fighting a foe that used strange arms. Truly a burning powder-barrel travelling swiftly is a weapon of much service. Wherefore to this day there be certain Spaniards think me the devil; belike they are those who thought Alva a god.

Swiftly we moved round to the southward, and there in the first faint light of morning we saw the narrow postern, and a picket between us and it.

"Charge! Now, through to the gateway, charge?" I cried, and down we swept. The Spaniards would not meet us. They drew off to one side and up to the very walls we came without a man lost.

"For whom are ye?" cried the men on the walls.

"Orange! Orange!" shouted we all.

"Ach! the fools," growled Gaspar. Still the gates did not move.

"We fired the camp," I shouted. "Open, open, in God's name! Cordieu! Do you doubt us? Look!"

There on our flanks hovered the picket, reinforced now, and we stayed there still like sheep with the fold gate shut.

"It's we, or they," I muttered "We must charge first. Wheel by the——"

"Let me pass! Let me pass!" cried the girl from the centre, where we had put her. She rode a little apart from us, and

"Open, open to me, Gabrielle de St. Trond!" she cried. Loud cries came from the walls, and in a moment the gate was flung wide.

"Vive Gabrielle de St. Trond!" cried Vermeil.

"Get the waggons through," grunted Gaspar. "A thousand fiends! Wheel about! Charge!"

And as they swept down, hoping to cut us off, Gaspar hurled himself with half our men at the Spaniards. I never knew a charge of Gaspar's fail. The slow heavy German, cordieu! when he charged he became a thunderbolt, and he tore through that Spanish troop, swung his men round, and dashed in at the gate on our heels. But not all who had ridden with him came back.

There in the streets of Breuthe town—a dusty, weary company—we halted.

"We are in!" cried Vermeil.

"Ay, who is the better for that?" quoth Gaspar.

"Faith, it was time," said I. "They have near quenched the fire."

"Ach! breakfast is cooked," grunted Gaspar. "We must share ours with these, I suppose," he grumbled, and turned to a townsman. "You look hungry, my friend."

"There is leather still," said the man simply. His skin was stretched tight from bone to bone.

"Where is the Governor?" I asked. A tall, stately man—they were all thin in Breuthe—came forward.

"At your service, sir, Laurenz de St. Trond," said he.

"I am John Newstead, and these my men," I answered. "What harm we could do Alva we have done. What food we could bring we have brought. I would it were more, but——"

"I thank you, sir," he broke in, "I thank you. What of my daughter?"

"Your daughter? Oh, the girl—is she not here?"

"No, sir." He could scarce speak the words, and we stood there silent, while I saw the gulps break in his throat and the sunken eyes grow duller still. Cause enough there was; I had fought with Alva, and how women fared in a Spanish camp I knew perhaps better than he, and I knew too well that his grief was just.

"She may be dead," I said slowly. That was the only comfort.

"I—I pray God …" he said under his breath.

I felt a fool and a knave before that man. Had I seen another man saved by my daughter, yet suffer her to fall into the hands of Spaniards, curses had been more ready to my lips than prayer. To break through Alva's lines to bring a convoy into a town at its last gasp—yes, that was well enough. To be unable to save one poor girl from the fate of the women of Harlem—that was scarce as well. And it was the girl who had found us the postern, before whom the postern had opened to us ere she was borne away in Gaspar's charge. Cordieu! I wished her father had struck me, and I believe I should have borne the blow.

"How came she here, sir?" he asked calmly.

"A Spaniard carried her away from an inn beyond Veermut, and we caught him in the act. She begged us to bring her to Orange, and so she came with us. She——" I looked at Gaspar. "I charged. Her horse bolted," growled Gaspar, and he did not look at St. Trond.

"Ay, the Spaniard, the Spaniard everywhere. Exsurge Domine. … She was left there ill when I came to Breuthe; and I thought her safe in hiding."

"Sir, we ought to have brought her safe. I would give my honour to do it now!" I cried.

"Once, sir, you saved her, and I thank you. You have done your duty in full," said Laurenz de St. Trond. "There are twenty men in Breuthe would go alone into Alva's camp to save her were it possible for man"—he paused, and his lips trembled. "My God! my God! would it had been I!" he cried with breaking voice, and then suddenly he turned to me. " And now, sir, to quarter your men," he said.

CHAPTER IV

A COUNCIL OF DESPAIR

"By the eyes of God! I will not leave a rat alive within the walls of Breuthe!" So the Duke of Alva had cried when his storming party was beaten down; and the men who hurled back the best troops of Spain that day knew well what their fate would be if they failed then, or if they should fail thereafter.

But Alva's words had come true already. The tanneries had given up their hides, the trees were stript of their leaves, the very nettles that grew beneath the walls were plucked, and all had become food for the hollow-eyed, skin-cheeked men, who clung still to the little shattered town. Rats were a luxury of the past in Breuthe. So I stood on the wall gazing at the charred tents in Alva's camp, and back again at the lean sentinels that paced by me, and I saw that the end must come very soon. Nay, it did not daunt me; I have yet to hear of the day when John Newstead was daunted. There, too, somewhere in that half-burnt camp, was Gabrielle de St. Trond, dead or alive; and as I stood watching I vowed it should go hard with the man who took her if she were wronged, even a little. And of aught else was there little hope.

I walked slowly back to my quarters, and my chin was on my breast, and scheme after scheme went coursing through my brain. There Gaspar and Vermeil awaited me, and even Vermeil looked solemn.

"Ach! come at last, captain," grunted Gaspar. I flung down my hat, loosed my belt, and sat.

"Am I needed?" quoth I.

"Gott! That is what I ask. Are any of us needed here?" I looked at him lazily; indeed, I was not thinking of his words. Quite other things were in my head than the grumbling of Gaspar; but he was in earnest. The broad red brow was bent in a heavy frown, his grey eyes were wide open and bright, and he sat with his head resting on a hand hidden in his thick curly hair.

"Needed?" I answered. "Is Breuthe so strong?"

"Do we strengthen it?" said Gaspar slowly. "Our food will not last long. Newstead's Company are not the men to feed on nettles. What is the end to be, captain? I like more than half a loaf, and there will not be half long."

"Mutiny against me?" I cried.

"Nay, no one will mutiny," said Vermeil smoothly; "but it is well to consider the wishes of the men."

"Teufel! I say they will mutiny," quoth Gaspar. "Men are men. Food is food. They'll mutiny sooner than starve. Gott! Do you blame them? Will you dine off cat-gut too?"

"Perhaps it is time to consider our plans," said Vermeil. "But no doubt you have some scheme, captain?"

"Scheme? Cordieu! No; I have only one scheme for mutineers—the halter!"

"Then you need a lusty hangman!" grunted Gaspar.

"Have you done?" I cried.

"Done? No! The townsfolk don't trust us. We shall have broken heads by the score soon, till Alva come in thirdsman."

"That is true," I muttered. "You can scarce expect Breuthe to love the sackers of Harlem."

"Ach! No; but we might have thought of that before."

"We fight with the men we have," quoth I.

"Then why reckon them angels?" grunted Gaspar.

"Well, well," I said, "what would you have me do, Gaspar?"

The German twisted himself in his chair, and scratched his head. Then he crashed his hand down on the table, and

"This!" he said. "We must fight! We came in through Alva, and we must go out through him too. We can leave the convoy here for the Dutchmen. Teufel! Alva has more than one. And we might find the wench in his camp!"

I looked at Vermeil. He shrugged his shoulders a little.

"Ah! What say you, Vermeil?" I asked.

"There is much in Gaspar's plan," said he, "There is one thing he has forgotten. We can feed the men on convoys, but it will be hard to pay them the same way."

"The wages of Orange!" I said. Vermeil spread out his hands.

"The wages of Orange? They will not take long a-counting," he answered. "We must have money. We cannot get money by staying in Breuthe, and there seems little to be got by going out. It is unfortunate there is no other way." He paused, and Gaspar and I both stared at the sleek olive face, and the twinkling green eyes.

"As Gaspar said very well, the men are not angels, and only angels and devils work for nothing. Besides that, to break through Alva's lines again may not be so easy as it was the first time, and Alva may not treat us kindly if he takes us. We have not deserved well at his hands. It is very unfortunate there is no other way."

Again he paused, and Gaspar broke out:

"Teufel! Man, are you turned raven, with your endless croak? There is nothing easy; but we are desperate. Unfortunate! unfortunate! unfortunate! A thousand fiends! Are you turned coward?"

"I say what you say, my dear Gaspar. We are, indeed, desperate; that is why our council is held. But I say it is unlucky we are desperate; it is unfortunate we are constrained to a course which must lose so many men, perhaps all. I say it would be better if we had a chance of making terms with Alva—for example. It would be better—if it were not impossible."

"Ach! why talk of the impossible?" grunted the German.

"He will scarce be willing to treat with deserters," Vermeil went on, "and deserters who have nothing to give and all to ask. If only we did not come empty-handed!" he added with a sigh.

"Words, words!" said Gaspar scornfully.

I looked at Vermeil, and his eyes met mine for a moment and dropt; for an instant, and only an instant, he seemed to smile.

"There is just one thing we could aid him to," said Vermeil. Gaspar shifted his chair. "The fruit is all but ripe enough to fall, and yet he might thank the man who plucked it. Ah!" he sighed, "if we were not deserters we might sell Breuthe."

