My Lady of Orange Part 2

CHAPTER XI

ALVA'S REVENGE

They were happy days thereafter in Breuthe town, when we walked together on the walls, in the burgomaster's garden, sometimes as far as I dared go into the country. And yet 'twas alloyed for me—oh yes, young mistress, I see your pretty face frown; and indeed, lad, I have blood in my veins like you—I say 'twas alloyed for me with the thought of Alkmaar. I hate to fail; and worst of all I hate to fail by my own fault. But for my own folly it would have been a man with less to regret who won Gabrielle's love. She would not suffer me to speak of it, laughed at it for pride, and that was some comfort; but the knowledge that Alva's three thousand might have been crushed still lay in my mind and rankled. I have heard Gaspar—he was a man of learning before he took to the sword and the saddle—I have heard Gaspar talk of an old Greek who said that the worst of woes was to see things wrong and have no power to right them. He was a wise man; but I think it cuts deeper to know you might have righted them when you have thrown the chance away.

Well, the days went by and we had little news from Alkmaar. It held out still, there was comfort in that, but Alva loved the waiting game, and that could only have one end. The lines round Breuthe we had broken, but who would dare to lead such a force as we could bring against the sixteen thousand Spaniards who lay before Alkmaar? The Prince went back to Delft to meet Diedrich Sonoy, Governor of North Holland, and left the secretary Cornput in St. Treod's place at Breuthe.

It was towards the middle of September—oh, I have cause to remember the time!—there came to the gates of Breuthe a swarthy, lean fellow, wearing a dress not unlike that of Alva's men. He dismounted and walked coolly, leading his horse, to the burghers who were on guard.

"Is a man called Newstead in the town?" he asked in bad Flemish.

"What have you to do with him?" said they.

"And what is that to you?" quoth he.

"Where did you learn your manners?" cried one.

"Faith, not in Breuthe," cried he.

"Perhaps it was in Spain?"

"Perhaps it was," cries my gentleman.

"What?" howled the burghers at once, laying hold of him.

"Nay, then, do my errand yourselves," he said coolly, twisting out of their grasp and flinging a bag at their feet. The fools looked to the bag instead of him, and he sprang to his horse and was gone.

Those wise burghers looked at one another, and:

"This must to the Governor," they said; so they brought the bag to that great man Jan van Cornput.

As Gaspar and I sat in the burgomaster's house that evening talking of Alkmaar—we always were talking of Alkmaar in those days—a message came for Gaspar bidding him go to the Governor at once.

"Plague on the man," grunted Gaspar; "why must St. Trond give up his place? St. Trond was a fool, but he let a man be, while this fool—umph!" and the sentence died away in a throaty German oath. Later still two men came to summon me, and as I went out I met Vermeil, for we were all living with the burgomaster.

"Ah! guard of honour, captain?" said he with a smile.

Now, I knew nothing of the bag that had come to the gate, and I was somewhat startled to find Jan van Cornput with the burgomaster and Gaspar and two of the town's aldermen in solemn conclave. Gaspar would not look at me, but Cornput gave me a sneering smile, and then close on my heels St. Trond entered.

"Why am I summoned?" he asked.

"To try our worthy friend here," quoth Cornput.

"To try me?" I cried, and Cornput smiled again.

St. Trond drew himself up in a stately fashion.

"I have sat in judgment on Master Newstead more than once," said he, "and each time my judgment was wrong."

"There will be little chance of mistake now," quoth Cornput.

"Have you judged me already?" I asked quietly.

"I have found him a true man and a good soldier," said St. Trond, "and I warn you. The evidence should be weighty on which you condemn him. I will be no judge of his."

"Ah! well, we will judge of the evidence, then, even without the aid of the Seigneur de St. Trond. You may go," quoth Cornput, and waved his hand.

St. Trond turned to go, but at the door he paused:

"And I bid you remember, Jan van Cornput, there is a higher judge than you," he said solemnly.

"Even more than one," I murmured; and Cornput frowned, and his little eyes twinkled maliciously.

"Perhaps I shall serve your turn," he said. "Here is our evidence—not very light after all."

He began to read from a paper in his hand, a strange composition in Spanish.

"He began to read from a paper in his hand"

"‘John Newstead—you and your schemes are too clever for us. If your worthy friends found you out before, and it was necessary to murder seven hundred Spaniards to save your own sweet life, the way to earn more money was indeed the way you took. You may even have meant your escort to be beaten. All things are possible. But spite of you and your information our men lie dead at Veermut, he of Orange is still alive, and our thousand crowns will stay in our pockets. You will find in the bag a present for your lieutenant.Vitelli of Cetona.'"

So Cornput read with a sneering smile, "And in the bag is—a halter, gentlemen," he added. "This was taken from a Spanish messenger at the gate. He was glad to be rid of it, he cared little who read it, for as you see Vitelli does not care to protect a traitor when his treason has failed—and we will not, either, gentlemen."

"It is forged," I cried.

"I think not," said Cornput, and passed it to Gaspar. Gaspar shook his head.

"Is that all your defence," quoth Cornput, "or will you tell us that the only way to save the Prince was to lay an ambush for him, as you said when our good friends found you out before?"

"I gave no information! The letter is a lie," I said.

"Ah! blank denials now. So you have come to the end of your wits at last! Why did our friend Vitelli amuse himself thus, then?"

"Oh, you are very wise," I cried. "’Tis clear enough Alva found I had done Orange a service greater perhaps than even Colonel van Cornput has done: he found a fine way to discredit me, and he took it. He may hardly have hoped you would believe it as easily as this. Is not the letter like Alva?"

"And is not the plan like you?" quoth Cornput. "You are very clever, my friend, too clever for me. Would you have us believe Alva cares enough for you to ruin you?"

"Who raised the siege?" said I.

"And how did you raise it? In truth you are a most unlucky traitor: once you had to spoil your own plan because it was found out too soon, and once your lieutenant spoilt it for you."

"Sir," said the burgomaster quickly, "you will find no one but yourself to believe he ever meant to betray Breuthe."

Cornput saw he had gone too far.

"Let it pass, then," said he. "But this is a graver charge still. Some one gave information to Alva of when and where the Prince would pass Veermut. Here we have it under Vitelli's own hand that that man was John Newstead. Who will believe such a tale as that the letter is a lie for revenge's sake?"

"Did any one give information? Was it not chance the Spaniards were there?" I cried.

"Chance?" said Cornput. "Chance? What say you, lieutenant, who were there? Was it chance?"

Gaspar shook his head; I said nothing. It was a poor defence I made; not because the charge stunned me or I was aghast at Vitelli's cunning villainy. I had known Vitelli too long for that. Of some one quite unlike Vitelli I was thinking. When I told her in the garden I had shown her the black side I had not hinted that ever I had been a traitor. Nor have I. Cordieu! Black things enough there are in my life; the man who calls me traitor lies! I am a soldier; through good and evil I have been true to my cause. When I left Alva I did it openly, and when his fortunes were at their highest. All this I knew; but what would she think? At the best, at the best, it would be very hard for her to believe I was not a traitor as these fools thought, and if she doubted me now, why, that was the end of all. These were the thoughts that ran in my head as I stood there before Cornput half dazed; and the fools thought the cause was a guilty conscience, when I stood silent fidget- ting to and fro, and not meeting their eyes.

"Here, gentlemen, is our evidence. You see his demeanour," quoth Cornput. "What say you, guilty or no?"

"Guilty, guilty," quoth the two aldermen together. I hardly heard them.

"I must say—guilty," said the burgomaster slowly.

Cornput looked at Gaspar. There was a pause, and then:

"Guilty," growled Gaspar, "guilty—on the evidence!"

Then I looked up; if even Gaspar thought me guilty what hope was there for me? Not for my life. Cordieu! Did my life matter? But for Gabrielle's love. Cornput began to speak and the words buzzed by my ears.

"That there might be no question of my justice I have asked you, gentlemen, to assist me, although as Governor of the town, holding the commission of the Prince of Orange, I might have dealt with a flagrant case of treason on my own authority. As we are all of one mind it only remains for me to pass sentence. To-morrow morning at tap of drum you, John Newstead, shall be hanged in the market-place for attempting to betray William Prince of Orange into the hands of the Duke of Alva! Ahem!" He gave a little dry cough of satisfaction and sank back in his chair.

I stood still and silent.

"But sir——," squeaked the little burgomaster, and suddenly Gaspar broke out:

"Governor of the town? Commission of the Prince? Ten thousand fiends I Are you a god, to kill and make alive? Hanged! Do you know we are soldiers? God in heaven! I would hang you, sooner—you, Jan van Cornput, with your commission round your neck!"

"Sir, if you insult me——" began Cornput.

"If?" thundered Gaspar. "Do you ask for more, then?"

Gaspar was on his feet, and he is a big man.

"Enough, enough," said Cornput, putting up his hand. "You condemned him yourself, sir."

"Ach, Gott! not I."

"You said 'guilty'; do you take back your words, sir?"

"Not one: nor forget them, by heaven! I said 'Guilty—on the evidence!’"

"Is there any difference?"

"Ach, my wise Governor, do you remember your own evidence. Is it enough to hang a man?"

"It shall hang this one," cried Cornput.

"My brave Governor," growled Gaspar, talking through his teeth, "do not forget there are two hundred men and more in this town who would squash you like a frog if we bade them—I and the captain!"

"Do you threaten, sir?"

"Even so," grunted Gaspar.

There was silence: the three burghers had not interposed, and Cornput saw there was little sympathy like to come from them. You may sneer at the men who live by trade as much as you will, but the merchants of Breuthe honour my name to this day.

"Well, well, what would you have?" said Cornput angrily, at last. "You admit the man is guilty on the evidence; am I to let him go?"

Gaspar looked at me.

"I will be judged by the Prince," said I. "And till then you may hold me in prison if you will."

"I am contented," cried Cornput quickly. "I will submit the sentence to the Prince."

"And the evidence," grunted Gaspar.

"The execution is then postponed?" said one of the aldermen in a tone of relief. Dutch aldermen are slow.

"The execution will not be—yet," quoth Cornput.

"There are twenty-four hours in the day," grunted Gaspar.

 

CHAPTER XII

A CHANCE FOR LIFE

My gaoler had just brought me my breakfast, and the worthy little Dutchman was all agog with news. As he laid down his dishes he eyed me eagerly.

"Sir, a great victory at Alkmaar!" he burst out at last.

"A victory?" I asked. "Who has won it?"

"Alkmaar, sir! The Spaniards tried to storm the town two days ago, and were driven back with the loss of a full thousand men! A noble victory!"

"I never thought he would take it by storm," I said thoughtfully. "The siege goes on still, though?"

"Yes, sir, the siege goes on still," he answered, rather chopfallen.

"Harlem beat back storming-parties," said I, half to myself; "and who holds Harlem to-day?"

"You have little faith in us Dutchmen," said he peevishly. "We do not despair here in Breuthe, nor is there much fear in Alkmaar to-day, sir, I guess."

"Fear? It may be not. Despair, my friend, is a soldier who often wins."

He left me, and I sat down to the meal. A day had gone by since I came to the town prison, condemned in the wisdom of Jan van Cornput, and no sign at all had come from Gabrielle. Here it all ended: all my fine deeds of the past, all my brave hopes, the glory of saving the town, the greater glory of the day when we saw the sun go down behind the house together. A bare, dark room in a prison had come as an end to them all! She believed it. Well, even Gaspar doubted, and Gaspar knew Alva's ways better than she. It looked black enough; and she had thought me eager for money before. Of course she believed it. She could do no other. And yet I had hoped—I had hoped——

A scuffling of feet came along the passage without, and an angry voice:

"No, I have no order from your squabby Governor. Open the door, you little fool, lest I kill you for your keys. Yes, yes, I give you my word I will not let him out. You can lock the door on us both, if you choose. Only hurry, lest I make myself turnkey by conquest."

The door opened and Zouch came in.

"Our illustrious Governor has not lodged you too well, captain. Pah! He does not feed you too well either. That fish should have a decent burial."

I laughed stupidly.

"It was not meant for a guest," I said.

"God help its guests—or its host!" cried Zouch.

"You seem merry," I said.

"Well, and why not, captain? Do you want me to grieve because our beloved Governor is a fool?"

"Nay, I care not what you do," I said wearily.

"By the fiend, but we care a great deal what you do! That ass Cornput says you are guilty of trying to kill the Prince. What do we care for the Prince? Little we have ever got from him. Guilty or innocent, we care not a farthing. If you have been trying to get more cash out of Alva, well and good. If you have not, well and good too. I don't say I shouldn't think better. Let Cornput and his Prince look after themselves, and let your treason look after itself too. We care nothing about that, but we care much about you. You never risk the men too much, and you always look after their pay. You have done well by us, and, by the fiend, we will do well by you! Captain, how long are you going to stay here?" His voice rose to a shout.

