My Lady of Orange. H. C. Bailey
for myself, cordieu! I had rather fight for your Highness than any black Spaniard of them all!" Ay, that, methinks, was my reason; 'tis hard ever to tell why a man's deeds were done. When I think of it, it seems folly, and yet as I spoke the words in the little room at Delft I believed them. Do I believe them now? Well, perhaps. Gabrielle does.
I saw his eyes brighten as I spoke, and even the sneering secretary looked at me with more favour.
"You choose a cause that can give little—and needs much, my friend," said the Prince.
"And I can do much and ask little," I answered.
"And your men?" asked the secretary. It was a home thrust: my men had revolted—deserted—what you will—from Alva because he would not pay them. Were they likely to serve Orange better, who could not?
"My men?" I muttered. "Madre Dios, Alva would not give them their wages—well, they shall take them!"
"Three hundred men from fourteen thousand!" said the secretary coolly.
"Oh, the odds are his; I knew that," I cried, "I knew that or ever I came to Delft."
"Spain against the Netherlands? Philip against Orange?" said the Prince dreamily. "Man against time; iron against God; whose are the odds, my friend?"
I did not answer. I wondered on which side God fought when three thousand men and women were slaughtered at Harlem, for it needed then a greater man than I to believe God was on the side of Orange. Any knave believes it now.
"Desperate tasks are all I can offer," said Orange. "Scant wages if your own efforts fail"—he paused, looking at me for a moment—"scant wages and desperate tasks."
"So only they be not impossible," said I. "For the wages—Alva!"
"The impossible God does every day," he answered. "You have come to me when the clouds are very black, sir. Alva lies before Breuthe: and if Breuthe falls how will you fare?"
I stood silent; if Breuthe fell there was nothing left.
"Will you take the risk?" he said quietly; his steady eyes fixed themselves on me.
"I will take the risk of Alva's worst," I answered slowly. Call it folly if you will, you who never saw William, the first Stadt-holder. I was looking into his eyes.
He smiled.
"Alva lies before Breuthe town; hang on his rear, cut off his convoys, let him never rest. Is that to your liking?"
"I accept," said I.
The Prince wrote for a moment and gave me a parchment.
"I trust your honour," he said.
"And I pledge it," I answered.
And the next morning we rode away from Delft, trusted deserters, three hundred men to fight fourteen thousand. I, John Newstead, captain of lances, came forth to pit myself against Ferdinando of Alva, the greatest soldier in Europe. There was one of us that had cause enough to regret my audience of Orange.
THE USE OF A BRIDGE
CHAPTER II
THE USE OF A BRIDGE
"So we have e'en changed masters, captain," grunted Gaspar Wiederman, my lieutenant, as we jogged along through the woods, in the crisp air of the early morn.
"Well, it can scarce be for the worse," said I.
"Ach! Who knows?"
"Who knows?" cried Henri Vermeil at my other elbow. "Why, we all know; we cannot do more than we did for Alva, or worse; and, ma foi, we can scarce get less."
"More defeats, no pay, no plunder. They say the Orange is pious," grunted Gaspar.
"Well, well; he can pray for your sins, Gaspar," cried Henri. "The good man will live on his knees."
"True, there are the convoys," said Gaspar. "Ach! Halt!"
We had come near the road. A few yards below was a mean little inn; further away, the road crested a hill; and, coming quickly over the brow of the hill was a horseman all alone. With two lances, Gaspar and young Vermeil and I rode on towards the road. On and on came our traveller, leaving a trailing cloud of dust behind. At the inn he pulled up, and we heard him cry out for something, but we knew not what. There came out an old crone with a flagon, and he bent from the saddle and raised it to his lips. Just then across the road came a trim, bare-headed girl, and her hair shone in the sunlight. He tossed the flagon back, then, bending to his saddle-bow, he caught the girl in his arms, and drove in his spurs sharply. The horse bounded forward, and he half-turned in his saddle towards the screaming inn-woman.
"Alva's men travel free!" he said.
"Ach! so," grunted Wiederman.
On he came, galloping down the road, while the girl struggled wildly for her strength. He was just passing us when Gaspar looked sharply round at me. I nodded. The thing was done in an instant. He rushed his horse suddenly forward, caught the Spaniard's neck in his arm, threw his weight back and his horse on its haunches. Girl and Spaniard fell together.
The Thing was Done in an Instant
"Gott! You may travel free, but not far, my friend, not far," said Gaspar, looking down at him.
The girl had staggered to her feet, but the Spaniard still lay where he had fallen. Oh, the Spaniard was under, be sure of that! It was Gaspar that threw him.
"Alas! the fate of incontinence, mon cher!" cried Henri Vermeil.
"What was your errand?" I asked in Spanish. The fellow set his teeth, and said nought.
"What was your errand?" I said again. Still he was silent. "Search him," I cried to the two that had come with us.
"To Don Guzman d'Astorgas,
"These:
"Press on with all speed, for that the King's service demands you come quickly. The bearer will be your guide.—Alva."
Such was the purport of the paper he bore. I read it, and passed it to Gaspar. He shrugged his shoulders.
"He seems anxious, the great Alva," said he.
"Sangdieu! This tells little," cried Henri Vermeil.
"You think so?" I answered, and fell a-thinking.
"Where is d'Astorgas?" at last I said to the Spaniard. There was no answer.
"You are fond of silence, my kidnapper," said Gaspar.
"We can gratify you with the opportunity of eternal silence," Vermeil said with a chuckle.
"I will wait three minutes; then—speak or die," I said shortly. Ay, I knew he would never speak. Your true Spaniard is hard as iron to others, but—give the devil his due—he is cast in steel himself.
"Will you answer?" He shook his head. I nodded to our two troopers. But the girl ran forward I think we had all forgotten the girl—and caught my hands.
"No, no," she cried. "He must not die."
"Gott! 'tis his own choice," growled Gaspar.
"Will you speak?" I asked again.
"I die for the Faith and the King," he cried; and I signed to the troopers again, and turned away, while the girl hid her face.
"And I hope his Faith is a better colour than his King," grunted Gaspar.