"Ten thousand devils! Sell Breuthe?" cried Gaspar, dashing his chair back.

"Ay, we might sell Breuthe," I repeated slowly. Gaspar sprang up and stood leaning over us with one hand on the table.

"Sell Breuthe?" he shouted. "I thought we were soldiers, not a money-grubbing pack of traitors double-dyed! Who made Breuthe yours to sell? You come to the aid of St. Trond here, you lose his daughter, and you sell his town! Mighty deeds! God in heaven! I tell you I will hold Breuthe against you myself, I, Gaspar Wiederman, against any ratting huckster in the town," and he stormed out of the room.

"He seems moved, captain," said Vermeil coolly.

"The men will follow the money, eh?" I asked.

"Ma foi, yes; men are men, as the good Gaspar said."

"If I go to Alva, will you keep peace in the town?" said I.

"You—to Alva?" stammered Vermeil. "He must know you brought us to Orange. Think of the risk. Send a message."

"There will be more risk in my meeting Alva before all is done," said I slowly. He stared at me in amazement, thinking he had scarce heard aright.

"I—I do not understand," he muttered.

"You will," I answered. "I will be my own messenger. At all costs keep the peace till you see me again."

So, just as the sun was setting, a wiry man in a cloak that hid his armour slipt out of the postern gate of Breuthe all alone, and turned towards Alva's camp. And behind me rose the grey walls of the town that had baffled the Spaniard so long, gilt and crimsoned by the rays from the west.

Here and there, breaking the blue mist of the horizon, a dull red glare shone out, marking the forays of Alva's men. Somewhere beyond the horizon, beyond the farthest stretch of Alva's arm, William of Orange, William the Taciturn, sat brooding over the travailing land.

So I went forth to sell Breuthe.

CHAPTER V

THE LION'S DEN

"Little man, little man, halt!" It was a stalwart, swarthy Walloon sentry stepped suddenly forward, shouting. I judged he meant me by his words, and I paused.

"I bring an offer to the Duke of Alva," I cried.

"What? from the vermin-eaters in Breuthe? Nay, then, come on. We have wasted long enough over this mouse-hole. So you have eaten the last worm, eh, little man?"

"Yes; we cooked it by the fire in your camp," said I.

"Nay, if you come to Alva, speak not of firing the camp, or you are like to try a fire's heat yourself."

"You liked it not, then?" I asked.

"By Beelzebub! you had best bridle your tongue in time, little man, else—— But here is the guard. Lieutenant, the little man has an offer for the Duke from Breuthe."

The lieutenant, a fox-faced Italian, looked at me sharply.

"Why do you not come with a flag of truce, knave?"

"Because I was not anxious to tell of my coming to the good people of Breuthe," I answered quietly.

"Ah, so!" he said, and fixed his eyes on my face. "Well, what is your offer?" he asked lightly.

"It is to the Duke of Alva," quoth I.

"You rate yourself high—and your offer, too, my friend."

"I know what both are," I answered.

"Are you so sure? Perhaps the Duke will teach you better," he said, showing his teeth like a dog. "We shall see. Lead on, there."

"Ay, we shall see," said I.

Outside a tent rather larger than most we halted, and the lieutenant entered alone. Then I heard a rattling Spanish oath from within, suddenly broken off, and a gruff voice speaking quickly and anxiously. There followed a moment's silence; then a sharp command, and the lieutenant came quickly to bid me enter.

Before me sat Ferdinando of Alva, the greatest soldier in Europe, who wielded the forces of the greatest power in the world, the Master of all the Netherlands save Breuthe town. And Breuthe town I had come to sell. Far away in Delft was William of Orange, who had trusted me to do him what good I could. Ay, there sat Alva, with his long, lean, sallow face frowning at me from two yards' distance, caressing his iron-grey beard with a thin, sinewy hand.

"Take away his sword," he said in a grating voice.

I laughed. This was not the way of Orange. The huge fat man who sat by him stared at me for a minute.

"Why, 'tis the Englishman, Newstead!" he cried. Alva's forehead gathered into a frown, and the hand that lay on the table clenched hard. Then his thin lips parted, and he grinned like a wolf.

"Praise be to the Virgin!" he said. "Let him be burnt by a slow fire under their walls."

The lieutenant laid his hand on my shoulder.

"Bethink you!" I cried. "Dead I shall do you little good; alive I can do much."

Alva waved his hand.

"A slow fire!" he repeated.

The fat man—Chiapin Vitelli—bent over and whispered in his ear. I stood there waiting, the lieutenant's claw-hand still on my shoulder. Cordieu! I am no coward, but I do not wish to pass such minutes as those again. For a long time the two dark faces hung near each other and Vitelli whispered on, while I could feel my heart beat, and Alva's steady cold eye never left my face. I do not think my colour changed. At last Vitelli ended. Alva stroked his beard once, twice, thrice. Then suddenly the grating voice broke out again:

"Why do you dare come here?" he said.

I started. I hardly knew what he said.

"Why do you dare come here?" he repeated angrily.

"I—I bring you an offer," I stammered.

Vitelli looked with an air of triumph at Alva.

"Ha! Breuthe will surrender? You will get no terms from me!"

"Breuthe will never surrender!" said I.

The wolf's look—it was never long absent—came back to Alva's face.

"Well, your offer, your offer?" said Vitelli quickly.

"I will open the gates to a party of your men."

"Ah!" Vitelli said, and he smiled, looking sideways at Alva.

"You may go," cried Alva to the lieutenant. "Is that all?" he asked sharply, turning to me.

"The rest comes from you, sir," I answered coolly.

"With a pardon you will be well paid," he snarled.

"I should, of course, request that," I said.

"For yourself and your men," said Vitelli.

"They are good soldiers," I answered; "they would be more use alive."

"You want more?" Alva asked sharply.

I bowed.

"What do you ask?"

"There was a girl we lost——" I began. Alva waved his hand carelessly.

"Pho! you can buy her to-night for a few ducats," cried Vitelli. "Girls are cheap," and he laughed. I looked angrily at the coarse, fat face, and I did not love Chiapin Vitelli, though he had saved my life a little before.

"Is that all?" said Alva.

"Would such a service be overpaid, sir, with seven thousand crowns?"

"Seven thousand fiends!" thundered Alva. "By the eyes of God! do you forget you are a traitor to the King and the Church, and in my power?"

"Breuthe is not, sir," said I.

"And if Breuthe were fastened by chains to hell, I would break them! Am I to pay a king's ransom to a heretic? You shall be paid, rascal, you shall be paid! You shall repent asking money for aiding the cause of God!" Again Vitelli leant forward and whispered, and as he talked the angry light died out of Alva's eyes, and they both glanced covertly at me; and at last Alva began to smile. Then Vitelli lay back in his chair and licked his lips.

"As you are a heretic, rascal," he began, and coughed a little, "as you are a heretic, I suppose you must be paid for aiding us. Well, you shall be paid." He paused, and whispered to Vitelli.

"A thousand crowns now, six thousand when you open the gates. Do you accept?"

I bowed.

"As soon as it is dark to-morrow I will open the main gate," said I. "I would urge you send at least five hundred men."

"I will send enough," said Alva, with a short laugh. "You may go. Vitelli, give him his hire."

"I want a safe-conduct," I answered.

"Fool, why should I harm you now?" said Alva, with a sneer.

"For the girl," said I.

He scrawled on a parchment and tossed it across the table to me. Vitelli took me out and gave me a bag of money.

"There, my clever fool," said he, and laughed.

Was I a fool? Ask Chiapin Vitelli now. You will find him in—nay, I know not where you will find him. He was a brave man, and he saved my life—though the deed was better than the purpose.

"And the girl?"

"The women's auction, fool. Listen and look!"

He pointed to a ring of yellow, smoky light in the midst of the camp, whence wild shouts and screams, and evil laughter came. A drum beat loudly.

The auction of women! Yes, that was ever the end of Alva's forays. The auction of Gabrielle de St. Trond! That was the end of my foray.

There stood the women: some silent, some sobbing loudly, some with their faces buried in their hands, some with their hands tied and struggling yet, some standing still, dry-eyed, looking right on away and beyond, some praying, some laughing. God! I have heard much, but sometimes I hear those laughs still. I fought for Alva once.

Some fool mounted a little platform, while my eyes wandered over the group eagerly.

"Gentlemen of the sword, get ready your purses. Sweet little love-birds we have for you to-night. Bring up the dark little filly, Pedro!"

A girl scarce sixteen at most was dragged forward, and two fellows, each bearing a torch, took stand on either side her, so that the light fell full on her face. It was dully white, like the faces of men who have bled to death.

"Here, gentlemen, a sweet object for your endeavours and your ducats. The very Lily of Holland! Worth double to any honest gentleman when he has kissed the roses back into her cheeks." He laid hold of her dress at the collar, tore it, held it open for a moment with a grin at the crowd, and then put it back. "No, gentlemen, I will not wrong the happy possessor," he cried. And the girl stood like death itself. "What are your bids, gentlemen?"

The bidding reached three ducats.

"No more? Will no cavalier go higher? Nay, then, Julian, she is yours!"

Her owner, a young thin-faced Spaniard, came up with a smile, and led her away through the jeering crowd. As she passed me I slipt the hilt of my dagger into her hand. For a moment she stared at me dully, and then all at once her face lighted up as she went by. Cordieu! 'twas the saddest thing I ever saw.