"Till I hear the judgment of the Prince," I said slowly.

"Cornput swears the Prince will confirm his sentence, and he will hang you the day he hears."

"Then let him," I muttered.

"If you think the Prince will set you free, and you are waiting for that, you may be wise, captain, for aught I know. But it is a risky game; and if you are wrong, then——"

"Then I shall be hanged. I know it."

"See here, captain; we are more than two hundred still, and if you are hanged it is your own fault."

"And if I am not, Zouch, what then?"

But he went on his own way.

"We will rescue you when and how you choose. By the fiend, I speak for all! And you may hang Cornput instead, if you will——"

"And—then?" I repeated.

"Why, then we leave it to you to choose. I suppose Alva will not want us back again; but there is fighting enough in the world. They say France has need of good horsemen."

Was it very tempting? It was a chance for life, and if Cornput's words weighed with the Prince perhaps it was the only chance. But then, cordieu! a man has his honour! To take my men away from the Prince in his utmost need when I had pledged my honour to him—was that a deed one would love to do? Would you in my place? It is easy to pay too high for life, and the price was too high now.

"I will stand or fall by the Prince's judgment," said I. "I thank you for the offer, but its savour is not to my liking. If I hang, or if not, you took service under the Prince, and Gaspar is here still to lead you."

He looked at me in amazement.

"Then you will hang?" he stammered.

"If they care to hang me," said I.

He rose and kicked at the door angrily.

"Let me out, you fool," he cried to the gaoler. "By the fiend, I think you keep a madhouse!"

So he went away in a rage, and left me alone in the gloomy little room. I paced to and fro between its narrow walls, and one mood after another came to me and passed away. But I think the first feeling was joy. Let her think of me as she chose, let her believe me as base as she would, yet I had not put honour second. Pho! what good was that to do me? Even if things turned out all for the best, if after all life was left me, a poor life it would be. I would not desert Orange? Nay, there would be no need for desertion. Though they flung me my life I should be distrusted and dismissed, all the past would be a blank, and the future the mist of despair. Cordieu! How things play with men! I stamped there, madly wroth with Alva, with Vitelli, with Orange, with Cornput, with Zouch, with myself—ay, and with her at last! God help me, with her! And while I stormed there in a mad, lonely rage there came floating up to me, borne on a sweet, low voice, an old French song:

"A lad came up across the down;
Heigho, the folly!
A lass came out beyond the town.
Heigho, the folly!"

It was Gabrielle! God in heaven, it was Gabrielle!

"His brow was dark, his step was slow:
Heigho, the folly!
She begged him, weeping, tell his woe.
Heigho, the folly!

'Alack!' quo' he, 'mine honour's lost;'
(Heigho, his folly!)
'A murky blot my shield has crossed.'
(Heigho, his folly!)

'All all believe me traitor knave; '
(Heigho, his folly!)
'Take back, my love, the love you gave.'
(Heigho, his folly!)"

She stopt for a moment, and then, in a voice very low, but thrilling through wall and gate of that Dutch prison-house, she sang:

"The tear strayed, darkling, in her eye;
(Heigho, her folly!)
'Believe who will, yet will not I.'
(Heigho, her folly!)

'My love I gave for good, for ill;'
(Heigho, her folly!)
'For good, for ill, yours am I still.'
(Heigho, her folly!)"

The words died away, and I fell into a chair and sat looking at the floor. So I was wrong, wrong, wrong! Oh, I ought to have known her love better! In that dingy room I began to hum the words over again, with a smile on my face. Yes, indeed I might have known. You cannot forgive me, young mistress? Well, I do not blame you; but she forgave me long ago, as you will perhaps in your turn, when need comes. What did anything matter now? Whether I lived or died her love was mine. Oh, gentlemen of the sword, you at least may guess how glad I was my honour was my own too!

But with my rejoicings my tale has little to do, and for them you care perhaps even less. I too love a brief tale. I love to know what men did.

When he left me Zouch sought out Gaspar at the burgomaster's house, and flung into the room (Gaspar told me the tale) with a rattling oath.

"Ach, give God the glory, quartermaster," quoth Gaspar, though indeed he is free enough with oaths himself.

"God, say you?" cried Zouch, and another storm of swearing burst.

"Teufel! did you come here to teach me your oaths? Or are ye holding a commination service? Eh?"

"Is the captain mad, or am I? Tell me that."

"Ach!——I should say you, my friend!"

"You would, would you?" And the oaths broke out again.

"Ten thousand fiends! You may swear at yourself, or the devil who taught you, till you choke; but, by your own friend, the fiend, you shall not swear at me! Devil of devils! sit down and talk sense!" and Gaspar pushed him into a chair. Sobered a little, Zouch wiped his face and began:

"I have been to the prison, lieutenant——"

"And a very good place for you!" grunted Gaspar. "Go on!"

"To see the captain. By the fiend! I never thought he was such a fool!"

"Ach! so. You did not agree, then. Well?"

"I offered to take him out of this fool Cornput's hands——"

"Ach, did you! By whose orders?"

"By the fiend! my own, lieutenant. Oh, you may spare your anger—he refused. The cursed fool refused."

Gaspar chuckled.

"Oh, you laugh?" cried Zouch. "I tell you, lieutenant, you were one of those that judged him. They say you were one of those that condemned him; and some of us are wondering if you are looking out for dead men's shoes."

"Ach! the wise quartermaster!" grunted Gaspar.

"And if you are I can tell you you are out in your reckoning. I would see you in hell before I let you step into the captain's shoes, when you had murdered him!"

"Ach, the brave Zouch!" grunted Gaspar. "My foot is large for the captain's shoes, my friend."

"Then who is to lead us, in the fiend's name? Are you playing the Frenchman's game. That oily Vermeil?"

"Ach, no," grunted Gaspar quickly.

"Then what is to happen?"

"Gott! Do I rule the world? But, my friend, the captain is not hanged yet."

"If they think him guilty, and they will think him guilty, these fools of Dutchmen, hanged he will be. That is what I told him. But the fool says he will stand by the judgment of Orange."

"So, so," grunted Gaspar. "I never believed that letter. It is a lie, then."

"You think he is not guilty?"

"He seems to think so; and, God in heaven, he should know best."

"What do we care whether or no? What odds to us whether he sought to murder Orange or not?"

"Much—to me," quoth Gaspar.

"And none to us, by the fiend! He has led us well before, and we want him to lead us again."

"But I led the escort," quoth Gaspar; "and I want to know, I want to know very much, my good quartermaster, who sent the Spaniards to Veermut Bridge."

"’S wounds! you are all mad," cried Zouch angrily, and burst out of the room.

Gaspar sat silent for some time after he had gone, with his foot kicking at the table leg.

"Cui bono fuerit?" he muttered to himself. "The wise old Roman! Gott! he knew his world: who takes the pay? Eh, my good quartermaster, who takes the pay?"

CHAPTER XIII

THE GARDEN AGAIN

Gabrielle had sung her song to me, there in the lonely alley behind the prison, and she went back slowly to the burgomaster's house. She left me so exultant that for the moment I wished nothing more, but her own heart was very heavy. They tell us women bear heavy sorrow better than men; but cordieu! I think it is because they have so much -that they learn to bear it quietly, and the grief that makes a man cry out, goes deeper, too deep in a woman. It is only the little things that women tell of.

She went back sad-eyed, and in the house met her father.

"I have written to the Prince, Gabrielle," said he.

"Father, you think—you believe he will take your word?" she cried.

"I cannot give my word when I know nothing," St. Trond answered. "I have said I did not believe John Newstead capable of this, and that Colonel van Cornput seemed to me over hasty before the trial began. But the evidence has gone to the Prince too, and he must be the judge."

"But he must be saved! The Prince must save him!"

"The Prince is just," said St. Trond.

"When he has done so much, to condemn him on a lying paper like that! Oh, I hate Colonel van Cornput!"

"He did what he thought right," St. Trond repeated.

"I hate him! I hate him!" she cried, stamping her foot. "Oh, why did this thing ever come? He had freed us from the Spaniards, and I thought our troubles were over. And then this—this dreadful thing—the bravest man in Breuthe—oh, it is hard, hard. And no one knows how it will end—it is all dark! And I—I—ah, I cannot help him!" she sobbed.

"Shall not the Judge of all the earth do right?" said St. Trond slowly.

She went to her own room and lay on the bed and wept. Then the fancy took her to go out into the garden and sit again on that stone seat in the wall, where not many days ago she sat for the first time at my side. She had not been there long when Vermeil came up and swept her a low bow.

"Mademoiselle, I have come but to tell you that I in my feeble way have been doing my best to save our captain," quoth he.

"Ah! you—you were not one of those who tried him?"

"Indeed no, mademoiselle: that honour was reserved for my lieutenant. Perhaps if I had been one of those wise judges I should have thought death a punishment over heavy for the man who saved Breuthe."

"What have you done?" she asked eagerly.

"Why, I have stated my views, with such clearness as I was capable of, to Colonel van Cornput, our worthy and wise Governor. I have ventured to write a letter to our General, the Prince of Orange, and I have been striving to obtain a petition from our men begging that the death penalty may be spared. And let me tell you, mademoiselle, a petition from two hundred men-at-arms is not to be treated lightly."

"Do you hope to save him?" she cried.

"Indeed, mademoiselle—may I sit?—I am not without hopes, though candour compels me to admit that the offence is not a small one, and the Prince may view an attempt on his own life less lightly than I," quoth Vermeil, crossing his legs and looking sideways at her face.

"What? You—you too think him guilty?" cried Gabrielle.

"Mademoiselle, I should be as willing as you to believe him innocent!" said Vermeil quickly. "Ah! it grates upon my conscience to think that my captain should be a traitor!" Gabrielle drew close into a corner of the seat. "I would not believe it at first: I cried out that it could not be! I drove from the room the man who told me! I quarrelled with Gaspar! We all but fought! But, mademoiselle, the facts, ah! the facts are too strong. He is a traitor. No captain of mine can he ever be again. I do not ask much from my leaders, but indeed, mademoiselle, honour I must have! What is a soldier without honour? And yet, and yet, mademoiselle, I loved the man, and because I loved him, and because he has fought well before he forgot his faith, I have done what I could to save him!" He stopped and looked at her, but she made no answer. "I fancied, mademoiselle," he went on; "1 fancied that you too had thought well of him, and you too might be glad to know there were efforts afoot to save him. Those efforts I will make to the utmost of my strength. It may be wrong to try to save a traitor's life; perhaps it is—I am no preacher, only a soldier and a man. His punishment will be heavy enough in life; it is not needful to take that too. Never again can he be our leader; dishonoured and dismissed, he must go his own way," and Vermeil's voice broke. "Yet, is it not just?" he cried sharply. "Is it not just that he should pay for the pain he has given others? I loved the man; I made him a very idol, and now he has shown me that my love, my honour, were ill-bestowed. Ah! there is pain in that, mademoiselle, such pain as I pray heaven you may never know."

"I have never known it," she cried quickly.

"I am glad, mademoiselle. May I go on?"

"Is there more?" she asked.

"Thus far, mademoiselle, I have answered your questions——"

"Why should he have done it?" she broke in.

"He had done Alva much harm, mademoiselle. He thought, as I guess, that it would be well to be on fair terms with Alva again, and this was the way he chose."

"In fear of Alva?" she cried. Vermeil bowed.

"And now, mademoiselle, I have answered your questions; will you let me ask one of you? I have been laying my mind bare to you to-day, and you see it and may judge it for what it is. You know my actions: I have shown you my thoughts, my feelings, my inmost desires. Ah! mademoiselle, save one, save one! And that—can you guess it?—perhaps—that is to be able to say, Here am I who have fought in fifty fights and never lost one, here am I, the husband of Gabrielle!"

He ended with a flourish of his hand and a bow. She sat silent for a moment and then turned:

"I will tell you," she said, looking him full in the face. "I will answer you when you have set your captain free!"

He started back, and his colour changed. His eyes flashed angrily at her, and he caught at her arm. A step sounded on the path; he started, rose and walked quickly into the house. Then, with a long sigh of relief, Gabrielle turned, to see Gaspar standing over her, with his lips curled into a sneer.

"So times are changed, eh, mistress?" said he gruffly, looking from her to Vermeil's retreating figure.

"May I choose my companions, sir?" she asked coldly.

"Gott! yes, choose the devil if you like. I wonder how the captain ever came to choose you?"

"Do you dare to taunt me? You who condemned him to death?" she cried.

"The arrow goes by, mistress. Talk of what you know. Or what you see—like me. I did no condemning."

"You—you did not think him guilty?" she cried.

"God in heaven! as if you cared! What odds to a light o' love who is in another man's arms in two days?"

"‘So times are changed, eh, mistress?' said he gruffly."

