My Lady of Orange. H. C. Bailey
said Vermeil. Gaspar shifted his chair. "The fruit is all but ripe enough to fall, and yet he might thank the man who plucked it. Ah!" he sighed, "if we were not deserters we might sell Breuthe."
"Ten thousand devils! Sell Breuthe?" cried Gaspar, dashing his chair back.
"Ay, we might sell Breuthe," I repeated slowly. Gaspar sprang up and stood leaning over us with one hand on the table.
"Sell Breuthe?" he shouted. "I thought we were soldiers, not a money-grubbing pack of traitors double-dyed! Who made Breuthe yours to sell? You come to the aid of St. Trond here, you lose his daughter, and you sell his town! Mighty deeds! God in heaven! I tell you I will hold Breuthe against you myself, I, Gaspar Wiederman, against any ratting huckster in the town," and he stormed out of the room.
"He seems moved, captain," said Vermeil coolly.
"The men will follow the money, eh?" I asked.
"Ma foi, yes; men are men, as the good Gaspar said."
"If I go to Alva, will you keep peace in the town?" said I.
"You—to Alva?" stammered Vermeil. "He must know you brought us to Orange. Think of the risk. Send a message."
"There will be more risk in my meeting Alva before all is done," said I slowly. He stared at me in amazement, thinking he had scarce heard aright.
"I—I do not understand," he muttered.
"You will," I answered. "I will be my own messenger. At all costs keep the peace till you see me again."
So, just as the sun was setting, a wiry man in a cloak that hid his armour slipt out of the postern gate of Breuthe all alone, and turned towards Alva's camp. And behind me rose the grey walls of the town that had baffled the Spaniard so long, gilt and crimsoned by the rays from the west.
Here and there, breaking the blue mist of the horizon, a dull red glare shone out, marking the forays of Alva's men. Somewhere beyond the horizon, beyond the farthest stretch of Alva's arm, William of Orange, William the Taciturn, sat brooding over the travailing land.
So I went forth to sell Breuthe.
THE LION'S DEN
CHAPTER V
THE LION'S DEN
"Little man, little man, halt!" It was a stalwart, swarthy Walloon sentry stepped suddenly forward, shouting. I judged he meant me by his words, and I paused.
"I bring an offer to the Duke of Alva," I cried.
"What? from the vermin-eaters in Breuthe? Nay, then, come on. We have wasted long enough over this mouse-hole. So you have eaten the last worm, eh, little man?"
"Yes; we cooked it by the fire in your camp," said I.
"Nay, if you come to Alva, speak not of firing the camp, or you are like to try a fire's heat yourself."
"You liked it not, then?" I asked.
"By Beelzebub! you had best bridle your tongue in time, little man, else—— But here is the guard. Lieutenant, the little man has an offer for the Duke from Breuthe."
The lieutenant, a fox-faced Italian, looked at me sharply.
"Why do you not come with a flag of truce, knave?"
"Because I was not anxious to tell of my coming to the good people of Breuthe," I answered quietly.
"Ah, so!" he said, and fixed his eyes on my face. "Well, what is your offer?" he asked lightly.
"It is to the Duke of Alva," quoth I.
"You rate yourself high—and your offer, too, my friend."
"I know what both are," I answered.
"Are you so sure? Perhaps the Duke will teach you better," he said, showing his teeth like a dog. "We shall see. Lead on, there."
"Ay, we shall see," said I.
Outside a tent rather larger than most we halted, and the lieutenant entered alone. Then I heard a rattling Spanish oath from within, suddenly broken off, and a gruff voice speaking quickly and anxiously. There followed a moment's silence; then a sharp command, and the lieutenant came quickly to bid me enter.
Before me sat Ferdinando of Alva, the greatest soldier in Europe, who wielded the forces of the greatest power in the world, the Master of all the Netherlands save Breuthe town. And Breuthe town I had come to sell. Far away in Delft was William of Orange, who had trusted me to do him what good I could. Ay, there sat Alva, with his long, lean, sallow face frowning at me from two yards' distance, caressing his iron-grey beard with a thin, sinewy hand.
"Take away his sword," he said in a grating voice.
I laughed. This was not the way of Orange. The huge fat man who sat by him stared at me for a minute.
"Why, 'tis the Englishman, Newstead!" he cried. Alva's forehead gathered into a frown, and the hand that lay on the table clenched hard. Then his thin lips parted, and he grinned like a wolf.
"Praise be to the Virgin!" he said. "Let him be burnt by a slow fire under their walls."
The lieutenant laid his hand on my shoulder.
"Bethink you!" I cried. "Dead I shall do you little good; alive I can do much."
Alva waved his hand.
"A slow fire!" he repeated.
The fat man—Chiapin Vitelli—bent over and whispered in his ear. I stood there waiting, the lieutenant's claw-hand still on my shoulder. Cordieu! I am no coward, but I do not wish to pass such minutes as those again. For a long time the two dark faces hung near each other and Vitelli whispered on, while I could feel my heart beat, and Alva's steady cold eye never left my face. I do not think my colour changed. At last Vitelli ended. Alva stroked his beard once, twice, thrice. Then suddenly the grating voice broke out again:
"Why do you dare come here?" he said.
I started. I hardly knew what he said.
"Why do you dare come here?" he repeated angrily.
"I—I bring you an offer," I stammered.
Vitelli looked with an air of triumph at Alva.
"Ha! Breuthe will surrender? You will get no terms from me!"
"Breuthe will never surrender!" said I.
The wolf's look—it was never long absent—came back to Alva's face.
"Well, your offer, your offer?" said Vitelli quickly.
"I will open the gates to a party of your men."
"Ah!" Vitelli said, and he smiled, looking sideways at Alva.
"You may go," cried Alva to the lieutenant. "Is that all?" he asked sharply, turning to me.
"The rest comes from you, sir," I answered coolly.
"With a pardon you will be well paid," he snarled.
"I should, of course, request that," I said.
"For yourself and your men," said Vitelli.
"They are good soldiers," I answered; "they would be more use alive."
"You want more?" Alva asked sharply.
I bowed.
"What do you ask?"
"There was a girl we lost——" I began. Alva waved his hand carelessly.
"Pho! you can buy her to-night for a few ducats," cried Vitelli. "Girls are