Have I not done the like myself, you ask? No. This is a game only the Spaniards play. Do you wonder the Dutchmen hate them?

At last, ay, at last! 'Twas she herself. God! I cannot tell how she looked. I could not see then: I can scarce write of it now! There she stood. …

"Here, gentlemen, gay with the Orange colours gold and white, and blue," the fellow touched her hair, and—pah! I cannot write it!

"Ten crowns!" I shouted.

"Ho, ho! here is a cavalier with money, comrades," the fellow turned towards me. "And who may you be, señor? So fond of Orange, are you? Why should I sell to you?"

I thrust through the crowd easily enough, and I forced the safe-conduct into his hands.

"Read it, fool!" I cried.

"Oh! … a safe-conduct … through the lines … for the girl you choose … Alva. … Oh! well, I suppose you must take her. Where's the money?"

I flung the money hard in his face, and dashed my fist after it.

"There is your price," I cried. "Will you jest with the messenger of Alva?"

So Gabrielle de St. Trond and I hurried away from the auction of women. Neither of us spoke; she held my hand and almost dragged me through the camp with half-mad strength. She would scarce pause while I parleyed for a moment with two sentries, and when at last we had left Alva behind us, she turned and looked at that camp with wide fearful eyes, and caught her breath and laughed a little sobbing laugh, and then the wet blue eyes looked up at mine.

"I knew you would come!" she said.

"You knew?" I cried.

"Yes, I knew," she said again.

"’Tis my fault you were ever taken," I said slowly. "I do not hope you can forgive me. I have done what I could since."

We walked on in the moonlight in silence.

"If—if I do not thank you—" she said slowly, "it is because I do not know what to say. I—I always believed you would come, even come alone into Alva's camp to save me. Are any thanks enough for that?"

I did not answer her. Alone into Alva's camp—to save her? Was that the reason? Vitelli's thousand crowns jingled under my cloak.

She stumbled over a stone and fell with a little cry. I bent over her and saw that her shoes were torn through. I picked her up and carried her.

"I am sorry," she said, "but indeed I am very tired," and her head dropt on my shoulder contentedly. So I walked on with Gabrielle in my arms, and the money inside my cloak.

The wicket in the postern opened as I came up, and Vermeil met me with a frown.

"Was that why you went, captain?" he asked, pointing to Gabrielle, and the man at the gate chuckled. Gabrielle woke at the noise.

"Let me go, let me go to my father," she said.

"Ah, captain, it's the way of the world," quoth Vermeil, solemnly shaking his head. "’Tis always another——"

"See the lady be taken to the Governor's house," said I sharply.

"Well, and what of Breuthe?" asked Vermeil, as we moved away. "He is moving heaven and earth, and hell too, our good Gaspar. How did your errand prosper?"

"Cordieu! man, let me sleep! You shall hear in the morning."

"As you will," said Vermeil sulkily. "But I should like to know if you went for the girl's sake or the men's."

CHAPTER VI

THE BARGAIN OF ALVA

But there was to be little sleep for me that night. I went to my quarters, flung off my cloak, and sat. I was not ill-pleased with myself. And the bag of money looked better now Gabrielle had gone. You sneer? Well, I am but a man: and truly I had spoiled the Egyptians. O my honest friends, 'tis we cruel, cunning soldiers who give you the chance to be honest in safety!

A heavy step sounded on the stair, and Gaspar Wiederman flung open the door.

"Ach! so the fox is back in his hole," he grunted. "You must come with me, my brave captain! Devil of devils! have you got your wages already?" he cried, and he caught up the bag of crowns.

"I never waste time," quoth I.

"Gott! nor I. So come on, my brave traitor!"

"Whither?"

"To Laurenz de St. Trond, my pedlar!"

"Laurenz de St. Trond!" I repeated. "Does he know I——" I began.

"Ay, he knows," said Gaspar, with a grim chuckle. We went out into the street. As we passed the postern I saw it was guarded by burghers now. Some of my own men lounging in the doorways laughed as we went by.

"Which side are we on, captain?" cried one as I passed. "Only tell us, and we fight! Only tell us!"

Gaspar chuckled.

"We are not all cowards!" he grunted in my ear.

But further on Vermeil met us with a little troop.

"Do you go of your own will, captain?" he cried.

"Yes," I answered. "Keep the peace!"

Vermeil fell back frowning, and Gaspar chuckled again.

We turned into the street where the burgomaster's house stood, and began to pass through a little throng of burghers. When they saw my face they began to hoot and jeer and hiss.

"Are you proud of your friends?" I said to Gaspar.

"This is your wages," he grunted.

In a large bare room sat Laurenz de St. Trond and the burgomaster of Breuthe town, talking anxiously together.

"He came like a sheep!" quoth Gaspar as we entered. The burgomaster scowled at me. He was a little man with red hair and a freckled face and nervous fidgety hands.

"Two halberdiers!" he said in a piping voice, and two of their weedy citizen soldiers took their stand by me.

St. Trond sat up in his chair, and I saw by his face that he knew I had brought his daughter back. The deep-set eyes were almost gay now; but then as he looked at me they grew gloomy again.

"John Newstead!" he said in a low voice. "It is charged against you, that you, an officer, bearing the commission of William of Nassau, Prince of Orange, have been false to him in seeking to betray the town of Breuthe into the hands of the enemy. Are you guilty or not guilty?" Gaspar chuckled.

"Not guilty!" said I.

St. Trond looked at me keenly, and his lips twitched as he bent his brows. He was trying to believe the best of me; and—cordieu! you will agree things looked black. But I saved his daughter.

Gaspar stept forward.

"This afternoon he spoke of selling Breuthe; this evening he went into Alva's camp. Gott! do you ask for more? He came back safe!"

"You swear that for the truth?" cried the burgomaster.

"I swear it," said Gaspar, and sat down.

"And how much does that prove?" I asked.

"Enough to hang you," squeaked the burgomaster.

"It proves little," said Laurenz de St. Trond slowly. "Why did you go to the camp?"

"To save Breuthe!" said I. St. Trond frowned and the two others laughed scornfully.

"This is no time for jesting," quoth St. Trond gravely. "Call my daughter!" Gaspar shifted his chair with a grunt of surprise.

She entered; her face was white as her dress.

"Tell us how you escaped," said St. Trond.

She began to speak in a low voice, with her eyes on the ground.

"It was at the auction," she said, and the blood came up into her face. "Master Newstead was there among all the Spaniards. And he brought me away safe through all their men."

"Ay, but how?" quoth Gaspar, leaning forward.

"He bought me," she answered, and we could scarce hear her words. There was a moment's silence.

"Ach! but why did they let him? And how did you pass their lines?" said Gaspar at last.

She looked at me for a moment, and her eyes were wet; I can feel it now. Then she turned to her father with a silent entreaty.

"Answer," said St. Trond.

"He had a safe-conduct," she said.

"From Alva? I thought so," grunted Gaspar.

"’Tis enough," cried the burgomaster.

"But he came to the camp to save me, not to betray the town," cried Gabrielle.

"Did he say so?" grunted Gaspar.

"N—no," she said. "I—I thought so."

"Ha! Then why did he bring this back?" quoth Gaspar, and he flung down on the table the bag of a thousand crowns. The money jingled as it fell, and St. Trond and Gabrielle both turned towards me.

"Oh!" cried Gabrielle. Ay, it stung.

The burgomaster opened the bag and began, to count, amid silence.

"Nine hundred and ninety crowns!" he said at last.

"Do you still want proof?" grunted Gaspar.

St. Trond fell back in his chair with a sigh, and Gabrielle—well, I did not look at Gabrielle. But I glanced from the burgomaster's glaring green eyes to the grim smile on Gaspar's face and then—and then I laughed aloud.

"Have you finished, quite finished, my good Gaspar?" said I. His jaw dropt, and the smile faded.

"Do not trifle with the court!" squeaked the little burgomaster. I looked round again. St. Trond and Gabrielle were both intent on me, and Gabrielle's eyes were round and big with eagerness.

"Oh, the court? Ay, ay, the court!" said I. "Well, in truth you have trifled long enough."

"Do you bandy words with me?" squeaked the burgomaster.

"Nay, most illustrious, I am no such fool. You have heard one half the story. Listen now to the other. I went to Alva; yes, I confess it. I offered to open the gates to five hundred Spaniards, for seven thousand crowns and a girl. Well, am I a traitor?"

"Ach! what else?" grunted Gaspar.

"Seven thousand?" quoth the burgomaster.

"For the rest of the money, and the rest of the story, wait. Now think for a little of Breuthe. Ere we came you had not food for a week. Is that true?"

"True enough," said St. Trend.

"We brought you more food, but we brought more men to eat it. Is there food for two weeks now?"

"Teufel! no. I told you that," grunted Gaspar.

"Then what hope had you? Ay, what hope have you even now?"

"‘He hath girded us with strength for the battle. He shall throw down mine enemies under me,’" said St. Trond slowly.

"It may be, but how?" I asked.

"What is all this to the purpose?" cried the burgomaster.

"Much," I answered. "Is not the only hope-for Breuthe a blow struck at Alva's very heart?"

"Teufel! was yours the way to strike it?" growled Gaspar.

"Mine is the only way," I said. "You dare not risk a sortie. You have tried it too often. Well, let Alva make the sortie; let it be he that fails."

"Ach! so," grunted Gaspar.