"It is a lie!" she cried, springing up and fronting him. "It is a lie! I would not have him touch me with a finger-tip!"

"So; he was close enough," grunted Gaspar. "Well, if I was wrong I take it back. Only, if you want to be worth the captain's taking, mistress, keep clear of Vermeil."

"Worthy of him?" she asked. "You believe in him still, then?" she cried quickly.

"Even so, mistress."

"Ah!" she caught his arm eagerly. "I am glad, very glad. Tell me why!" she cried, looking up into his face.

"Why? I am no speech-maker. Because I doubt that fine letter now. Because I did not think the captain would send me to be murdered—all that is idle. Because when that fool Zouch offered to take him out of prison he would not go. Is that like a guilty man?"

"Then it is proved, it is proved!" she cried gladly.

"Ach, no. What would our wise Cornput say to Zouch? Tell him it was all a trick to prove the captain's innocence, a trick he saw through, the wise Cornput. No; if you want to prove him innocent, don't tell me he is not the traitor, tell me who is!"

"And I can tell you!" she cried. "That man—the Frenchman——"

"Vermeil? Ach, I believe you. Prove it."

"He came to me when I was sitting here, and he began to talk of all he had done for—for him; and then he went on to say he thought him guilty; he said he had loved him, oh, he put in a lot of words, but they were false, false! And I let him go on and on, and asked him questions, and then at last—at last he asked me to marry him."

"Cui bono fuerit?" grunted Gaspar. "Ach, the wise Roman! But is that all, mistress?"

"He said that the reason for betraying the Prince was fear of Alva. Fear would not——"

"Move the captain? Ach, no; but 'tis the very thing to move Vermeil! It seems you have used some of the serpent's wisdom, eh, mistress?"

"I love him," she said, and Gaspar looked down at her and put his big red hand on her golden hair.

"I think he chose well, lass," said he quietly.

"Is it enough?" she asked.

"Ach, no. It is not doubts, and chances, and hints we want. They might serve to save his life. How much would he or you care for life if nine in ten think him a traitor?"

"You will not give him up!" she cried.

"By almighty God! No," he thundered. "But what to do next? I could kill Vermeil to-night—if that were useful. But dead men are dumb. And the letter? That was Alva's own game, I guess. Curse the crafty knave!"

A servant came down the garden and gave him a letter.

"Teufel! what's this? Host of the Yellow Pig? New arrival of old Rhenish wine? To the honourable Lieutentant Gaspar Wiederman? Hoping for his favour? Very best favour? Favour—flavour? Is the fool turned poet? Is this a time——? Ach, God in heaven!——Mine host, mine host, I will wait on the Yellow Pig!" and he ran off down the garden, leaving Gabrielle standing amazed.

CHAPTER XIV

THE GUESTS OF THE YELLOW PIG

At the corner of the street of the tanners, where it leaves the market-place, stands the hostelry of the Yellow Pig. Mighty fine it is nowadays, with its front built all of stone, and its rooms lofty and light; but to me and Gaspar—will you laugh if I say to Gabrielle too?—to us the Yellow Pig is timber and brick, with a low dark little room up a steep flight of stairs for its chief guest-chamber.

"Ah, sir, your valour has received my humble letter?"

"Never mind your humble letter, I want your Rhenish wine," quoth Gaspar.

"You shall have it, most noble, you shall have it ere the words are a minute old. At great risk and mighty cost it has been brought through the Spaniards' army. If only they had known how precious——'

"Gott! I know Vitelli has a paunch. Fetch it!"

"It is here, sir, at your bidding, and if you do not find it the noblest wine you ever tasted, why call me——"

"Draw the cork, fool!" cried Gaspar.

"Why, call me—call me—call me—call me," quoth the innkeeper, struggling with the bottle, "call me an ass!" The cork came out, and, wiping the bottle neck, he poured out a full goblet. Gaspar drank it.

"Ah!—yes, it's wine!" he grunted.

"Is it not a noble wine, my noble sir? Consider the flavour, consider the colour, consider the odour! Is it not a drink for the gods?"

"They like it strong, then," quoth Gaspar. "And so do I. How much is there?"

"There is enough, most valiant, oh, enough to drown you—gallons—hogsheads—oceans. Never has the Yellow Pig run dry save in that distressing siege. O most illustrious, it played the devil with the busi- ness. The wine we had was given to the sick; and the sick got well and forgot the score. Even the good Samaritan paid the innkeeper, most noble; but our modern Samaritans, they bring you the sick and they keep their pence in their pockets. Very virtuous Samaritans; but we pay their bill."

While he ran on, Gaspar finished the bottle.

"Fetch up your wine to the room above," quoth Gaspar. "And send—ach! no, I will go myself!"

"All the wine, most illustrious?"

"Teufel! yes, all the wine," cried Gaspar, and ran off.

"But there are gallons—hogsheads——" began the innkeeper. "Oh, he has gone! Well, well, if he can drink it, let him i' God's name. These Germans pay much better drunk!"

Down the market-place Gaspar ran bare-headed, and the folk in the streets sprang out of his way and stood against the wall, looking after him in stolid surprise. But Gaspar ran, heedless of round-eyed Dutch- men, till he was all but back at the burgo- master's again, and there in the street he met Vermeil.

"Ach, so there you are," he cried. "Come on, come on, my brave little man. Come and embrace the Yellow Pig."

"Sangdieu! are you drunk?"

"Teufel! no, not yet; we will be soon. Ah, my little Frenchman, there is liquor come straight from heaven—or the Rhineland—'tis all one. The Yellow Pig bleeds red wine; come on, come and worship at the shrine of the Yellow Pig," and Gaspar caught his arm and dragged him along.

"You shall taste, ach! such wine as we have not tasted since we came into this country of frogs. Teufel! I drank a bottle in two minutes, and we'll drink a hogshead in an hour!"

The two swaggered along back, and Vermeil was not loth to go, for he loved wine as well as Gaspar. And so in due course they came to the inn.

"Your valours will find the wine and the flagons set out, most noble, in the upper room. If something to eat, now—say a lamprey, now—or a wild duck roast, now—or——"

"Or the devil in hell, now! The wine's enough—if there is enough. Up you go, my little man."

Up they went into the dark room with the black rafters scarce higher than Vermeil's head. Gaspar filled a cup:

"There, drink that, and say if it isn't the divinest liquor ever laid the dust in your gullet."

"Ah!—yes, it's good!" quoth Vermeil.

"Good? Don't insult it with a word like that Try again: there! Good, eh? It's divine, it's spiritual, it's inspiration, it's all the blessings in one, it's battle and sword-play and sudden death, it's Rhenish! And fair's fair; come, I'll have a goblet now! Sit down to it, man! Drink away and I'll sing you a song!"

And waving the goblet round his head Gaspar began to roar out a German catch:

"Up with the goblet and down with the wine;
Drink, ho!
Who dines on red Rhenish he knows not to pine;
Who sups on red Rhenish three suns on him shine;
Drink, ho!"

"Drink to it, drink to it, and give me the other bottle. You don't take your share, man. More for me. Come, give us a song yourself! Why, you're as dull as that fool the captain! What, you won't? Well, I'll give you another. Pass me the other bottle first! Ah … now then:

"When the lass she did beg me to stay,
I gave her for answer a 'nay.'
When the lass she made bold with her charms,
I caught her at once in my arms;
And I kissed her and said,
'Not until we are wed
Go I thirsty to bed,
Or bear a dry mouth without wine!'

"Eh, Henri, my boy, d'ye take me, d'ye take me? 'Without wine'—ha, ha—or 'without whine,' see? Two words—make a difference—see? Pass me the other bottle! Ah! … And now let's be serious. Drink, man, drink! What do you think I brought you for? Not to sit and look at me like a damned heap o' lime! And now let's be serious! Captain—ach, captain is in prison—and we're here, and so is the wine. Drink, man, drink! What I want to know is who is to be captain now? See? He is in prison, and—give me the bottle—and there's no captain. Must be a captain! Must be a captain! Never went without a captain before. Who's to be captain, eh?" and Gaspar leered at him drunkenly over the empty bottles. The wine was getting into both their heads, but it made Vermeil sullen at first, while it loosed Gaspar's tongue.

"Well, I don't know," Gaspar went on. "Take some more wine. Who's to be captain? Not I. Teufel! I'm well enough suited. Too much trouble for me. I like the fighting well enough. But the plotting! Ach! Drink, man, drink! And pass me the bottle!"

"How d'ye know we want a captain?" cried Vermeil.

"Teufel! He's as good as hanged. What odds? He was too good for me. Now, I like a man who'll drink a bit, and curse a bit, and sing a good song, and be a jolly—good——fellow," quoth Gaspar, nodding his head sagely at each word.

"Well, then, if you don't like the job, Gaspar, and you won't take it yourself, why, somebody else must!" said Vermeil.

"Ach, yes," Gaspar answered knowingly. "Gott! yes, somebody else must. Of course, somebody else must."

Vermeil looked at him unsteadily. He was certainly very drunk. And Vermeil, why, he was perfectly sober. He knew it.

"And why not your humble servant, Henri Vermeil? Eh, Gaspar?"

Gaspar shook his head jerkily.

"No, no, not you, Henri, my lad, not you. Why, curse it, I come before you! Not you!"

"And why not I?" cried Vermeil angrily. "Why not I, Gaspar? You said you didn't want the place. Well, am I not good enough for it? Sangdieu! a better man than Jack Newstead, at least."

"You may be—better man—John Newstead. No better man—Gaspar Wiederman. There, there—more wine."

Vermeil tossed off another goblet.

"A better man than either, sangdieu!" he cried. The wine was making him quarrelsome. "See here, the captain's to be hanged; well, let the better man have his place."

"Jus' so; what I say; let better man—have his place," quoth Gaspar, nodding wisely.

"And I say I am the better man!" cried Vermeil, filling the goblet again.

"And I say—you're not," grunted Gaspar, stolidly reaching out for the bottle.

"See here, then: who put it into his head to save Breuthe by selling it? You or I? Eh, you or I? You or I?" Vermeil said, his voice rising to a scream at the last. Gaspar laughed stupidly.

"He didn't—didn't do it—your way, anyhow."

"No, because he was a fool. Where shall we be when Alva has come back again, eh? Tell me that! Tell me that, you better man!" he yelled.

"Hell, p'raps," quoth Gaspar.

"Who's to get you out of that scrape? Can you do it, Gaspar, you better man?"

"What, out of hell?" said Gaspar dully.

"Out of Alva's hands, fool!"

"Same thing, same thing," grunted Gaspar. "But can you, eh, my wi-wi-wiseacre?" and he looked at Vermeil with drunken cunning. Vermeil laughed.

"Oh yes, my clever lieutenant, I can," he cried exultingly. "I, Henri Vermeil, whose counsel that fool Newstead wouldn't listen to; I've had all the kicks and none of the pay long enough. Let him try how he likes the kicks now, or a halter! A halter! I should like to see him swinging, wriggling in the sunlight, with the jerky shadows on the ground, and the people hissing, and that fool of a girl watching him kick! And I will see it, sangdieu! I'll see it yet!"

"What—you talking about?" grunted Gaspar. "How—about Alva?"

Vermeil laughed and drank again.

"Oh, Alva? My good friend, Gaspar, I can twist Ferdinando Alvarez de Toledo round my finger like that girl's curls——"

"Ho, ho, very fine!" laughed Gaspar. Vermeil turned on him.

"You think yourself very clever—better man than I, and the rest of it. I tell you it was only the devil's own luck brought you back alive out of the trap we laid!"

"Trap—what trap?" grunted Gaspar. "Give me the wine!" Vermeil filled his own goblet and passed the bottle.

"The trap we laid for you at Veermut, my noble lieutenant," cried Vermeil, and he laughed and drank again. "You sent me with dispatches to Orange, as if I were an orderly, you and your precious captain. And, by Heaven! you paid for the insult."

"Paid for what?" quoth Gaspar. "Here am I," and he tried to rise, but fell back in his chair.

"And where's he, eh, Gaspar? Where's he? 'Twas I told Vitelli to write the letter, 'twas I laid the whole plan, and they were mad for revenge for Breuthe, and did as they were bid. Sangdieu!it's better to do as I bid, Gaspar! The two fools, Ferdinando and Vitelli, they danced when I showed them the way. Yes, I showed them, I! Eh, Gaspar, who's the better man?"

"Well, well, peace—peace and qu-quietness. Drink your wine—drink your wine," grunted Gaspar. "Give me—give me—bottle! No' that one. Horrid dirty one. Give me the other; give it me, will you?" He rose to get it himself, staggered round the table, and reached over Vermeil's shoulder with an un- steady hand. Then he staggered and fell on top of Vermeil, and the two rolled on the floor together. Vermeil lay stunned, but Gaspar rose to his feet and dashed out of the room.