"And now to come back to my story: I open the gates to Alva on the morrow at sunset. They come in, five hundred strong or more. What say you, Gaspar, will they go out again?"

Gaspar sprang to his feet.

"No! Ten thousand fiends! No!" he shouted. "By the main gate into the market-place? At dusk?"

"Ay. They bring the money with them."

"So. Gott! what a plan! Musketeers in the houses all round!"

I paused and curled my mustachios. The little burgomaster was smiling and rubbing his hands.

"You mean to admit a force of Spaniards and massacre them after bringing them on by fair words?" asked St. Trond slowly.

"Call it what you will, it is safety for Breuthe."

"I call it murder," said he.

Gaspar shrugged his shoulders.

"I tell you the town cannot be saved else. It will be saved thus. Cordieu! I know what war means, and I know Alva. I tell you it is the only way!" I cried.

"You think—it will drive him back?" said the burgomaster.

"He must raise the blockade in any case."

St. Trond turned to Gaspar.

"Do you approve too?" he asked.

"Approve? Gott, yes! If we only get enough to kill."

St. Trond shuddered. In despair—I think it was despair—he came to the burgomaster again.

"What say you?" he asked.

"It is the hand of God!" said the little burgomaster. There was a long silence.

"Then I commit it to you, gentlemen," St. Trond said at last. "On your honour, you see no other way?" he cried sharply.

"None," said I.

"None," grunted Gaspar.

St. Trond rose and went out. Gabrielle followed without a glance for any of us. Laurenz de St. Trond was a good man. Perhaps that is why he was ill fitted to cope with Alva.

When he was gone the little burgomaster rose and held out his hand:

"Sir, I ask your pardon. You will do me the justice to admit that the evidence was black."

"I thank you. Good night to you," said I.

"And our plans for the Spaniards, sir?" he cried.

"I must sleep sometimes, sir. The morrow will be time enough."

Gaspar and I passed out. The burghers had dwindled to twos and threes. They eyed me askance, but made no sound.

"Well, Gaspar?" said I, at length.

"Well, captain, I called you a coward. I ask your pardon; you are not. I thought you a knave and—umph! Would you like some advice?"

"What is it?"

"Look after the rest of your crowns!"

I slept sound. The hazard of the morrow did not trouble me. I never knew a hazard so great that it kept me from my sleep; and yet my life has walked over some narrow bridges. When I woke in the morning the thought that was in my brain was not of Alva or Breuthe town, but of the deep blue eyes that had looked up into mine, and the white cheek that had lain on my shoulder last night. I say the thought was in my brain; and, cordieu! it seemed loth to go. I lay there smiling like a very child; it was a pleasant thought. ’Tis no ill one now. Oh, ay, 'twas folly; I give you that. I who should have been thinking how to account for my friends, the Spaniards, lay grinning at the air. Oh, ay, 'twas folly.

Soon Vermeil came in.

"So we have not changed sides, captain?" quoth he.

"It was not 'the only way,' Vermeil," said I.

"Ah! no,' said Vermeil, seating himself coolly. "Where is our pay?" he asked with a cunning glance.

"How far will seven thousand crowns go, Vermeil?"

"A bird in the hand—captain," said he with a sneer.

"A thousand now; six thousand before they enter. Are you happy now?"

"Ah! it is well done, truly," said Vermeil slowly. "You meant to let them in from the first, I know, but I should like to know, indeed, I should like to know——"

"Well, out with it, man!"

"Whether you made the rest of your plan before you got hold of the girl—or—after?"

I laughed; it is well enough to be cunning: sometimes it leads men astray.

"Oh, you are very clever, Vermeil. Do you remember I said to you: 'There will be more risk in my meeting Alva before all is done'? Do you know what I meant, now?"

He stared at me.

"Yes, I know," he muttered. "’Twill go hard with any of us who fall into Alva's hands after this!"

"Tut, tut! We all have brains, Vermeil," quoth I.

"Will brains get us out of Alva's hands?"

"The brains of some of us!" I answered.

Just then Gaspar entered.

"So we're all of one mind now, Gaspar," said I, seeing he glanced at Vermeil.

"One mind? One side!" grunted Gaspar. "And that is the safe one," he muttered in my ear.

"We had best set to work soon."

"Ay, after breakfast," quoth Gaspar. "Captain, do you know what day it is? Saint Bartholomew!" He chuckled grimly.

Saint Bartholomew! A year ago the she-wolf of the Medici and the Guises had butchered Coligny in the Paris streets. Who gained by it? Not Charles of Valois, King of France. I can remember, when Anjou was bidding for the throne of the Netherlands, in the parleys that we held then, St. Aldegonde asked what sureties he would give for the reformed faith.

"The word of a Valois!" quoth he. St. Aldegonde shrugged his shoulders.

"Is not my word enough?" cried Anjou.

"No, your highness; by St. Bartholomew, no!" said I.

Ay, but for Bartholomew Day Anjou might have held the Netherlands for his house. Charles himself might have been Emperor. The men who gained by it were Alva and Philip of Spain. Out of the twenty-five thousand Huguenots who fell on one day in France, how many would have refused to come to the help of William of Orange? How soon would Alva have taken Mons but for the Bartholomew? Nay, the man who gained was Alva. And now a year had gone by, and St. Bartholomew had come again, and another party of another faith were coming into another town; Alva had had a year of triumph, and the grass-grown streets of Harlem bore witness how thorough it had been. Now the fate of Holland was swinging in the scale against Alva's power. Was it chance that the day was the day of Saint Bartholomew?

CHAPTER VII

"MAN AGAINST TIME"

We were busy in the market-place, toiling under a burning sun and a hot, parching wind, and the little burgomaster was the busiest of us all. He was squeaking in every corner. Gaspar, his arms and chest bare, stood vomiting German oaths, and giving a push here, and a pull there, and a cuff now and again. Our men worked well; there was talk of money now, and if a free lance will work ever, 'tis for the hope of a hard fight with gold at the end. The burghers were nothing behind them; there was no hissing me now, only stern labour, with the first smiles there had been in Breuthe for many a day.

"So far well," I said at last. It was drawing towards afternoon. "Give them a meal, and let them rest."

The burgomaster came bustling up, and took me by the doublet

"And now, sir, in the matter of money," he said.

"Oh!" I paused and wiped my forehead. "For the money, I must give my men twenty crowns apiece. You see——" Just then I saw Gabrielle hurrying along through the market-place. I swept off my hat and made a step forward. She seemed not to see me.

"Well, sir?" squeaked the burgomaster.

"You see, there will be little left. I must have the money."

"You are welcome to all the money," cried the burgomaster.

Gabrielle heard, and I saw her wince. I bowed again. She passed us, looking away.

I muttered an oath.

"I can spare you five hundred crowns," I said sharply.

"Sir, we do not grudge you money. We are fighting for our wives and our children, our freedom and our faith." He spoke quietly and quickly. "I did not come to ask you for it. We are a small town, and we are not rich now; but, sir, you have come to our aid in our utmost need, and all we can give you is yours. That is all." He turned and left me.

"Curse the money!" I muttered under my breath, as I walked slowly away. "Curse the money!" Why had Alva's money come between me and the girl, when I might have had money in Breuthe for the asking? Who would care to have a girl think his first thoughts were always for money, like any peddling knave from London? Gaspar bade me look after my crowns; well, the crowns were mine. Cordieu! I did not want them for myself, and I could not help it if the girl were a fool. It made no difference to me what the girl thought. What was the girl to me? Cordieu! 'twas not wrong to spoil Alva! And I resolved to take the other six thousand crowns. For I had thought of letting them go.

The shadows lengthened and the sun went down in the west, and within the town we made ready to play for our last stake. The main gate opened on to the market-place, and every street, every lane that led from it was barricaded, and the barricades held by the burghers. In the houses my musketeers were posted, about half the force in all. Under the walls on either side the gate two little picked companies waited, to charge when all the Spaniards were in and shut the gates again. Behind them two transport waggons waited, ready horsed, to be overturned in the gateway when the gates were shut, that they might not be opened again. Vermeil led one company, and our quartermaster, Nicholas Zouch, the other. It was a dangerous task, for from the barricade behind them to the gate was scarce room to gather speed for the charge; but you cannot win battles without risk.

It was dark at last, with the heavy darkness that comes ere the moon rises, and a faint tramp came from without the walls. I stood by the wicket in the main gate, with my horse at my side. They were thronged without now, and I opened the wicket a little way.

"The money! the money!" I whispered in Spanish.

"No play, no pay! Let us in first."

I opened the wicket, and half-a-dozen men rushed in pell-mell.

"And now the gate, señor," said their leader. I turned the great key and pulled it out again. The gate swung open, and the Spaniards rushed in.

"There are your wages!" cried the leader, and he thrust the bag into my hand; and, as I turned, another stabbed at me. I sprang aside, but the dagger was through my arm. Swords were out all round me; I broke through to my horse, and dashed away into the darkness to Zouch. And the Spaniards poured into a silent town, shouting now as they came.

"Wounded, captain?" asked Zouch in a whisper.

" Ay, but I have the gate-key still. And six thousand crowns," said I.

Zouch chuckled.

"Charge now?" he muttered.

"Nay, wait," I said, as I twisted a handkerchief round my arm and peered into the darkness to count the numbers that came. They grew thinner at last.

"Enough now," muttered Zouch. I nodded to the drummer at my elbow. The drum spoke loudly, and Zouch dashed at the gate. Vermeil should have charged at the same instant, but nothing came from the other side, and Zouch was left alone.

"Cordieu! sound again! sound again!" I cried. Again the drum spoke, louder than before. And now Vermeil charged; but the Spaniards were ready to meet him, and each charge singly was feeble. The minutes went by, and our chance was going fast.

"With the waggons! Both waggons!" I yelled. By the mercy of God they heard on the other side, and we went at the Spaniards together. The horses did not flinch, and the Spaniards fell apart as the waggons clove into the heavy mass. We had gone a little wide of the gate, and Zouch and his men clashed it back to its place. The waggons jammed together and broke down, and we cut the horses loose. I tossed the great key to Zouch; he turned it in the lock, and the Spaniards were caught at last. In the darkness those who had come first knew not what was passing, and Zouch and I, with a few men, broke back to our barricade under the wall, and clambered over.

"This is all of them," said Zouch. "Scarce any outside."

"Ay, enough too," I answered. Alva had said he would send enough: there were some seven hundred within the market-place. The moon rose clear and bright.

Was it a butchery? Had you seen those Spaniards fight, you had scarce called it that. Time and again they surged up to the main barricade, and more than once they all but mounted it. But the burghers fought well; each race was at its best; charge after charge came thundering up to that barricade, and charge after charge was broken and driven back by those grim, stubborn Dutchmen. And the Spaniards' headlong courage drove them on yet again, while the musketry tore through their close-packed ranks, and Gaspar, on the main barricade with the burgomaster, leant on a pike and chuckled as the moments went by.

Man against time! That was the fight in the market-place, and the Spaniards knew it as well as we. If they could not break through soon, the odds would be too great. And the deadly musketry never paused. Another charge, and another! Zouch and I peered forward anxiously through the flickering moonlight.

"By the Fiend! They're over!" he cried.

Three men had crested the barricade and others were struggling up behind them. They stood out tall and dark against the moonlight. Taller still rose another figure, and one Spaniard was caught on a pike. Gaspar—ay, no man in the town but Gaspar could have done it—Gaspar swung him round on the pike end and crashed the wretch against his fellows. The three fell on their struggling comrades below, and that charge dropt back too.

The charges grew feebler and slower, and few men now there were to make them. Man against time! The victory was not to be with man. The charges had ceased; there was little movement in the market-place save the writhings of those who were not yet dead. The musketry died slowly away, and Zouch and I came over the barricade on to the bloody stones. There in middle of the market-place I paused and looked round over the dying and the dead. Seven hundred good, of the very flower of Alva's army, lay there crushed at my feet. O Vitelli, Chiapin Vitelli, who was the fool?

Gaspar came down to meet me. His arms were dyed red, and there were smears and splashes of blood across his face and his beard.

"So much for Breuthe's guests," he cried. "Ach! captain, 'twas a good fight. Would that Alva had seen it!"

"There's a party at the postern, captain!" cried a man at my elbow.

"So! Let us give them a message for Ferdinando Alvarez!" He hurried through the streets, mounted the wall by the postern, and there, looking down at the Spaniards who waited for their comrades—

"No es nada," he shouted, "no es nada." 'Twas a catchword of Alva's he used in all disasters: "It is nothing, it is nothing."

"No es nada" he shouted, "no es nada"

And while Gaspar stood shouting and shaking his bloody pike at the Spaniards, who fell hurriedly back, away in the market-place by the barricade they had kept right bravely, the burghers of Breuthe were singing a psalm

"I will give thanks unto Thee, O Lord, with my whole heart." I heard the first words echoing over the town.

"That will tell Alva who won, Gaspar," said I. "Come down, come down."

"Ach! captain, captain, that was a fight worth fighting," he said as he turned. "I never saw men fight better."

"Than which?"

"Than either! 'Gott! never will I laugh at burghers again. I wish our own were as stout."

"Ay; what in hell's name ailed Vermeil?" I asked sharply. Gaspar shrugged his shoulders.

"The fool near ruined us all!" I said. "Is he safe?"

"He is no fool, alive or dead, "quoth Gaspar.

The burghers were still singing, and the words rose with an exultant shout—

"… The heathen are sunk down in the pit that they made: in the same net which they hid privily is their foot taken."

The psalm ended, and the burghers drifted back to their homes for the sleep and the rest they had earned.

"Need we post guards, sir?" asked the little burgomaster wearily.

"A few at the gates were safer," I answered. "But I think the work is done."

"God has been very gracious," said the burgomaster sleepily, looking round the dead. "Indeed, sir, the work is done."

As he spoke the market-place clock began to strike. One, two, three, the deep chimes rang out as we stood there silent, looking at our work; the chimes died echoing away at last, and Gaspar's eyes met mine.

"Midnight!" grunted Gaspar.

"The end of St. Bartholomew!" I said. Was it chance? Was it chance, señors?

I did not rise too early the next morning, but once risen I betook myself to the walls. Alva's tents still lay there grinning at the town; but far fewer men were under them now, and the grin was like a toothless crone's. While I stood there St. Trond came up too, and stood looking at the camp in silence. At last he turned to me.

"And so, sir, that—that work—was in vain," he said sadly.

"That work has not been done twelve hours yet," I answered.

"I would to God it had never been done at all!" he cried. I shrugged my shoulders. He went on talking, half to himself. "And yet it is just," he said, "it is just. No good could come of such a crime."

"Oh wait, wait," I said sharply. "For the crime—I will take the blame if I may take the credit too."

"The blame is mine, who suffered you to persuade me," he said.

"I told you 'twould drive Alva away; you shall see it yet."

He shook his head, and was turning away when Gaspar came up.

"Gott! captain, work like that makes a man sleep well."

St. Trond shuddered.

"Have you seen the market-place this morning?" he asked of Gaspar.

"Ay, a grand sight! There they lie, higgledy-piggledy, our good Spaniards. Ach! 'twas a good fight! And so Ferdinando has not gone yet?"

St. Trond hurried away. Ay, he was a good man and a brave, but fighting was not his work.

"The stubborn Ferdinando!" quoth Gaspar. "I wonder if you have been too clever, captain?"

I did not answer. I did not believe I was wrong, but if, after all, it had been in vain, if Alva could still cling to the town, there was no hope for Breuthe, or for any inside its walls. Alva would scarce be turned to mercy by last night's work. The thought was not comforting.

"He must go!" I said sharply at last.

Gaspar did not hear: he was looking with a sneering smile at another figure which drew near.

"Ho, ho! here's the Frenchman, captain," he said.

"Cordieu!' yes. Vermeil, why did you fail to charge at the drum?" I said angrily.

"Because I did not hear the first beat," said Vermeil, looking me straight in the face. Gaspar laughed gruffly.

"It is—possible," I answered. I think he knew what I meant—at least he gave me as good again.

"And that Alva may go is—possible," quoth he.

We left him on the walls, and Gaspar and I went down to the market-place, where the sunlight fell across men maimed and mangled, and writhing in torment, crying aloud with curses for water, and then falling back on the hard, red, greasy stones. The wounded and dead of the burghers had been carried away with the earliest dawn, and only the Spaniards lay there now. But moving about among them were women with water and wine, and Gaspar and I looked at each other, and we both swore together.

The burgomaster was clearing away the barricades, and to him we came.

"Cordieu! sir, do you allow this?" I cried. "There will be murder ere long; a dagger in the breast will end this charity."

"Ay, a Spaniard is harmless when he is dead," grunted Gaspar.

"It is but Christian duty, sir," quoth the burgomaster.

"Christian duty! Christian donkeys!" burst out Gaspar. "Did you start it?"

"Well, indeed, gentlemen, I too thought it was dangerous, but—but—the daughter of the Governor—she said—she asked—she said—was I a murderer as well? And I did not know what to say."

"As well, eh? Grateful girl, captain!"

"She is there!" I cried.

"Yes, sir. If you, too, wish it stopped and think it dangerous, I will do what I can," squeaked the little burgomaster, trotting along at our heels as Gaspar and I hurried across the dead.

She was bending over a young stalwart Spaniard with a wet, ragged, gaping wound in his chest. As I saw his face I started; it was the man who had put her up for sale! I put my hand on her shoulder.

"This is no place for women," said I. She looked up, and winced as she saw my face. For a moment she could not speak, and in that moment, while my eyes were on her face, the ruffian at our feet stabbed upwards. But Gaspar, standing beside me, saw it, if we did not, and caught the arm and held it fixed.

"Look, mistress," said he. She turned, and started back with a cry, and I ran the fellow through. A wounded man? Yes.

"I told you it was not safe," I said. She put out her hand to thrust me away.

"Do not speak to me! Do not speak to me!" she cried.

"Ach! the ways of women," grunted Gaspar.

"Indeed, you wrong the gentleman," cried the burgomaster. "He saved your life. And it is not safe to wander among these wounded men: if it must be done it is not work for women."

"And would men do it?" she cried.

"Not I," quoth Gaspar.

"And yet you—it was you made it thus," she said, turning on me.

"It was I," I answered. "Will you go?"

"I will not! Oh, have you no heart at all? Can you see them lying here in the heat? I will not go!"

"I say you must," said I.

"I will not!"

"The work was given me to do by your father, and I will do it to the end. I will not throw good lives after bad. Will you make me call a guard to clear the market-place?"