"Ach, give me some water," he cried. "Teufel! not a mug, you fool—a bucket, a tub, a river!"

They brought him a bucket and he dipt his head in and held it under the water.

"Ah—phew! 'Twas good wine!" he flung down a handful of ducats on the table. "Pay yourself, my friend," and he turned to go out.

"The other gentleman, most noble?" quoth the host.

"The other—umph! Let him lie—as yet," quoth Gaspar, and hurried away.

Back to the burgomaster's house once again he hurried through the dark deserted streets.

"Mistress de St. Trond, woman: tell her I wait on her," he said gruffly to a serving-maid.

"In that state!" she cried. "Pho! a pretty thing." For his hair and beard were wet and bedraggled, and his hands and coat bore the wine-stains thick and wet: and he reeked, you may swear, of Rhenish.

"Ten thousand fiends! yes, in this state. Go when you are bid," he thundered, and the woman turned and fairly fled from him. Doubtless he was a terrible sight enough to a serving-maid. Six feet and a half of him leaning menacingly forward, a huge fist whistling through the air, a red face flushed dark with the wine looking out of a ring of tangled, matted yellow hair and beard, and two big grey eyes flashing in the candle-light: it was enough to frighten a serving-maid.

She was soon back again, and stood at the other end of the passage beckoning to him.

"She will see you: the second door up-stairs," she cried from afar and ran away. I guess she thought Gabrielle far gone in madness.

Gaspar ran up the stairs hot-foot and burst in, and Gabrielle sprang forward, crying:

"What is it? What is it?" and caught his arm. She was not frightened.

"‘It came to pass that behold a man came out of the camp from Saul with his clothes rent and earth upon his head.' Gott! do you remember what he said, mistress?" cried Gaspar.

"He is not dead?" she cried.

"Nor shall be. But, mistress, that man boasted—and our man has boasted too, and, God in heaven! we will fall upon him like David!"

"He—that man—has confessed?" she asked eagerly.

"Ach, you might call it confession. Likely he would not. When wine comes in, the truth comes out, mistress. Teufel! I put the wine in, and he brought the truth out."

"Ah! then he is safe, safe at last!" she murmured, and she sank into a chair.

"Safe? He has been safe from the first. I want this lie shown for what it is, and now I know how to do it."

"Let me help!" she cried eagerly. "I would have helped now if you had let me!"

"It was more in my way than yours," quoth Gaspar with a chuckle. "But, mistress, checkmate is yet to call! He told me he taught Vitelli to write the letter, and he sent the Spaniards to Veermut. But the fool was half drunk, and they might say I was too. There is still a chance for Vermeil to save his own dirty hide, and, by God! when I play, I play to win!"

"Yes, yes," she cried. "What can I do?"

"The fool—bah! fool is too good a name—the rat lies there half drunk, half stunned, half asleep, and when he wakes his head will be like a bee-hive. So; let us send him a letter from his friend, Vitelli!" and Gaspar sat himself down and chuckled. She looked at him wondering, and he went on, leaning across the table towards her: "If I took it—I am too big to be anybody but myself. If one of our knaves took it, he knows their faces to a man. The burghers are fools. Who will bear the sign-manual of VitelliofCetona?"

Her eyes began to sparkle.

"If I went——" she began.

"Gott! no. Do you think he has forgotten you? Have you no man you can trust?"

"Only my father," she said. "The others—why, you are one, and——"

"Yes, I know the other!" cried Gaspar. "Your father—umph!" and he shrugged his shoulders and frowned.

"But if I went," she persisted, "I could go in in soldier's clothes, with a cloak. I am sure he would not know me. I am sure, quite sure!"

"He is a dangerous rascal to cheat," grunted Gaspar.

"Do you think I care for danger?" she cried.

Gaspar sat silent, tugging at his beard and gazing steadily at the wall. At the last:

"We all trot when the devil drives," quoth he. "If you know no man——"

"There is none," she cried quickly.

"Then you must be the man," said Gaspar. "See here—have you paper? I could write once in the old days when they thought I was to be a scholar. How is it Master Chiapin writes? Ay, like a spider, letter-tails yards long. So," he made a few trials on the paper while Gabrielle looked eagerly over his shoulder.

"My friend, the work has been done so well that I send by the bearer some wages. Give the said bearer a token to show you have had them. And now he that hindered is taken out of the way, tell the bearer by word of mouth when we may expect to see you leading your company back to us." "No Names Are Best."

So he wrote, and looked at his handiwork with a placid smile. He folded it and sealed it with a plain seal. For a moment he felt about his clothes and then flung a fat purse on the table. Then he turned to Gabrielle. "See now," he said, "he will give you an answer, and then, then we have him on the hip."

While I lay in the hot foul room in the prison tossing, sleepless, to and fro the trap was baited and laid. While I rose and peered through the tiny grated window to see the first dawn in the east there came to the Yellow Pig two early guests, and the bigger knocked at the door. Mine host opened it at last, unkempt and half undressed.

"A pretty time to rouse—oh, it is you, most noble? The other gentleman, he is asleep still—your friend upstairs. Ah! and so was I five minutes ago!"

"My—friend? Hold your chattering tongue," quoth Gaspar softly, and shook him by the shoulders. "So, are you awake now? Go up to that that—gentleman—wake him: tell him there is a messenger asking for him who will tell neither his name nor his business. If you mention me I will spit you like a chicken! Say what I tell you, and come back when you have said it."

"But, sir, your valour——"

"Curse my valour! Up with you!"

The good man went up: there was a little noise. Then came Vermeil's voice, thick and hoarse, in slow, puzzled questioning. And then back mine host.

"Come out the minute you have his answer," muttered Gaspar, and took his com- panion to the foot of the stairs. He pulled the innkeeper to him, and whispered in his ear—

"Come and listen by the door, and remember what you hear."

They went up.

"Softly, fool, softly!" grunted Gaspar under his breath.

"I bring you this," said the messenger gruffly to Vermeil, drawing a purse from under a cloak, and giving him a letter.

"And, sangdieu! who are you?" asked Vermeil.

"Read it," quoth the messenger.

Vermeil tore open the letter, and read it. It took him a long time, for his head was humming, and the letters danced up and down before his eyes. At last he made it out, and took up the purse with a laugh. He poured out the money on the table, and tried to count it once or twice. At last he gave it up in despair, and turned to the messenger.

"It looks a lot," he said stupidly.

"You have done a lot," the messenger answered.

"So I have, so I have. We have Newstead out of the way at last. Tell your master—tell your master—that I will bring all the men into the trenches at Alkmaar before two weeks are out. If that fool Newstead had not come up, tell him I would have let those cursed burgher pikemen fall into his hands on the day—the day—curse this head!—the day his fools let the Prince escape."

"Vermeil made a step forward, and tore back the cloak"

"The token for the money?" said the messenger.

"Ah, yes! Curse it; I can't count it. 'Received the money—Vermeil.' There; I daresay there is not too much for the job. There! Come now, what does Vitelli think of Newstead? I told him the man was a fool. But Vitelli was too anxious about him to believe that. What does he think now?"

"He thinks John Newstead is a good soldier," said the messenger.

"Oh, does he?" cried Vermeil, with an angry laugh. "And what do you think yourself, my friend?"

"I think so, too," said the messenger slowly. Just then the sunlight broke in at the window, and the messenger stepped aside.

"Oh, you do, too. Well, I tell you you are both wrong. He is the veriest fool that ever led a free company, and would be the biggest knave too if he had the brains."

I suppose she flushed, or her lips moved. At least, Vermeil made a step forward, and tore back the cloak.

"Sangdieu! So it was you, his leman, was it?" and he drew his sword.

"It was I!" she cried. "I! I!" springing back, facing him still. He rushed at her, the door burst open, and Gaspar put her behind him with one sweep of his arm, and parried Vermeil's thrust.

"Not captain yet," he grunted, and Vermeil fell back against the wall. Another moment, and Vermeil rushed at him again, mad with rage, and Gaspar coolly put his thrusts by on this side and that, till he drew back again foiled. Again and again he dashed at the doorway, and again and again Gaspar pushed him back.

"Ach! who is the better man?" grunted Gaspar, and now he attacked in his turn, and drove Vermeil backwards round and round the room.

"Who is the better man?" he asked again, and Vermeil flashed hate at him from bloodshot eyes.

"Shall I call a guard, your honour?" cried the innkeeper from the doorway.

"Guard? Gott! No," grunted Gaspar, a grim smile on his face as he played with his foe. Round the room they went once more, and then came a quick flash of steel, Vermeil's sword crashed against the wall, and Gaspar, flinging his own away, jumped at him and sent him reeling to the ground. And then, with Gaspar's knee on his chest and Gaspar's hands at his throat, he heard Gaspar say:

"See him swinging, wriggling in the sunlight, with the jerky shadows on the ground! Ach! So. Now you may call a guard."

CHAPTER XV

THE JUSTICE OF DIEDRICH SONOY

That very morning rode into the town Diedrich Sonoy, Governor of North Holland, and summoned certain people to attend on him at once Colonel van Cornput Gaspar, the burgomaster, and two worthy aldermen.

"I have called you together, gentlemen, to take into consideration the case of John Newstead, accused by Colonel van Cornput of treason," said Sonoy.

"Nay, sir, judged by me," cried Cornput.

"And accused, I think, gentlemen? You, who assisted at the trial, may perhaps inform me?" said Sonoy drily.

"True enough," quoth Gaspar.

"But, sir, I am at a loss to understand why this trial is to be repeated," said Cornput.

"Do you question the orders of the Prince, sir?"

"No; but I am a man set in authority——"

"And a man under authority," quoth Sonoy. "Enough. I came to do, and not to quarrel with any man. You are those who judged John Newstead. I learn that you are all of one mind as to his guilt, but differed as to the sentence."

"Ach, we were of one mind," grunted Gaspar.

"So I have heard. And now, gentlemen, I recognise that this letter"—he tapped it with his finger—"that this letter is evidence of the strongest. So far, well or ill. But this is all."

"And enough," cried Cornput.

"Ay, 'tis enough," quoth Gaspar, with a chuckle.

"You take it lightly, gentlemen. I gather that you made no further inquiries, Colonel van Cornput?"

"What need of more?" cried Cornput.

"Why did you not try to obtain confirmation in other ways?"

"Because I mistrusted the man from the day he rode into Delft, and in this fine scheme for saving Breuthe I saw only a traitor, found out, atoning by a second treason. Then, when this came into my hands, was I not to use a weapon put into my hands by God?"

"Viâ Vitelli," grunted Gaspar.

"Silence!" said Sonoy sharply. "Take care, Colonel van Cornput, that you do not mistake your own desires for God's. I ask you again, why did you seek for no further evidence among the soldiers? Why did you not question Zouch, the quartermaster, Henri Vermeil, the——"

"The traitor!" cried Gaspar. "The traitor himself! He sent the Spaniards to Veermut. He taught Vitelli to write this letter."

They looked at him, all amazed, and Sonoy's jaw fell, and Cornput's face was like the faces of the damned.

"Your evidence, your evidence," said Sonoy.

"My evidence? Myself, Mistress Gabrielle de St. Trond, and the Yellow Pig!"

"Do not jest with me, sir," cried Sonoy.

"Not a whit," quoth Gaspar. And then he told them the tale, there, in the big justice-room at the town-hall, rolling it out with strange oaths and sharp twists of speech, flourishing his fist under the poor burgomaster's nose, and crashing his hand down on the table till the papers jumped and fluttered away and the windows rattled.

"And so he's all ready for hanging! Gott! he won't stretch the rope far," grunted Gaspar at last.

"This is the Lord's doing, and it is marvellous in our eyes!" said the burgomaster slowly.

"Umph!" said Gaspar.

"Send for the two prisoners," quoth Sonoy, "and send for your witnesses. This is the hall of justice, and justice I will do and justice I will have to the last hair's weight."

When I came into the big, dimly-lighted room, and saw my judges of a few days before, with Sonoy added to them, I thought it was to hear Cornput's doom against me allowed, and I drew myself up and stiffened my shoulders. At least they should see I did not fear man. But as I looked at them I saw Gaspar's great sides shaking. I glanced at his face, and cordieu! I will swear he winked.

There was a bustle at the back of the room, and I heard one of my knaves crying:

"Come along, monsieur, la-bas to the scaffold—trip it gaily! Oh, here we are!" and Vermeil came in between two of our best men. I looked round, and my eyebrows went up in surprise. Vermeil gave me one side glance from his green eyes, and I guessed—oh, I guessed much then! Silence succeeded, till at last came in two others—a little fat man in an apron, pleased with himself but rather frightened of the rest of us, and Gabrielle! The dark blue eyes met mine, and I forgot there was a court there, forgot I was under sentence of death, forgot everything but those deep dark eyes. Then she looked away, and the blood surged up her white neck, and a blush passed over all her face and hid itself at last in the curls of that golden hair. Her eyelids were red. I remember thinking she must have been weeping too much. I did not know how she had spent that last night.