"You—you will force me?"

"If you ask for force."

"Ah!" She drew in her breath with a sob. Then she called the other women round her and hurried away. "I did not think there was anything so cruel as you in the world," she said, looking back.

"And yet she has been in Alva's camp," grunted Gaspar.

I stood there looking after her, with many thoughts in my head. Two months ago I should have cared little for any one calling me cruel, but now the words rankled. I was right, I knew I was right; that is not always enough; a man likes other people to think him right too. I turned sharply to the burgomaster:

"We must clear this place and bury the dead, or we shall have a pestilence upon us."

"Yes, sir. I will see to it. I hear Alva has not gone yet," he said meekly. Last night's courage had gone.

"He will," I answered. "He must."

"I trust so, sir."

The morning passed into afternoon, and the sun grew hotter, as I sat on the walls watching the camp. Alva's batteries spoke once and again, and once and again a shot from the town replied. The walls were thick with watchers, for all knew we had played our last stake. Our last card lay on the table, and they waited to see what was in Alva's hand. Towards evening Alva's batteries fired more often, and faces on the wall grew long. My men were quiet enough; twenty crowns apiece that morning had given them much trust in me; but the burghers, who had more to lose and less reason for to believe my way the best, now looked askance at me again. And as Gaspar and I walked back to our quarters for a scanty meal, the little throngs at street corners hissed and jeered.

Darkness came over Breuthe, and the watchers went back to their homes to pray. The wind had gone round to the west, and clouds were scurrying over the dark sky. Gaspar and I stood by a tower on the ramparts alone. There were lights and fires in the camp below us.

"A good night for flitting," quoth Gaspar.

"Ay," I said shortly.

For hours we stood there silent, the only noise near us a sentry's footsteps or the grating of the stone as we shifted our feet. But from the camp came a steady hum, as always; a Spanish camp does not sleep early.

The night grew blacker yet, and the stars went out slowly. There came a spot or two of rain, and Gaspar pulled his cloak round him. One by one the fires in the camp died out into the blue darkness, and the rain began to patter on the walls. Suddenly the wind dropped for a moment, and we heard a dull sound coming up on the wet air. The wind blew gustily again, and we could hear nothing but the pelting rain. But, ere long, the blast was over, and the rain fell straight; and as we strained to listen, the same dull sound reached us—fainter a little, now—with a steady, ordered movement like the tramp of feet. Gaspar's hand fell on my shoulder with a thud.

"We win, captain, we win," he cried, and there on the wet walls, with the rain beating through to our skin, we gripped hands hard. Soon a bright grey streak came out on the eastern sky, and the pale light struggled through. The tents of Alva were gone! Along the walls one man cried to another, and men, half dressed, came running out of their houses to see if the shouts were true. The streets grew dark with men and women greeting one another wildly, standing there in the rain, laughing and crying in mad relief. As we passed along, they caught us by the hand, the arm, the cloak, and the children danced in front of us, and the women pressed their lips to our hands. Hardly could we struggle on through the gathering crowds, and the cheering grew and grew to a loud, deafening roar.

"Ay, they cheer now," grunted Gaspar.

And then the rain stopped, and the sun broke through the clouds, and there far over the bare plain a man on the wall saw Alva's army moving slowly away, and broke into a psalm as he saw it.

O Chiapin Vitelli, was I the fool?

CHAPTER VIII

THE WAYS OF DESERTERS

", this is a day of good tidings!" It was the little burgomaster came tip-toeing into our room ere we had sat. "Sir, this is a day of good tidings. God has been very gracious unto us!" The poor man was breathless in his hurry, but he carried his head very high now; quite other was he than the hesitating fool of the day before.

"And to you we owe much," he went on. "All has fallen out as you said. Breuthe will never forget who made the plan that saved her; and truly, sir, in some sense I owe you an amend. I confess that yesterday I doubted your wisdom. I was wrong, sir."

"Do not speak of it," said I. He bowed.

"We must send a message to the Prince, sir. I think every horse in the town is yours."

"Yes, we shall not have to eat them now," said I. "I will provide a messenger; and for the present—pardon me, but we were on the walls all night."

"You shall not have cause to call us ungrateful, sir," he said. "I bid you farewell."

Gaspar had said nothing since we entered the house, and he listened to the little burgomaster without a smile. Even after the burgomaster had gone he sat staring at the table. At last he sprang up.

"The little man is right, captain," he cried. "I was wrong again. I ask your pardon. I doubted you yesterday, too. We have fought together near ten years. I had less excuse. Captain, after this I would follow you to hell."

I put my hand in his. Better soldier or truer friend than Gaspar never walked this earth. How much of the credit for saving Breuthe belongs to him you know who have read this tale. How much he has done for me I think no one can ever know.

There in that little room I took up a pen:

"What shall I say, Gaspar?"

"‘Breuthe is safe: no es nada!’" quoth Gaspar.

"I have the honour to inform your Highness that the siege of Breuthe is raised.

"John Newstead."

I read the words as I wrote them. "Who shall we send?" I asked.

"Gott! Send Vermeil. He will like the job," grunted Gaspar. And so it was done; we sent Vermeil and we went to bed.

Late in the next day came great news: a courier came to the town with letters for the burgomaster and St. Trond telling how Alkmaar had closed its gates and declared for Orange. These were the first-fruits of the long siege of Breuthe. If a little town could hold out so long, a larger might hold out longer; so they thought in Alkmaar ere they heard of the raising of Breuthe's siege. Tidings of that would scarce make them more disposed to surrender. So Breuthe was very joyful, and only a few men who knew that Alkmaar would provoke all Alva's strength, who knew how strong Alva was, and who remembered that the force before Breuthe would now be added to the others marching on Alkmaar under Don Frederico, Alva's son—only these few looked grave.

"Ach! why could they not wait for the winter!" grunted Gaspar. "Then would be the time to take sides, when troops cannot move!"

So he said, and so I thought too, while the people of Breuthe sung psalms of thanksgiving. You shall see which of us were right.

Vermeil came back with answers from Orange loud in praise of us all, which bade us send an escort to Delft that he might come to thank us himself. But the next day came some one with tidings of greater moment, a German deserter from Alva's force. The burgomaster came bustling round to tell us and bid us to a council at his house. Gaspar was just about to start with the escort for Orange as he came, and so I went alone.

Laurenz de St. Trond was there. I had not spoken to him since the morning after the fight in the market-place.

"And so, sir, good has come of the crime, after all?" said I as I entered. He looked at me gravely.

"A crime is not less a crime because it is successful—or profitable," he said slowly. The burgomaster had gone to bid his servants bring wine, and we were alone.

"And yet I was right," I answered; "it was the only way."

"You have raised the siege of Breuthe. Yes. You are a better soldier, sir, than I. Perhaps it is not for me to judge you, but I would rather have been one of those men you betrayed to their death than you!"

I stared at him: this was another tale from the burgomaster's! My plan had succeeded, and the burgomaster had talked of the grace of God, but St. Trond liked it none the better for that. Well, I am no saint—you have found that out by now—but I did not feel inclined to boast to St. Trond any more.

The burgomaster came back with his wine.

"Gentlemen, the information is this," he began solemnly. "Alva is marching with all his force on Alkmaar!"

"I could have told that," said I, sipping the wine.

"He is marching by Herpt and Haring."

I put the wine down.

"Ah! this is the deserter's tale," said I.

"The question to decide is what action we are to take," quoth St. Trond. I stared at him.

"What action? Why, none," I cried.

"Men from all quarters are gathering to Alkmaar," said he. "It is said there will soon be fourteen thousand men in the lines."

"Probably more," said I.

"Still you advise us to do nothing?" said St. Trond quickly.

"Cordieu! yes; because we can do nothing. Alva has three thousand still. We cannot make a thousand to march. The risk is too great. And what should we gain if we won? If we lost we bring him back here."

"But how will Alkmaar fare?" cried the burgomaster.

"Charity begins at home," I said drily.

St. Trend's eyes flashed.

"You were ready enough to fight men in a trap," he answered scornfully.

"I am ready enough to fight when aught can be gained," said I.

"I wonder if you ever fought without thinking of yourself," St. Trond said.

"I fight for the man who pays me!" quoth I.

St. Trond looked at me sadly, and so fixedly that my eyes fell, and then he began to speak softly, as if we were alone.

"There was a man went into Alva's camp, and one thing that made him go was the wish to save a girl of whom he knew little, because he fancied he had failed in his duty to her before; and there was a man took money from those he led to their death; will you tell me which man is giving counsel now?"

"Cordieu! both," I cried. "I had to pay my men—let that pass. What is it that you would do?"

"I would attack Alva!" said he.

"Heaven above us! Where? How? With what force?"

"Between Herpt and Haring. With those who will follow me."

"I should guess they will be few. So you take Alva's route on the word of a deserter?"

"Is he the only deserter we have trusted in Breuthe?" he asked. Ay, it was a fair thrust, and I did not gainsay him.

"Then you will go, in spite of all?" I cried.

"If the men of Breuthe will follow me."

He rose and went out and left the burgomaster and me looking at each other.

"Indeed, sir, I think the Seigneur de St. Trond spoke harshly more than once——" began the burgomaster.

"He is going to destruction," I said sharply. "Will he get men to follow him?"

"There are men in Breuthe—many a one—would follow anywhere he led," said the burgomaster. " Do you think, sir, there is no chance of success?"

"Chance? There may be a chance. But the risk, man, the risk!" said I. "What in the devil's name made Alkmaar rise when Alva's forces lay all around it?"

"Sir, it is better to die for a faith and die free than live under Alva and the Inquisition," said the burgomaster quietly.

I sat silent, playing with the wine-glass. A man does not like to find others braver than himself. Yet why risk so much for a town that chose to rise at an ill moment? The cause of Alkmaar was the cause of Orange, and I was a soldier of Orange. Ay, a soldier, and it was not war to risk my men on a bare chance. But St. Trond seemed still there with his steady eyes, and there was something grand about the man ready to throw his life away for the sake of those fools in Alkmaar. Fools? Were they fools? I had done what no man in Breuthe could do—torn the town out of Alva's grasp; and yet more than once before St. Trond, ay, even before the burgomaster, I had felt myself ashamed because my thoughts were not like theirs. Is a man a fool because he does not always follow his brain? Such were the thoughts that ran in my head as I sat in that wainscoted room, with the empty wine- glass in my fingers, and I sat there long while the little burgomaster watched me in silence. At last he left me, and I still sat thinking.

Suddenly the door opened and Gabrielle de St. Trond came in. I turned, and she drew back.

"I thought—I thought the burgomaster was here," she said.

"Your father and he have both been here, and gone."

She took a step forward.

"You do you know where my father has gone? I saw him march out of the gate. Where is he going?"

"He is going to attack Alva!"

"To attack Alva? With so few men?"

"To attack Alva? with so few men?"

"With all the men who would follow him," said I.

"You—you would not?"

"I would not."

"I might have known. I might have known," she cried. "You, oh you can be cruel to the helpless! You can even fight, if your pay is large enough! But to fight fairly, only for the cause—no, you will not risk that! You would rather see others go to their death."

"It was not with my good-will he went," said I.

"You thought it too dangerous?" I bowed. She laughed shortly.

"If you take me for a coward, remember I went into Alva's camp," I cried in anger.

"I wish I could forget," she said softly, and I saw the blue of her eyes grow darker behind the tears.

Yes, I had been thinking hours; and the end of my thoughts had come. I looked at the drooping head; and I rose and went out silently.

I hurried through the streets and found a trumpeter.

"Sound boot and saddle!" I cried.

The men came grumbling into the market-place, but ready enough to fight: a little success goes far.

"Where's Vermeil?" I asked Zouch when we were mustered.

"Went with the burghers, captain!" said he.

"With the burghers? Vermeil with the burghers?"

"Ay; oil and vinegar, eh, captain?"

CHAPTER IX

HIRELINGS' BATTLES

The day was far gone when we set out, and we trotted quickly along the level road, through the cool fragrant air, with the shadows lengthening beside us. A little on the flank I rode alone, for indeed I had much in my mind. Where we should find St. Trond, where we should find Alva, what we should do when we found either—none of these things I knew. Surely never did soldiers march on an errand as unknown as this! Why had I come? I knew, though I would scarce confess it, even to myself; it was because Laurenz de St. Trond thought me a cowardly knave; it was because I sought to save the men he had taken with him; it was because we had a chance to hurt Alva; it was for anything but because a girl had cried. What was it she said? She wished she could forget I had come to Alva's camp. She did not forget, then? Nay, I could not forget it either. But she, who thought me a murderer, half a traitor, money-seeking, cruel, yet remembered that I had saved her. I thought of how she had looked at me, how her head had nestled on my shoulder ere she knew all that I had gone to do and all that I had done in that camp. Oh, laugh if you will; I did not repent, I do not repent now, of the way I saved Breuthe. Judge the deed altogether, think of the end as well as the means, and say, was I wrong? But was she wrong either? I had fought for Alva more years than one; is it likely that I was a better man than she fancied?

It grew dark, and still we pushed on. St. Trend's men must have marched well, for though they had many hours' start of us we were mounted and they were on foot, and yet we had to halt, and water and rest our horses without finding them. I would have marched again almost at once, but Zouch came grumbling up:

"I don't know what you want, captain; but 'tis little use catching Alva if we founder the horses to do it,"

So we halted for two hours, and I lay wrapt in my cloak, sleepless, watching the stars.

Morning dawned over the plain red and clear, and at last, away to our right, we saw a cloud of dust moving quickly. The sun rose higher in the sky, and now there was another and a bigger cloud farther off than the first. We began to trot faster.

"Curse it, there's no cover," I muttered.

"What's he trying for?" Zouch asked.

"Who, St. Trond? How should I know?" I said angrily.

"Ought to have some one with him to tell him what to do, I reckon," Zouch growled.

"Are we not with him?" said I sharply.

"Umph! he's there; we're here."

Alva's line went straggling thin and long, and St. Trond still marched on its flank.

"Cordieu! I think they are both fools together," I cried. "Why not—ah!"

Oh! it was the chance—the chance of a life-time. Had I but been with St. Trond! Had I but been a mile nearer! Two waggons broke down across the road, and the rearguard halted perforce; but the van knew nothing of it and kept on the march, and for a moment right in the middle of Alva's force there gaped a hole. Had I but gone with St. Trond at first!

St. Trond hesitated; he was not a soldier by trade, and to plunge into the middle of Alva's men was a thing he would not do without thought. He hesitated, and the chance was gone; the van turned and closed again, and then—then, when they were all ready for him, St. Trond flung his men at the Spaniards.

I can guess how Alva looked; I can see the cold, sneering smile come over his lips; I can hear the harsh orders. It was a task after Alva's own heart to crush six hundred men with three thousand. St. Trond's pikemen charged—they charged well, I will not gainsay that—and Alva gave back a little before the charge. Little by little his centre fell back, and little by little the wings advanced; slowly the circle closed round St. Trond. Alva was to have his revenge for the market-place; and he sat there (many times have I seen the like), sat quietly, slowly stroking his long thin beard, with the pupils of his eyes growing bigger, and his lips bent in a cruel smiling curve.

It was well planned, and carried out as well. But one thing he forgot, and that was the horsemen I led. He should have seen us sooner; perhaps he did, and yet could not guess what we were. For, indeed, it is a strange design to march with pikemen two miles in front of their cavalry. Whether he saw us not we saw him.

"Charge!" I shouted. "Charge! Vivent les gueux!"

"Vivent les gueux!" the men shouted in answer, and, with the war-cry of the Netherlands thundering on before us, we swept down on Alva's wing. They tried to strengthen it, but the time for that had gone by, and ere any support had come we had crashed down on their flank, and were breaking through to where St. Trend's pikemen rolled like a hedgehog in the midst. We were through.

"Break out, break out on your right flank!" I shouted to St. Trond, as we turned our horses and rode back again, cutting down the broken ranks as we passed. The pikemen fought their way through, unbroken yet; the jaws of Alva's trap had closed in vain.

"Fall back, back to the higher ground," grunted Zouch. The fight was not over yet. Alva would not give up his prey without a struggle, and his horsemen were waiting for a chance to charge. They never found it. While they changed ground to try and draw us away, we galloped down towards Alva again, and, thinking their time was come, they started towards our pikemen. Suddenly, in the midst of our charge, I swung the men round to the left, and we took those hapless Spanish troopers in flank, and cut through them as a tight string cuts through cheese. So we came round to St. Trond, and the Spaniards fell back and formed again behind their foot.

"You will fall back on the town?" asked St. Trond as I came up. "We have lost very many."

"Ay, but not too fast," said I. Though, indeed, the Spaniard did not threaten more.

"We came out six hundred strong, and we are little more than four now," quoth St. Trond. "And you?"

"Oh, we have lost some," said I.

Just then Vermeil came up.

"You did not grudge me to the burghers, captain?" quoth he.

"Cordieu! no; but you might have kept them out of this mess."

"I was not in command," said Vermeil; "I was not in command."

Slowly we fell back on Breuthe, smaller, gloomier companies than had gone out the day before. I rode alone still. I could not be with St. Trond, for I knew now that if I had listened to him we might have broken all Alva's force. If we had only been together when the chance came! Had I thought less of the risk, and more of the cause to which I owed service, we might have struck a great blow that day. So St. Trond had been right to sneer, after all, since I could not fight without thinking of myself. You may guess how proud I felt as we rode along the sandy paths. What was that question I asked myself yesterday: "Is a man a fool because he does not always follow his brain?" Well, I knew now that a man was a fool if he followed nothing else. There are not many times in my life when I have felt worthless and mean; but here was one, at least—cordieu! here was one.

St. Trond, too, rode silent and apart, and when I looked covertly at him once or twice I saw his face was very grave and sad. At last he spurred his horse over to me:

"I was wrong, sir, and you were right. Will you let me take my words back? I have thrown away two hundred lives that I might have saved if I had believed you. But for your skill and courage I should have lost all. I cannot forget what I said to you; may I hope that you can forgive it?"

"In God's name, say no more!" I cried. "Why talk of forgiveness from me to you?"

"I admit, sir, I was in the wrong. I cannot do more."

"You were in the right," I said sharply. "I ought to have come with you. What is the use of words now?"

"It was, indeed, a task too great for me," he answered sadly and moved away. You may guess that that was not what I meant my words to say. There is nothing stirs me more than praise when my deserts are blame.