"Accusations have been laid against you, John Newstead, and against you, Henri Vermeil. The first charge has been heard once. You, Lieutenant Wiederman, have a statement to make about the second?" said Sonoy.

"A statement? A curse with reasons!" And Gaspar told again the story of that wine-party at the Yellow Pig, while I stood listening eagerly, with my mouth twitching into a smile. And Vermeil stood like the devil's ghost. The gruff voice went on, and he told of the plan that was laid in Gabrielle's room, and my head went round and round in a whirl. Gaspar stopped.

"The host of the Yellow Pig," said Sonoy sharply, while I stood like a man in a dream, and Vermeil bit his lip hard and clenched his hands.

But there was a scuffle at the door, and in burst Zouch and half-a-dozen men.

"See here, Master Governor," he cried, "you want evidence, and I bring you some. I went to the captain in prison, and offered to take him out, but the cursed fool would not come——" Zouch paused for breath, and Gabrielle looked at me with a little smile that told me she knew it, and Gaspar chuckled, and Sonoy's stern face relaxed. Zouch went on: "Laugh, do you? Ho! The captain told me he would abide by the justice of Orange. Well, you seem to have found the right man now," and he scowled at Vermeil. "But, I say, let you justicers take care lest we pluck you all down by the ears

"The long-armed quartermaster!" grunted Gaspar.

"The host of the Yellow Pig," repeated Sonoy, looking at Zouch, and waving him to a seat without speaking. For Sonoy, the look was not harsh. Mine host came forward.

"Yesterday, most illustrious, I was fortunate enough to receive a large amount of best Rhenish wine——"

"Never mind the wine, little man; it's drunk," grunted Gaspar with a chuckle. Three feet away from him stood Vermeil, looking from him to me, from me to him, with sharp flashing eyes and his teeth showing, like a weasel in a trap. Jests passed by Vermeil in that hour.

"But, your honours, what happened while the wine was being drunk I know no more than if I had drunk it myself." Vermeil made a little sound in his throat. "Though, indeed, the noble lieutenant sang loudly. But after——"

Gaspar grunted out a question to Sonoy.

"Was the lieutenant sober when he went away?" said Sonoy, sharply.

"Ah! it was marvellous, most illustrious, after the wine he had drunk. He was sober as a judge!"

Gaspar looked at Sonoy, and Sonoy nodded. Then:

"Mistress Gabrielle de St. Trond," he said.

She came forward, and 1 looked away.

"I went to the Yellow Pig with a letter written in a handwriting like Chiapin Vitelli's, and a purse of money. And that man gave me a receipt for the money, thinking it came from the Spaniard. Then he said that but for Master Newstead coming up he would have let all the burghers with my father fall into Alva's hands."

"Oh, did he!" cried one of the aldermen.

"But, mistress," quoth Cornput, "but, mistress, if you went to him with this letter, how was it he did not know you?"

"I went—in soldier's clothes," she said softly, and the blush came up into her face again. For a moment she looked at me and her lips trembled, and I saw her bosom rise and fall in a long, happy sigh. Cordieu! I tell you I was glad that ever the plot came into Vermeil's head.

"Oh, in soldier's clothes!" said Cornput, with a sneer.

"Teufel! yes, and who has a better right? I tell you, my judicious colonel, but for a quicker parry than you ever dreamed of she would be dead in soldier's clothes now!"

The thing was coming home to me at last, for I had been half-dazed by it all, and such thoughts as I had were for Gabrielle. But now I began to remember little things Vermeil had done, little things Vermeil had said, that all pointed the same damning way.

Vermeil stood with his olive skin paled to a sickly colour, and his lips set firm, eyeing us sideways now and again. He knew it was death now.

"Mine host, come up, come up," grunted Gaspar.

"You were listening: did you hear what Mistress St. Trond has said?" Sonoy asked.

"By St. Boniface, yes, most noble, every word and a great deal more! Oh, your honours, such a villain I had never dreamed of!"

"Ach, never mind your dreams!" grunted Gaspar.

"Is that all, lieutenant?" Sonoy asked.

"All? Gott! no. Look, there's the rest," and Gaspar pointed out Vermeil standing there green-faced, dull-eyed, with his teeth near meeting in his lip. The stains of last night's wine, the dust of the morning's scuffle, were still on his coat, and it was torn at the collar too by Gaspar's grip.

"Henri Vermeil, have you anything to say?" Sonoy said sharply. Vermeil stood silent, with the eyes of us all fixed on him, Gaspar laughed.

Then Sonoy turned to me:

"John Newstead, you have been near suffering a great injustice. You have already borne much, and you have shown yourself a gallant gentleman and a true servant of the Prince in spite of all. We owe you much, sir, and your bearing under this charge has not lessened the debt. So far well." I turned half-confused, and saw Gabrielle's eyes dancing with joy, and a smile hovering round her lips. Sonoy did not look at her. He shifted his chair with a grating noise, and:

"Henri Vermeil," he cried, "you have been found guilty of treason against the Prince of Orange, and your own captain, and the town of Breuthe. You shall be hanged by the neck, cut down while you are still alive——" Pah! you will not wish to hear that tale told in full; but Sonoy rolled it out with unction. Still Vermeil stood silent. Gabrielle's eyes were big with horror and darkened by tears. She looked at me.

"Sir," I cried to Sonoy, "sir, if I have done any service to the Prince, then in return I ask this man's life!"

Vermeil's eyes fixed eagerly on Sonoy, and there was a little stir in the court. Diedrich Sonoy shook his head.

"The Lord do so unto me and more also if I spare you one pang," he said slowly.

And then, then, Vermeil caught a dagger from one of his guards, and turned towards me.

"Did you think I would take my life at your hands?" he cried with a last flash of hate, and he drove the dagger into his throat. But his life had not been offered him. He fell back on the floor with a dull thud, and his guards bent over him and for a moment there was silence. Then one looked up:

"A clean stroke!" said he, and there was silence again.

"Ach, I always knew he was a coward," growled Gaspar.

Rushing up the hall while we all stood amazed came a lank figure covered with mud and reeking with sweat. In his hand he carried a stick, and the stick he flung down on the table before Sonoy.

"Dispatches from Alkmaar!" he cried, and he fell on the floor and was asleep in an instant.

I started towards the table; all of us surged forward. Sonoy's voice rang out sharply:

"Let all withdraw!" he cried. "Master Newstead, I am glad to be able to command your counsel; and yours, lieutenant. You too will give us your aid, gentlemen," he said, turning to the burgomaster and Cornput. "Will you summon the Seigneur de St. Trond?" The little company, Zouch and his men, the innkeeper, Gabrielle, passed slowly out.

"Take away that dirt!" said Sonoy sharply, pointing to Vermeil's body, and two of the men took it by the feet and dragged it out.

CHAPTER XVI

THE LAST ALLY

Up to the table I came, and caught Gaspar's hand on the way, and we two men looked deep into each other's eyes. Diedrich Sonoy made room for me beside him, and shook my hand. Cornput played with the papers on the table, and would not look towards me, but the little burgomaster put his hand out timidly, and:

"If you will, sir——" he began.

"Cordieu! why not?" I cried, and I gripped his hand till his eyes watered.

"I fear we shall need the wisest counsel any man can give us," quoth Sonoy. "I wish the Prince were here." I looked at him questioning fashion. "He lies on a sick bed at Delft," quoth he.

"He is in no danger?" I said anxiously.

"Nay, I hope not: but no man can do the work of a whole nation and feel no strain."

Laurenz de St. Trond came in quickly, and Sonoy rose to greet him.

"I ask for your counsel on dispatches from Alkmaar," Sonoy began: then, seeing St. Trend's eyes on me: "Perhaps you are surprised, but——"

"Nay, I am not surprised," said St. Trond.

Gaspar had been fumbling among the papers on the table, and then in the clothes of the messenger who lay asleep on the floor.

"Teufel! where are the dispatches," he burst out. Sonoy turned.

"Hidden on him, it is likely," he said.

"Then they are under his skin," grunted Gaspar. "Come, wake up, my friend," and he shook the sleeper hard, but the fellow only grunted.

"Cordieu! let be; the man will break else!" cried I. "Why did he bring a stick, think you?" and I caught it up and looked at it. It was thick, but not over heavy. I rose, pushed back my chair, and tried to break it. Cordieu! 'twas stout as a beam. I drove the point of my dagger in and split it. At the top it was hollow, and there lay a roll of parchment. I handed it to Sonoy.

"To Diedrich Sonoy, Lieutenant-Governor of the Province of North Holland.

"We have beaten back one storming party, and they have not tried us again. Our powder is all but gone. Our food is scanty. Till the tenth day of October we may hold out. We hope for relief.

"Peter Zeraerts, Burgomaster."

Sonoy read it slowly, and our faces all grew grave. "Till the tenth day of October!" he repeated.

There was a long silence, only broken by the burgomaster's fingers tapping the table.

"The fools, the fools, why must they take sides in the summer?" grunted Gaspar at last. Sonoy waved his hand.

"If the Spaniards lost a thousand in the storm there are fifteen thousand still?" said I.

"Fifteen thousand!" answered Sonoy. "And to-day is the twenty-sixth of September."

"There is nothing to be done," quoth Cornput airily. "We must hope for the best."

"There is no best," grunted Gaspar.

"We are in God's hands," said the burgomaster.

"Like toys," grunted Gaspar.

"We might, of course, attack Don Frederico," said Cornput.

"With what? Popguns?" quoth Gaspar.

"What say you?" said Sonoy, turning to me.

"There is little to say," I answered. "Hope for the best? Yes, you may do that if you can; but I see little to hope for. To attack Don Frederico is folly—crime. There is no chance, no barest chance of success; and failure leaves Breuthe open to him."

"And yet you might have crushed Alva," said Cornput venomously.

"I might. That I was wrong is not to the purpose. There was a chance then. One thousand against three it was then; fifteen thousand to six hundred it would be now. We can do nothing."

Sonoy looked at Gaspar.

"And so say I," quoth he.

A map lay on the table by Sonoy, and I bent over it.

"We are helpless," said St. Trond sadly. The burgomaster looked up:

"We were helpless once in Breuthe," he cried.

I looked from the map to Sonoy, and I saw his eyes were on it too.

"Alva was weak; there was hope for you. There is only despair for Alkmaar," quoth Gaspar.

"There is—despair," said Sonoy slowly, without looking up, and he put his finger on the map, where a thick red line marked the end of the sea, and he moved his finger slowly along so that I saw it. To and fro his thin white finger moved, up and down the line of the coast, like a sentry on guard. We were all silent. I watched Sonoy's finger, and my eyes grew bigger, and my hands clenched as I watched it and knew what he meant. Gaspar lolled back in his chair, looking at us lazily from half-shut eyes, with a smile on his face. St. Trond gazed across the room through the window at the houses across the street; but, as I think, he did not see them. The burgomaster fidgeted to and fro, and beat the table with his hands, and shuffled and turned his eyes now to us and now to Cornput, whose whole face was curled up into a sneer at Sonoy and me. No one spoke yet, and Sonoy's finger still moved on the map.

Then Sonoy looked up into my eyes.

"There is despair!" he repeated. In truth there was, and little else in the justice-room at Breuthe then. No one answered him, and he leant back in his chair with one hand lying along the arm of it. Then he began to speak slowly in a deep resonant voice:

"We are all of one mind," said he. "No force of ours can help Alkmaar in straits like these. There is no hope in us, as you say. But do not forget—in the last resort the man who cares not what he loses must win. We have fought alone and un-allied for long. The Prince has sought help everywhere and found none. It is only one little corner of North Holland that still is free. If Alkmaar falls, that is the end." He paused for a moment, and then his voice rang out: " Gentlemen, we have one last ally; he asks our all as his price, but—the sea is stronger than Spain!"

"The sea!" cried Cornput and the burgomaster together.

"I have here a letter from the Prince in which he bids me open the sluices of the Zyp and break the dykes if Alkmaar can only be saved thus. I think the time has come to do it." Ay, William of Orange was a man. We looked at each other.

"Gott! Vitelli will run like a rabbit!" cried Gaspar.

"Well, gentlemen?" said Sonoy.

"But the damage!" cried the burgomaster. "The harvest is not in yet, and the country will be all under water."

"Naturally," grunted Gaspar.

"But consider the losses to the peasantry," cried the burgomaster.

"Think of the loss of Alkmaar," said I.

"Have you counted the cost?" said Cornput sharply. "It is well enough for those who have no stake in the country to talk glibly of ruining it," and he gave me an angry glance. "But for those of us who are Dutchmen born and bred it is too heavy a price to pay for Alkmaar."

"Has the Prince no stake in the country?" asked St. Trond quietly. Sonoy sat letting us talk our own way.

"Then you would have Alkmaar go the way of Harlem?" said I, turning on Cornput. "The sack of Harlem all but ruined Orange; what, then, of a second Harlem now? Cordieu! Try to see things as they are, Colonel van Cornput. Which is the worse? The loss of one harvest, or Alva for ever?"

"Harvest or no harvest, I know free-lances find food," quoth Cornput. "I think of the peasants whom you know only to plunder."

"This is no time for insults," I cried. "I say it will be better for the peasants themselves that Alkmaar should be saved even thus."

"Even if they all starve," snarled Cornput.

"Cordieu! Can you not see this goes further than Alkmaar? Let Alva once feel that he cannot win, and it is better than the Empire at your back!"

"That is true," said Sonoy.

"What use in driving Alva back if we ruin the land to do it?" cried Cornput.

"You like being beaten, it seems," grunted Gaspar.

"This has gone far enough, gentlemen," said Sonoy. "The question is, has the time come to carry out the orders of the Prince?"

"We have heard the letter from Alkmaar," said I. "What need of more?"

"Ach, none," grunted Gaspar.

"It must be done," quoth St. Trond.

"And you, Colonel van Cornput?" said Sonoy.

"You are all agreed, it seems. I think it folly, but I shall not oppose it."

Gaspar chuckled.

"I suppose it is wise," squeaked the burgomaster.

"Do not think that the ruin of the harvest is a little thing to me," said Sonoy. "No one will suppose that the Prince thinks it of small account; but Alkmaar comes first. It must be done."

"They will be glad to hear it in Alkmaar," grunted Gaspar. "Eh, my friend?" and he stirred the sleeping messenger with his foot. The man moved, turned over, and sat up rubbing his eyes.

"Ah! … You have the dispatches, your honour?" he said sleepily.

"Yes, we have found them. What is your name?"

"Peter van der Mey, carpenter, of Alkmaar, your honour. Will you relieve us?"

"We shall break the dykes," said Sonoy.

"Oh, then they'll run. Truly, your honour?"

"I say it. You have come here safely. Will you go back with letters from me?"

"Yes, indeed, your honour. Ah! …" and he yawned again. "I have travelled a day and a half without sleep, please your honour," he said apologetically.

"Good!" grunted Gaspar, rubbing his hands. "Any fights, friend?"

"Only once, sir. Three of Alva's Walloons. Ah! .… I had to hide the bodies."

"Teufel! Three with that stick? The brave Peter!"

"Ah! … if it please your honour … ah! … I may … sleep a little," and he fairly fell asleep while he spoke.

"Gott! he deserves a bed, the brave Peter," quoth Gaspar, and he picked the long, lean form up in his arms, and stalked off towards the door.

"Will your lieutenant take charge of the Zyp sluices?" quoth Sonoy.

"A good man for the work," said I.

"Ay, ay, I'll sit on the sluices," grunted Gaspar, looking back over his shoulder.

"You had best have a strong guard," Cornput said with a sneer, "or the peasants you think so much of will shut them for you."

"Let them try," grunted Gaspar, and went out.

"The peasants will not love being ruined." quoth Cornput.

"Oh, be silent, in God's name, sir!" cried Sonoy. "Do you think we love to ruin them?"

"Some of us, perhaps," said Cornput, with a glance at me.

"Be silent!" thundered Sonoy.

CHAPTER XVII

A CHANGED MAN

St. Trond and I walked back to the burgomaster's house together.

"The Prince is a brave man," said St. Trond.

"Cordieu! Yes. Many of his wise servants will not love him for this plan—like this fool Cornput."

"You do not love Colonel van Cornput. Indeed, you have reason. Little things take up his mind. But I too feel for the peasants."

"And do you think I do not? I am no Dutchman, like you: I look at things only as a soldier, you say. True enough; but I am not so mad as to care nothing for the loss of good corn, good cattle, good lives. I would give my right hand to save Alkmaar in another way—if it were possible."

We walked on in silence for a little way.

"Do you remember I once told you that your deeds were like those of two different men?" said St. Trond. "Now I begin to wonder if it was one man who fought for Alva, and saved the town by a plan like Alva's own; and I wonder if that man is dead, and in his place is another, who takes the blame for a folly of mine, who will not save his own life at the cost of disobedience, and who tells me that he cares for our Dutch peasantry not less than I. Would you have spoken like that three weeks ago? Or are you changed?"

"I told you before I am the same man," said I. "If I am changed—why, I did not know it."

"That may be," quoth St. Trond, and we walked on without speaking again. His words hung in my mind. A changed man? Well, I am not sure of it even now. There is much of the old free-lance spirit hangs round me still, and I do not know that I wish it away. I have never been a good man as Laurenz de St. Trond was good; my paths have not lain that way. I have done things—oh, more than one—from which St. Trond would have shrunk as fouler far than death. I have done things—and these more than one—in this same foul way, by lies and by murder—that were good—I will maintain it—good, and when done St. Trond thought more of the result than I. It is the same man that can see the good end, and that uses the foul means.

I remember talking with Gaspar once as I write now, and he sat tugging at his beard and chuckling now and again.

"Same man? Umph! Have you always seen these good ends so clear?" quoth he. "Don't be consistent and philosophical! Gott! Are men run into moulds?"

You cannot make war in white gloves, and above all, war with Alva. But have I always known what was the good end? as Gaspar asked. Well, I have loved a woman; that is much. I have loved Gabrielle; that is more.

We went into the house, and the door of the garden stood open. I saw a flutter of a pale-blue dress, and I burst out. She was hurrying away from me.

"Gabrielle!" I cried.

She did not turn, she did not even look towards me, but she flitted across the garden and sat herself down on the old stone seat.

"Well, sir," she said, with a little smile.

"How can I thank you, Gabrielle?" I said softly, and I knelt down and kissed her hand.

"Why, you might have come sooner!" she said with the tiniest pout. "And—that is my hand!"

I sprang up and caught her to me and kissed her mouth and her eyes.

"My dear love!" I said.

"Yes," she answered softly.

There was not a sound in the bare garden.

"May I sit down, please?" she said, with laughing eyes.

"Gabrielle, you must be very tired! And you have been waiting for me so long. I am very sorry, dear. You want to sleep!"

"I have been waiting very long," she said, and the smile went away and came back. "I am not tired now. Do you really want me to go?"

"Do you think so?" I asked with a laugh.

"You seem to like to look at me," she said, and I sat down beside her.

"Strange, is it not?"

"Why, I suppose—you are trying to find out my black side?" and her eyes danced.

"I am not such a fool!"

"You would not like to see it?"

"I can only see what is, Gabrielle," said I. "Do you know your father tells me I am a changed man. Are you sure you recognise me?"

"Changed?" she asked. "Yes, I seem to know you. Do you see yourself?" and she turned her eyes to mine.

"Yes, I see myself there," I said, and I kissed them.

"That shuts them up, you see."

"It's a hard world. But I have not seen myself so often there as to be sure that I see the same man."

"The man you are to me is there."

"Gabrielle, you have not let me thank you, and you saved my life!"

"Oh, that is not true, you know. But I like to hear you say it"

"And I'll say it again. You saved my life, dear!"

"No. It was your lieutenant. Oh, he is a grand man!"

"Yes, Gaspar is a friend," said I. "Praise him as much as you will, love. But you dared to go to Vermeil!"

"Ah, that man!" she cried with a sob. "And he sat here yesterday—and then in the court this morning—oh!"

She hid her face in her hands, and the sobs shook her.

"My love, my love, forget him," I cried, and I put my arm round her and stroked her hair. "There was nothing could save him. It was a quick death." But the sobbing went on, and I said no more, but drew her still closer to my side. Her tears came quickly, and she grew quieter at last. "Do you know what I think of most?" said I:

"A lad came up across the down;
Heigho, the folly!
A lass went out beyond the town;
Heigho, the folly!"

I hummed the words over, and she lifted a tear-stained face and misty eyes to mine.

"You heard?" she murmured.

"Who sang it? Was it meant for me?"

And she gave a happy sigh.

"But I did not like that verse best," I said, and I went on:

"‘My love I gave for good, for ill';
(Heigho, her folly!)
'For good, for ill, yours am I still.'
(Heigho, her folly!)"

"Yes, I sang that," she murmured. "Were you—glad?"

"Did you not mean me to be?"

"So you were?"

"So I was."

"Even when you did not know——"

"Even when I did not know whether I was to be hanged or not."

She winced a little, and then with a tearful smile:

"And are you quite happy now?" she said.

Alkmaar came into my head, and the dykes that were to be broken, but:

"Yes, I am happy," said I. "And you?"

"Oh—I! But you—you were to be always thinking of Alkmaar." You do not deceive a woman who loves you; it can only be done by a knave.

"And would you not have me think of Alkmaar?"

"Oh yes. I know you think you could have saved it. I know you did more than any other man could have done."

"But I know no man can save it now!"

"It will fall?" she cried.

"No, it will not fall. Diedrich Sonoy will break the dykes and flood the country!"

"But the farms, and the villages, and the country folk?"

"Must all be drowned together. That is why I think of Alkmaar, because we are come to despair? Oh, we shall beat Alva in the end, but how many will be left to tell the tale? Oh for five thousand men at my back, and I would save the peasantry!"

Is mine a poor love story? It may be, young mistress. Little, you say, has love to do with war and state-craft, and the things of the world. Perhaps you are right: you may be happier with nothing to think of but him: you like to believe he thinks of nothing but you. But if that is all your love means to him I hold him something less than a man. The love I put highest—cordieu! the love we put highest—is the love that makes a man do. Alkmaar came between Gabrielle and me? I forgot her in thinking of the cause? Nay, if you know that, you know more of me than either Gabrielle or I.

"I know you would save them if it could be done," said she. "But the poor country folk, like those at Veermut, where I was before you found me. It must mean death to them, even if they are not drowned. They will have no corn left!"

"Yes," I answered slowly, "yes. That is true. But the only way to save Holland is to teach Alva that we care for nothing but victory over him. It is no thing to take lightly; and do you wonder my thoughts run to Alkmaar and the peasants?"

"I would not have you forget them," said she sadly. "It seems to me terrible. But I trust you. The poor country folk!" So we went back to the house sadly.

The poor country folk!

CHAPTER XVIII

THE LATEST NEWS

On the next day, the 27th September, back to Alkmaar went the brave carpenter, Peter van der Mey, bearing dispatches from Sonoy, that bade them take heart, for the end was coming soon. The end was coming, indeed; and, now we had decided to do it, there was not one of us, I think, but shrank in his heart from breaking the dykes.

"When they light three beacons in Alkmaar I break the dykes—to put them out, I suppose. Gott! I said I would do it, and I will; but captain! captain! I will see those three beacons first, and that sober," quoth Gaspar.

"I like it no more than you," said I. "But it will drive Alva back."

"Ach, yes, there will be no Alva when I have once played with their sluices. Nor any one else, perhaps. Gott! I should like to see Vitelli swim!"

"How many men will you take?"

"Fifty will serve. I want to bring them all back. And when those fools in Alkmaar once see my beacon from the Zyp, I will be sworn their three will follow soon. Then, with broken dykes, we shall have to run without much time to look at the path, and a crowd would be in the way."

"Oh, one from you, three from them, is it so?"

"Ach, yes; our friend Diedrich is fond of fire—and water, too, it seems."

A man coming into Breuthe in the end of that September would have thought a pestilence was in the town. Men went about their work with grave faces, and passed one another in the streets without a word. A cloud of silence and gloom seemed to have settled upon us, and every night at dusk, when the day's work was done, the shrill, harsh bells rang out, and men and women hurried to their meeting-houses to listen to sermons and prayer. Then two hours or more later they would come out into the darkness and hurry home: the women clung tight to the arms of the men, looking up into their faces, and the stolid flat-cheeked burghers pressed their thick lips together and had no comfort to give.

There was no comfort; there could be no comfort till the deed was done and the sea had washed Alva away, ay, and much else besides—till the waves had come in over the fair golden fields and the trim homesteads with their little square beds of flowers; till the waves had gone back again, and the dykes were built up once more, and we from the towns came out to count the bodies lying on the dank salt soil of the men and women and children who had died for their little flat land.

Gaspar and Zouch rode out to save Alkmaar—a stalwart, stern little party, with no jests among them all. Very slowly the days went by, and the watchers on the walls saw no three lights coming out of the southern sky. The hour was not yet.

In very evil case were we; in case still worse we were like to be soon. And Don Frederico, with a grip like his father's bulldog jaws, still kept his lines tight drawn round Alkmaar. The season was growing late, the weather was breaking fast, and the Spanish camp, never too cleanly, must have been made miry indeed.