At last, when it was growing dark, we came to Breuthe, and there gathered round us a pale, weeping, trembling crowd to learn that two hundred men—their husbands, their brothers, their sons—who marched out yesterday lay stiff and cold on the plain now. St. Trond rode slowly through the throng, with his hat pulled down over his brows, and they fell back in silence, with angry looks, to let him pass. Then when I came a little after they called down blessings on my head. Such was the justice of Breuthe.

"Has the Prince come?" I asked the burgomaster.

"No, sir, not yet."

"Strange, cordieu! strange, Vermeil, is it not?"

"He may not ride quickly, captain."

"He has had a full day," I answered.

"We broke the bridge at Veermut."

But the hours went by, and still the Prince and Gaspar came not, and the moon was out ere there came a thunder at the main gate and a cry.

"Teufel! Are you all asleep?"

"Who are you?" cried the guard.

"Ach! I am the body-guard of the Prince of Orange!"

The gate was flung open, and there came in William of Orange, riding a jaded horse; and walking at his side, holding by the stirrup-leather, Gaspar Wiederman, covered with dust and splashed with blood.

The guard ran forward, crying anxiously:

"Your Highness is safe?"

"Thanks to this gentleman, I am safe and alive in Breuthe," quoth the Prince with a smile.

I came running up bare-headed, roused by the noise.

"You were attacked, Gaspar?" I cried.

"Ach! do you think I walk for pleasure?"

"Shut the gate, knaves!" I said, for the fools had left it open.

"There is no need," said the Prince calmly. "There are no pursuers."

"Teufel! there are none to pursue," grunted Gaspar.

The Prince smiled and dismounted.

"And it is you, sir, I have to thank for saving the town," he said, holding out his hand to me. "I little thought I had made so good a bargain when you came to Delft. Your dispatch was something of the shortest, but the news needed no phrases to set it off. I fear I have left your escort behind me. They fought bravely, sir, and few of those that beset us live to tell the tale——"

"Ach! none by now," grunted Gaspar.

"Where were you attacked, your Highness?" I cried.

"They—Alva—had laid an ambush by the river at Veermut to attack us as we crossed. Your men held them in play while my horse swam the stream. Even then but for your lieutenant I should have been in ill straits. Your men were outnumbered, and four Spaniards crossed the river after me. My friend here had lost his horse, but he swam across alone. My pistols served for two, his sword for the others. I know not how many that sword had slain before."

"Four, I think—or five," said Gaspar solemnly. "It was twenty to fifty, captain. A good fight!"

"If all your men fight as well," said the Prince, "it is not a regiment you brought me at Delft, but an army. Even Cornput will believe you are worthy now."

"Oh, we fight, some of us," grunted Gaspar.

St. Trond came hurrying up.

"Your Highness," he broke out, "I come——"

"Ah, Laurenz, my friend," said the Prince gaily; "and so you give me a virgin city back!"

"If the town is safe, it was not I who saved it," answered St. Trond slowly. "And this day I have lost two hundred men through my folly. I went out to attack Alva with six hundred burghers against the advice of better 'men than I. I brought back only four hundred, and had it not been for Master Newstead here, who risked himself and his men to save me and mine, not one of us had come back to the town. I was unequal to the task you gave me."

The Prince looked at him sadly and kindly.

"Laurenz, Laurenz, have you forgotten my campaign against Alva?" he said. "I was worse beaten than you, for I had no army left at all."

"If I had been willing to go with the Seigneur de St. Trond at first," I cried, "it might have been a victory."

"Indeed, gentlemen, it seems to me you have done very well. Once I had all but given up hope for the town itself. For the two hundred lost I am sorry—I am sorry," he repeated slowly, "but you will not make me believe it was the fault of either of you."

But I knew—by Heaven I knew!

CHAPTER X

IN THE GARDEN

Two days afterwards, or more it may be, I was in the burgomaster's garden. The name was a mockery. While the siege still lasted anything that men could bring themselves to eat was too precious to be left, and so all over the trim square beds the brown earth lay bare alike of flowers or leaves. There was food in the city now; grain that Alva could not wring from the peasantry poured in freely for us, and the burghers knew what a meal meant again. But, away across the plain, Alkmaar was passing into the trouble Breuthe had lately known. There were sixteen thousand men before it now, and there might have been three thousand less. With that thought in my head, I was pacing up and down the garden.

Gabrielle came out of the house: she put her hand up to her eyes to look through the sunlight, standing there by the door, a slim figure clad all in white. I watched her—I could not help watching her—but when she came towards me I turned away. But her steps made straight for me, and I turned again to meet her.

"I—I have not seen you since," she said, not looking at my face. "I have come to ask you—to tell you how sorry I am."

"For what?" said I—though, indeed, I knew.

"For—for what I said. Oh, how it must have hurt you!"

"I deserved it."

"No, no; I thought you meant to let my father go alone, and——"

"And I did."

"But you went!" she cried.

"Do you know that if 1 had gone at first, if I had not thought of my own safety, we could have crushed Alva? If we had struck together there was one moment when his fate lay in our hands. If your blame stung then, how much do you think your praise stings now?"

"But you saved my father——" she said quickly.

"It was my fault he was in danger."

"He said—you were right—you were wiser—if he had listened——" the words did not come easily.

"Wiser!" said I, with a bitter laugh.

"If he had listened to you," she persisted, "he would not have lost the men."

"I was wrong; your father was right. I say it. Is not that the last word?"

She looked up then straight into my eyes, and I saw that her face was flushed a little and her eyes bright.

"No," she answered; "I was wrong, too."

"Oh, will you not let it end here?" I cried.

"I, called you—cowardly. At least that was wrong?" she said plaintively.

"You had good excuse," I answered.

"But if—if you are a coward, and if it was wise to go and you are not wise, why did you go after all?" she asked, with a little smile. I did not answer for a little, and her eyes grew brighter while I stood silent, till at last I looked at her eyes and said:

"If you remember so well all you said then, perhaps you remember what you did before we parted." For a moment she was silent, and then:

"I—I cried," she said under her breath.

"Yes, you cried."

"Well?"

"And I rode after your father," said I; and she had no answer ready.

"I do not understand," she said at last. "Sometimes you seem to be heartless, and sometimes you think of things—little things—and they make very much difference. You are not always the same man."

"There are few of us all black," said I. "I do not claim to be better than the rest. I sail under no false colours. I have fought for Alva once. What sort of a school is that, think you?"

"Why did you leave him?" she asked quickly.

"He did not pay the men."

"Will you get paid now?"

"Yes; Breuthe has offered, for one source of money."

"But you did not know that when you chose Orange?"

"No," said I.

"You do not flatter yourself," she said, and a smile hung round her lips and passed away. "Why do you try to make me think the worst of you?" She put out her hands with a little imploring gesture. " Why will you show me all the black, and nothing else?"

I looked down into her face, and I took her hands in mine.

"I will tell you why," I said quietly. "It is because I put you too high to try to cheat you. If you think me a better man than I am I shall feel I have wronged you. I would have you know the worst, because then I can dare to ask you—if I cheated you I should not dare—to ask you if there is any hope, if there is any chance, you could ever love me." The words came all in a breath.

"Are you showing me the worst side?" she said softly.

"Is that all your answer?" I cried, and started back.

"Well, but you said you would show me the worst side, and I want to know," she answered.

"It is true," I said.

"But it might be the best then," she said, looking up at me.

"Gabrielle, do not play with me!" I cried.

"Ah! but which side of me would you like to see?"

"I know they are all alike," said I.

"Are you sure?" she asked, giving her hair a touch.

"All I have seen."

"Yes, but you are so fond of black sides."

"Oh, Gabrielle, will you answer?"

"You have forgotten."

"What?"

"You didn't ask anything; you only said things."

"Then I ask now——"

"Wait a minute. You forget a lot of things. You forget how I was in that—that camp." She grew pale and shuddered. "And then you came, and you—you—bought me," she said softly.

"And then?" I cried.

"That is all," she answered; and she stood with her head drooping a little.

"Gabrielle! Gabrielle!" I cried; and my arms were round her, and she gave herself up to me as I caught her to my breast; her smiling face, with wet blue eyes, was lifted to mine, and I kissed her.

In the grey stone walls of the garden a wide seat is hewn out, and there we sat together in silence for a long time, hand in hand.

"What are you thinking about?" asked Gabrielle at last.

"I am thinking of you; and wondering——" said I.

"Wondering at me?" she cried.

"When I know what you think of me——"

"Do you know?" she asked, with a roguish smile. "Oh yes, I know what you will say. In the market-place I called you cruel; but then you were trying to prove you were right. And now you have been so eager to show me the black side—do you know which side I have seen?"

She paused and looked into my face, and I kissed her again.

"I thought it was only because you cared nothing for the Spaniards. I know now, I know now," she said. "You came into Breuthe because—because I laughed; and you went out again because I cried. Do you wonder now?"

There was no need for more words, and we sat there together on the old stone seat in the bare, brown garden, while the thin shadows of the leafless trees passed round and grew longer as the sun waned towards the west.

At last, when the sun was down behind the house, Gabrielle rose with a start.

"It must be very late!" she cried. "I must go. Good-bye! No, I must go; not you."

I followed her in with my eyes, and sat down on the seat again. Then down the path from the house came Vermeil.

"Pretty girl, captain," he said, with half a smile.

I looked at him idly, without thinking what he said.

"You seem rather dull. Too lonely, eh?" he asked, with a sneer on his lips.

I walked away.

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