Don Frederico knew nothing of our plans at first, but vague news came to him at last of the guard that had come to the sluices. Oh, Gaspar had shown himself, be sure. So, then, he knew our purpose, and still he kept up the siege. Neither man nor God should tear Alkmaar out of his grasp. And silently he dared us to do our worst. I had hoped, without confessing it to myself, I had hoped even for Don Frederico it might be enough to know what we meant to do. Well, I was wrong; he knew, and the siege went on still.

Gaspar's beacon had flamed up and died away. There was no answer; Alkmaar was bearing its agony to the last, and Don Frederico was resolved to spare it nothing. But there on the Zyp lay Gaspar and his men, and they had a resolve too.

It was on the sixth day of October into the camp at Alkmaar, when the sun was setting in a blaze of gold behind deep-bosomed blue cloud, there came, riding a skinny mule, a travelling armourer. Two great bags of tools and weapons clashed and jingled on either side as he rode slowly and solemnly along. You know these fellows' airs. He came through the lines, and no sentry challenged him, for Don Frederico's guard was less strict than Alva's own. Up to a circle of Germans and Walloons lying round a camp fire he came, and:

"Weapons to mend, señors?" quoth he in Flemish. "Sword-hilts, sword-blades, musquetoons, daggers, pistol locks, spurs, stirrup-irons, metal work of any kind, señors?"

"Señors? We're no señors. Keep your names for their owners, little man!" said one, lazily turning on his elbow.

"Your pardon, brave gentlemen. Sword-hilts, sword-blades, musquetoons——" he began again.

"Hold your whining tongue. See to that!" and another tossed him a dagger with a broken hilt.

Out from the bag came a brazier, sticks from the fire were put in it, and charcoal laid on the top.

"An evil breakage, sir!" quoth the armourer. "Now, there must have been great power behind the weapon for it to break thus. If your knighthood will allow me to guess, it was such a blow as your own arm might strike, crashing against armour of proof, sir. Armour of real Spanish steel, such as the dagger itself, sir."

"No such luck!" grunted its owner. A hoarse laugh ran round the ring.

"Ho, ho! 'twas broken when Otto tumbled across the top of the wall with his fat carcase."

"And if I did," growled Otto. "No one else got to the top."

"It took all of us to push you, Otto!"

The armourer looked up from his brazier.

"Indeed, I had not heard your knighthoods had stormed the town," quoth he, and busied himself with his tools again.

"No, our knighthoods have not," grunted Otto. "Our knighthoods tried!" A rolling volley of oaths ran round the circle.

"And curse me if I try again!" growled several.

"But surely, gentlemen, Alkmaar is not strong?" quoth the armourer. "It should fall easily before you?"

"Some day," growled Otto.

"What odds to us when?" asked another. "We can sit here for ever if Alkmaar chooses, or till Alkmaar starves. No, comrades, delay is the word for us. Wait till it tumbles into our mouths."

"Or till we all stick fast in this mud."

"The waiting does not trouble me. But there is nothing worth waiting for in these cursed northern towns. Think of plundering Antwerp, comrades!"

A gruff chorus of approval followed.

"They say they are killing off all the women," said one.

"What, to eat them?" growled Otto.

"No, they have heard Franz is here."

"Oh, I shall find some," quoth Franz.

The armourer let a tool fall.

"Ho! burnt your fingers, my friend?"

"No, sir, truly; my craft never burns my fingers."

"Lucky man!"

They talked away, and the armourer went on with his work in the firelight. At last he rose from his little anvil, and:

"If your knighthood will give me a little gold I can continue the inlaid work across the fissure."

"Gold!" growled Otto. "Very fine! Think yourself fortunate if you get a silver ducat for your work. Where should I get gold, fool?"

"Nay, indeed, sir, I know not. I thought the Duke of Alva could not but pay highly to such knights as yourselves. And the dagger would look much better if the——"

But they had all broken out laughing.

"Ho, ho! pay from Alva! My innocent little fool, I wish you would tell us how to get it."

"Oh, sir, I know nothing of the Duke's Highness. But I spoke hastily. I thought perhaps after Harlem and Mechlin you would not be without some gold. And it is a pity to spoil the dagger."

"So it is," growled Otto. "Out of Harlem and Mechlin together I made five crowns."

"So little!" cried the armourer.

"And the women, Otto," cried Franz.

"Women bring in no money!"

"By Saint Nicholas! no; but they spend it, eh Franz?" cried another.

"If you're fool enough to give it them, Louis," said Franz. "Mine cost nothing."

"The better for you; nothing is what we get under Alva!" growled Otto.

"Ah! but the success, gentlemen," said the armourer. "Never a defeat! He is a great general, the Duke of Alva! Even if you have neither pay nor plunder, yet the success, the success!"

"The success! Much you know of it! Stick to your trade. Did you ever hear of Breuthe?"

"Well, well, Otto; 'twas the first time," said Franz. "And Ferdinando Alvarez does not make mistakes often. Here is Alkmaar ready for us, at least, and we have nothing to do but eat and sleep here in the camp. We can wait till the day of doom quite comfortably."

"Then your honours have not heard——?" quoth the armourer, quietly looking round. He bent over his work again, and smiled at it.

"Heard? No, we hear nothing. What is it?"

"Oh—why—I think—it is the news they tell in the countryside," said the armourer, watching him.

"The latest news? Out with it, little man!"

"Why, they say, your honours, that Diedrich Sonoy has determined to break the dykes."

"To break the dykes?" they all cried.

"Indeed, so they tell me. Perhaps your honours saw a great fire some days ago——?" quoth the armourer, and paused.

"Ay, ay, we saw it. What then?"

"I inquired, your honours, of the country-folk what it meant; and at last after much questioning they told me that a party had seized the sluices at the Zyp, led by one Wiederman or Wederman, and that the fire was a signal to Alkmaar they were ready to open them. But I thought you would have been told all this."

"Wiederman! Gaspar Wiederman! Newstead's lieutenant!" cried Louis.

"Ah! and Vitelli led a reconnoitring party towards the Zyp three days ago. They said they found nothing," said Franz.

"Yes, they were Spaniards to a man," growled Otto.

The crowd round the fire grew thicker, for talk had been loud.

"Indeed, your honours, I thought you would have known," cried the armourer. "It seemed to me impossible the Zyp could have been seized and you not know it. Did no one know? Not in the whole army? Surely it has not been hidden?"

"And, by the fiends! I will be sworn Vitelli and Frederico did know it!" cried Otto. "The Dutchmen have us in a trap now. If we try and take the Zyp, why, they will open the sluices when we are still miles off! Fiends of the pit! we are trapped! we are trapped!"

The words ran round the thick-packed throng. Trapped! There is nothing drives men mad sooner than that thought.

"Trapped? Yes, and cheated too. Why did not Vitelli and Frederico tell us? Comrades, we're betrayed!" shouted Franz.

"But, indeed, your honours, the fate of one is the fate of all. Your general will fare no better than you," quoth the armourer. "Though he, too, is a Spaniard."

"Ho, ho! Will he not? I see his game, curse him, I see his game. He will wait till the water comes, on the chance that Alkmaar may fall. Then he and the cavalry will run! But where shall we be, comrades? What does that matter to Don Frederico?"

A murmur of assent ran round the crowd. The armourer said no more, but went stolidly on with his work. Tap, tap, tap, his tools sounded through the confused chatter of the crowd. He gave the dagger back.

"The work is done, sir," said he.

"And there is the pay," quoth Otto, and tossed him a ducat.

"Indeed, it is too much," said the armourer, with half a smile; but he put the ducat in his pouch.

"Comrades, I will not stay to be drowned!" cried Franz. "Who thinks with me?"

"And I am a poor swimmer," growled Otto. "By the devil! I will go to Frederico in the morning and tell him my mind! Who will follow me?"

"I—and I—and I——" The words came fast, with loud oaths intermingled.

"By the fiends and the saints! We will all go!" cried Franz, and the crowd took it up.

"We will all go!"

So on the night of that sixth day of October there was much ado in Don Frederico's camp, and the talk went on late; and on the morrow a big disorderly company streamed through the camp towards the general's tent. The news had come at the right moment. Already there was much distrust in the camp, and little unison betwixt Spaniard and German; now these tidings had driven deep a wedge between them. Perhaps that was owing a little to the way in which these tidings were told. They had been shown their condition: no pay, no plunder, no success, and for an end the sea!

Up to the general's tent they came, and the sentry challenged them:

"We will see Don Frederico," quoth Otto, and the crowd shouted the words:

"Don Frederico, Don Frederico!"

He came out. He was a true son of Alva. The same lean sallow face, the same long narrow head, the same dark cunning eyes.

"Is this discipline?" he cried.

"No. Do you expect it?" asked Otto.

"Do you deserve it?" shouted Franz, and the crowd cheered him.

Don Frederico lifted a pistol. Otto folded his arms and looked him in the face:

"Try, if you dare!" said he. But Franz knocked the pistol to the ground, and the crowd surged heavily forward. Don Fred- erico gave back, and, if he had known it, that lost his game.

Vitelli came bustling up:

"You seem a little excited, my friends," he cried, and he took his stand by Don Frederico.

"And with reason!" quoth Franz. "See here: we heard last night that the Zyp has been seized for Orange, and they may open the sluices on us any minute. And we say you knew that three days ago, and kept us here on the chance of the town falling first. We say we have been betrayed!" The crowd yelled at the word, and for a moment he could not go on. "But we have found it out, and if you will not lead us away, by the bottomless pit! you shall not lead us at all!"

"And if you do not follow me—you shall follow no one," snarled Don Frederico.

"Try!" said Otto. "Try!" and neither Vitelli nor Don Frederico had an answer, for close on half the army stood before them.

"Did you think we should stay here to be drowned while you ran away?" cried Franz.

"Answer, answer!" was shouted, and the cries grew louder.

"By God and His saints! I will stay till——" Vitelli laid a heavy hand on his arm. Another officer came up, and they whispered together.

"You may stay—but without a man of us," growled Otto.

Still they whispered—Don Frederico's face stern and unmoved, Vitelli eager and voluble, and the third chiming in after Vitelli. At last Don Frederico bit his lip and gave a sharp answer. Vitelli and his companion spoke both together. Then Don Frederico turned:

"I will hold a council of officers to discuss this," said he, as if the words were squeezed out of him.

"Hold twenty councils if you please," quoth Franz, "but we go to-day!"

The crowd began to break up, and Vitelli stepped forward quickly.

"And now, my friend, who brought you this news?" said he to Franz.

"The news? Yes, it is news to us. You have known it long enough, I dare swear. Why, just a travelling armourer, that came into the camp last night. I suppose we should all have been drowned before we knew else!"

"Oh, just a travelling armourer?" Vitelli repeated.

"Yes, there he is!" and Franz pointed to the edge of the crowd.

Vitelli cried out to the man near to stop him. But the armourer fled on the instant, twisting and turning this way and that, till at last he found a horse, sprang on it, and was gone, with a sword slash across his thigh.

I did not wish to meet Chiapin Vitelli!

CHAPTER XIX

THE HORSE AND I

Yes, I was the armourer! As I drove my heels into the flanks of this stolen horse and galloped away I chuckled to myself. I had paid back Vitelli for his letter, at least!

Away to the north I turned the horse. The Zyp was too far off for me to reach, and that way the land was bare and open and fiat, but to the east were a few hillocks, with rising ground and the beginning of the wood of Herpt. I made for the wood.

He was a good horse, and he stretched himself out over the level ground, and the damp air whistled by us. I gave one look back. A few were mounting to pursue me, but they went about it slowly, and stopped to tighten girths and fasten curb-chains, as if they cared little for the task. Once in the wood I knew I was safe. I have not slain deer in Windsor Park without learning to dodge the keepers, and, cordieu! I would sooner dodge ten lumbering Walloons than one of the royal foresters. On and on I rode, patting my horse's neck, and laughing to myself as we drew away. But Vitelli seemed anxious to catch me. Some lighter men were mounted and on my track, and they began to gain. The green wall ahead came nearer and nearer, and I peered for- ward with my hand shading my eyes, looking for an opening. I did not doubt the horse, but I feared for my own slashed thigh. It was not too easy to keep the saddle.

I found a green alley in the trees. Down it we dashed, turned sharp to the right, and crashed through the underwood. And then, oh thigh and all, I led them a dance, those weighty Walloons! For every yard I went through underwood they went three, and my brave horse and I, we cantered gaily over the turf, and heard them cursing in the thickets.

At last we shook them off, and galloped gaily down a narrow, winding green path towards the east. There was silence behind me, but it seemed safer to leave some space betwixt me and Vitelli! Away we went, the wet boughs brushed against my face, and I laughed aloud till I shook in the saddle. The trees grew thinner; we came out on level greensward. My horse, my stolen horse, put his foot in a rabbit-hole, and we both crashed down together. I remember falling away from him, and then nothing more for a while.

I woke from the swoon with his cold wet nose nuzzling into my face. I put out my hand to feel his knees at once. They were sound, but cordieu! I was not! My right boot was full of blood. I made a bandage of my shirt, and bound up the thigh. 'Twas an ill wound enough, but looked far worse than it was. And then I glanced round me. A drizzling rain was falling, the sky was grey and dull, and there, half a mile or more away, nearly level with my eyes, was the sea. Crash, crash, crash! I could hear the sound borne up on the west wind of the steady waves beating on the dykes, trying ceaselessly to wear them away, to break them down, to shatter the bonds of man.

There was our last ally, the ally we did not need!

Do you think I was proud as I sat there in the rain? Cordieu! I have no shame in confessing it. My fault it was so many men had come to Alkmaar; perhaps my fault Alkmaar had been besieged at all. So be it; blame me as much as you will, and it will scarce be more than I blame myself. But I had found at last a way to drive them back without the country's ruin. Reckon that, too!

"You may wait a long time for your beacons, Gaspar," I said to myself, and I laughed till the horse looked up from his pasture. I went up to him, opened the holsters in the saddle, and found some food. I took off the saddle, and went back with it to the shelter of the trees.

No one in Breuthe knew I had gone. I laughed again to think of the tales they would tell! Cornput would take me for a deserter. A deserter! Ha, ha! That perhaps was what Vitelli thought. How Alva must love me! I had set his army by the ears now, and his campaign was over for that year. Cordieu! They were very easy to play upon to one who knew them, those brave Germans. Indeed, I was quite contented, for the task had not been without risk. There was no one else I could trust to do it. Oh yes, I was quite contented. And when I saw Gabrielle again——

The horse and I, we spent a very happy day together in spite of the rain. There was plenty of grass and good enough food. And even the rain stopped at last.

I slept a short sleep and a sound, spite of an aching thigh. And with the morning I was in the saddle again to go back to Alkmaar once more.

It was the eighth day of October.

Warily and quietly we came through the wood, back along the paths we had galloped so hastily yesterday, through the wood and out into the open. Yes, Don Frederico was going, and most of him was gone!

Quickly I drew back into the shadow and watched them go, and as I sat there I knew, yes, I knew what the end of the Netherlands war must be. In the last resort, when it is not strength against strength or arms against arms any longer, but when soul is pitted against soul, then at last the best men win. You who have heard the story of Alkmaar know who they were.

1 heard loud cries coming from the walls of Alkmaar.

"Gone, gone, gone!" then cheering, and then, why then, of course, a psalm.

"Yes, you will not need your beacons, now," I muttered. I patted the horse on the neck.

"Shall we carry the news, boy, you and I?" He curvetted.

Cordieu! who had a better right than the horse and I?

CHAPTER XX

A SOLDIER'S WAGES

Away we went over the level plain, through the misty air, with the wet brown sand flying up about my ears. Away over the turf, when there was turf, away over the bare sand, away over the heather—northward, northward still. Past the bare hamlets, sucked dry of their food by Alva; past the yellow corn standing in shocks; past peasants that sprang back out of our way and stood looking after us round-eyed. Through Herpt, with its white walls and its red roofs; and there the sun broke out, while still we galloped on till Haring's houses flashed back the light at us. Thundering down the street we came, with the pebbles flying away behind us, and women ran to the windows in fright to look.

"Oh, I am not Alva!" I cried to a girl who fled out of my way; and I sped on with a laugh. Outside the town for a few short minutes we stopped, and we shared a cottager's bread between us and some beer that was cursedly sour. Cordieul! I think the horse loved the race as much as I.

We were off again, through a wood, and out again into the open, on, and on, and on, with a red sky blazing at us in the west and the mist thickening in the hollows. The colour died away, the mist grew darker, and still we pressed on. The bandage slipped down my thigh, and prickly pains came up that leg; but what cared I? We were nearing Breuthe! Yes, but should we reach it together? My brave horse was labouring hard, and his flanks were heaving, so that I knew his last bolt was all but shot. The mist grew blacker and thicker in front, like a wall across the path. I stood up in my saddle.

"Come on, boy, come on!" I cried, and he quickened a little. A sharper pain came in my leg. I seemed to hear shouts all round me.

"Curse it, Vitelli, we win, we win!" and I shook my fist at the darkness behind. In front the mist was very thick; thicker and thicker yet. My eyes would not pierce it. Could it be, could it be——?

"Who goes there?" a sharp challenge rang out in front.

"Just an armourer!" I cried wildly; and I laughed.

"Gracious God! 'tis Master Newstead!" shouted a burgher. "Halt, halt, sir, till we open the gate!"

Hardly knowing what I did, I pulled up. The mist parted before me, and with a clatter of bolts the gate fell open, and in we came, through a ring of men with flaring yellow lanterns, and on we went to the burgomaster's house.

"What of Alkmaar? What of Don Frederico?"

"Ask the devil, his father!"

Trotting over the pebbles, weary and half mad both, up to the burgomaster's house we came, and I dropped to the ground and staggered in, crying—

"Wine, wine!"

I burst into a room with lights that dazzled me and men I did not know. They sprang up.

"God in heaven!——"

"Can it be——"

"In God's name——"

But I had caught a bottle from the table and staggered out once more. My horse had fallen. I knelt down on the stones, broke the bottle neck, and poured the wine down his throat. He lifted his head and tried to rise. I patted his neck and pulled at his ears.

"We win, boy; we win, we win!" I cried; and I think he understood.

A little crowd had gathered, and men came running out of the house.

"Come in, sir; come in!" cried the burgomaster.

I looked at him stupidly.

"But we win," I muttered; "curse it, we win!"

"Or you win for us. Come and tell us," said a calm, steady voice.

"Look after the horse," I cried.

"Yes, yes; I will see to the horse, sir," squeaked the burgomaster; and I limped in, leaning on some man's arm, back to that room with lights. The man put me into a chair, and filled a glass with wine. I drank it; and another, and another. Then I looked round. It was the Prince himself at my elbow.

"‘He is back!' she cried"

"Why, it was you, your Highness!" I stammered.

"You came in on my arm. Perhaps you went out on my errand?" quoth he.

My wits were coming back. I could see the men and know them now. There I sat limp in a chair, covered from head to foot with yellow mud, and round me, bending eagerly forward, were Cornput, and the burgomaster, and St. Trond, and Diedrich Sonoy, and the Prince. A light step came into the room.

"He is back!" she cried.

"And perhaps he will tell you what he has done," said the Prince, with a smile.

"Why, I am only an armourer," said I; and I laughed.

"Ah! and whose are the weapons you mend?" quoth the Prince.

"They call him Don Frederico," said I.

"Don Frederico is no jest to us, sir," said the Prince. "Will you tell us your news?"

"Don Frederico has run and the dykes are safe!" I cried.

They looked at one another. Sonoy's stern face broke into a smile; he and St. Trond shook hands. Cornput's mouth fell open, and the Prince murmured:

"Thank God!"

But my eyes went to Gabrielle, and hers came to me.

The burgomaster ran across the room and flung up the window:

"Alkmaar is safe and the dykes are safe!" he cried shrilly, and a cheer rose in the street and rolled away through the town.

"But why was Don Frederico willing to go?" asked the Prince.

"He was not willing to go," said I.

"Then why did he take his men away?"

"They took him," said I.

"Well, sir, will you tell your story your own way?" cried the Prince.

"It is just what I did," said I.

"Is that all you did?"

"Oh no; I mended a dagger and I stole a horse."

The Prince shrugged his shoulders with a laugh, and turned to Gabrielle:

"Will you try a question?" said he.

"Why did you go?" she asked, quickly looking at me.

"The poor country-folk!" I repeated, and her whole face smiled at me. When I could look away I turned to the Prince:

"On the night of the sixth of October, sir, there came to call on Don Frederico a travelling armourer. A worthy German was good enough to give him some work to do, and the armourer was not ungrateful. So that he expounded to a camp-fire that Alva's pay was short measure, that his plunder was a fluctuating wage, and that his success had lately been small. The camp-fire seemed interested. Then to his surprise the armourer discovered that Don Frederico had omitted to inform his men that the dykes were to be broken, and in a truly Christian spirit the armourer repaired his omission. He contrived to hint that Don Frederico did not hold Germans and Spaniards in equal esteem: so that these worthy Germans in some indignation conceived the idea that Don Frederico intended them for a sacrifice to Neptune! They objected: they informed Don Frederico and Chiapin Vitelli of their objections, and they expressed a resolve to depart with or without Don Frederico. That is all. I am only an armourer, your Highness."

They looked at me all in amazement; and at last:

"Is that all, my friend?" quoth the Prince.

"Why, it is true Vitelli said he wished to see the armourer. But the armourer thought that unnecessary. Vitelli and I know one another quite well. That is all."

"That is all," repeated the Prince slowly. "You seem to me to have left out the danger, my friend."

"Would it have been less dangerous to flood the country, your Highness?"

"Yes. To you," said the Prince.

"A foolhardy thing!" cried Cornput. "I would not have done it for ten thousand crowns!"

They all turned on him:

"I believe you," quoth Sonoy drily.

"Some of us have learned," said St. Trond, looking at me and repeating the word, "have learned, like Captain Newstead, to think more of other things than money."

"And some of us, Laurenz—let me take your words—have learned to think more of other things than life," said the Prince.

"Cordieu! Your Highness, I only fight for the man that pays me!"

"How much have you had from me?" he asked, with a smile.

"Well, for my own cause, then," I said.

"Ay, for the cause—that is another thing," said he. "You told me at Delft you could do much and ask little. It was not you, but Holland and I were the gainers when you rode into Delft. And Alva, I think, lost much."

"Perhaps Alva lost less than we gained," quoth St. Trond.

It is little more I remember of that night, for soon, with the weariness and the wine, and the pain in my leg, I fell asleep in the chair.

Late next morning I woke in bed with a stiff leg and beset by a ravening hunger. But my clothes! Cordieu! Where were the clothes? They were not good for much, but better than none at least. Oh yes, the wise servants, they had taken my own away and brought some others. Others! They were made for a babe, I think. Or the burgomaster. Well, there was no choice, and my hunger was clamorous.

Down the stairs I went gingerly, for my leg did not wish to bend, and into a room I peeped where I knew there was hope of breakfast. But the leg bent quickly enough, and I forgot the clothes, when I saw Gabrielle by the table. She turned, and:

"We have all finished but—oh!" she cried, and fell a-laughing.

"Peace, peace, I am not the burgomaster's tailor," I said quickly, and I caught her in my arms.

"Nor—nor the burgomaster," said she, laughing again.

"No, nor wish to be, Gabrielle!" said I, and I kissed her.

"You are contented?" she asked, looking up at me.

"I shall be."

"Oh yes. There is breakfast," said she, with a pout.

"So it is. Let it stay," I answered.

"What do you want?" and a laugh rippled in her eyes.

"Why I have kissed you, and——"

"Yes, I could not help that."

"But you can help this." There was a pause.

"And now will you come to breakfast?" she said.

"With you," I answered.

So for the first time she sat opposite me as she has sat many a long year now. Ay, it is long enough if you count; to me it seems a very little while ago, and long or short, however you reckon, our eyes still love to meet as they did in that room at Breuthe.

The days when I fought are gone by now, and Holland is free at last. The blow that was struck outside Alkmaar settled the fate of the land, and afterwards the soldiers that fought for Spain knew always that come what might they could never win. It was a desperate thing we meant to do; they tell me it was a desperate thing I did. Well, I might have died. Would it not have been a death worth dying? If Don Frederico could have kept secret the knowledge he and Vitelli had, perhaps the sea might have come too slow for Alkmaar; and even if not, if it was not I who saved Alkmaar, why, at least it was I who saved the land.

Is mine a poor love-story? You lasses who think love is a kiss and a pretty speech, even you will not gainsay me when I tell you that the love which led me in this thing that I did was a real love after all. The things in my life that I like to think of most are the things I have done since a little scornful laugh rang in my ears by our bivouac at Veermut. I do not know that I am changed: I am very sure that I am no saint, and I doubt not you will find many things in this story of mine to blame. So be it: I am content if you remember why these evil things—if evil they are—were done, and if you believe me when I tell you that I am not ashamed to look into two dark blue eyes.

Perhaps there is one thing more to put at the end of this story. It was a little while afterwards that Gaspar came rollicking back from the Zyp, and though he might have known better, he stalked hastily down the garden one afternoon. Gabrielle ran away.

"Ach, captain," grunted Gaspar, "the Prince talks of how much he gained when we left Alva. Gott! I think you gained more!"

And I laughed.

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