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Title: The First of the English: A Novel

Author: Archibald Clavering Gunter

Release date: April 9, 2022 [eBook #67804]
Most recently updated: October 18, 2024

Language: English

Original publication: United Kingdom: George Routledge & Sons
Limited, 1895

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE FIRST OF
THE ENGLISH: A NOVEL ***

[Contents]

[Contents]

THE FIRST OF THE ENGLISH

[Contents]

By ARCHIBALD C. GUNTER.

Uniform with this Volume.

MR. POTTER OF TEXAS.
THAT FRENCHMAN!
MISS NOBODY OF NOWHERE.
MR. BARNES OF NEW YORK.
MISS DIVIDENDS.
BARON MONTEZ OF PANAMA AND PARIS.
A PRINCESS OF PARIS.
THE KING’S STOCKBROKER.

[1]

[Contents]

The First of the English
A NOVEL

BY
ARCHIBALD CLAVERING GUNTER
AUTHOR OF ‘MR. BARNES OF NEW YORK’

COPYRIGHT
LONDON
GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS, Limited
Broadway, Ludgate Hill
MANCHESTER AND NEW YORK
1895
(All rights reserved.)

[3]

[Contents]

CONTENTS.
BOOK I.

A STRANGE TRIP TO ANTWERP.

PAGE
Chapter I.—The Flood in the Schelde, 5
II.—The Lady of the Barge, 16
,,
III.—The Six Drunkards of Brussels, 35
,,
IV.—The Patriot Painter, 48
,,
V.—“The Lion’s Jaws Gape for Me!” 59
,,
VI.—The Drinking Bout at the Painted Inn, 70
,,
VII.—Love—By a Coup de Main, 85
,,
VIII.—“The Ungainable!—But I’ll Gain Her!” 101
,,

BOOK II.

TWIXT LOVE AND WAR.

Chapter IX.—“No Provisions, no Water, but Plenty of Powder!”
112
X.—The Secret of the Statue, 123
,,

XI.—Major Guido Amati has a Spree, 131
,,
XII.—“Get Your Daughter Out of Antwerp,” 143
,,
XIII.—“Good Heavens! What an Introduction!” 155
,,
XIV.—The Providence of God, 165
,,
XV.—The Battle on Skates, 175
,,
XVI.—The Berserker Oath, 185
,,
XVII.—Advanced Womanhood in 1573, 194
,,

[4]

BOOK III.

THE DUKE’S UNLUCKY PENNY.

Chapter XVIII.—“Is it a Dream?” 205
XIX.—The Daughter’s Dower, 220
,,
XX.—“Papa’s Coming! I’ll—I’ll Do It,” 228
,,
XXI.—“My Lord of Alva,” 235
,,
XXII.—“Oho! The Fox at Last!” 249
,,
XXIII.—“It is an Affair of State,” 258
,,

[5]

THE
First of the English.

BOOK I.

A Strange Trip to Antwerp.

[Contents]

CHAPTER I.

THE FLOOD IN THE SCHELDE.
“First officer, where’s the boatswain?”

“Forward, sir, seeing the best bower cleared,” returns Harry Dalton, the
ranking lieutenant of the Dover Lass.

“Very well, pass the word for the boatswain. He has the best nose on board
this ship,” shouts Captain Guy Stanhope Chester.

“Aye, aye, sir!”

This being done, the young skipper, for he is hardly twenty-five, shaking
the spray and sea water out of his tarpaulin, gropes his way to the binnacle,
the lantern of which is shaded, partly to protect it from the weather and
partly to prevent its light giving indication of the vessel’s whereabouts
through the darkness of the night.

Taking the course of the vessel he glances at the two men lashed by the
tiller to prevent their being washed overboard by the waves that have been
chasing the ship ever since she left the white cliffs of England, and remarks:
“Better cast yourselves loose lads, we are in [6]quieter water now. There’s a
bit of Flanders between us and the worst of the gale.”

A moment after the boatswain makes his appearance, a weather-beaten old
tar of England; one of the new class of deep-water sailors that are being
made by Drake and Frobisher in voyages to the Spanish Main and far
Pacific. Plucking a grisly lock, this worthy, who would be all sea dog did he
not wear a battered, steel breast-plate, salutes his captain, who says:

“How long since we passed Flushing, Martin Corker?”

“About four bells, your honor.”

“Two hours! I make it the same. Could you distinguish the place with your
eye, boatswain?” asks Guy, clutching the mizzen rattlings of the Dover
Lass, as she lurches before the northwest gale and rising tide.

“Not on this dark night, sir; but I made out the soundings by my lead, the
land with my eye, and the slaughter houses on the shore with my nose.”

“So did I,” laughs Captain Chester. “You and I, Martin, have been up the
Schelde often enough to nose out the channel on as dark a night as this,
though the cursed Spaniards have torn up every buoy on the river.”

Then the young skipper, leading the first officer aside, continues very
seriously and with knitted brows: “No chance of our meeting any of Alva’s
galleys out in this chop sea on such a night as this.”

“No,” growls Dalton, “these Spanish lubbers are fair weather sailors.”

“Besides, in such a gale,” adds the captain, “the Dover Lass would make a
fool of the bravest and biggest Spanish galleon that ever wallowed through
the ocean;” and he looks with the pride and love of a sailor at the trim little
ship, upon whose quarter-deck he stands, as she dashes through the waves
of the Schelde estuary, tossing the water that comes over her bow gracefully
into her lee scuppers, with the South Beveland on her lee and Flanders on
her weather quarter.

But the night is so inky and the spray so blinding, Guy Chester’s sharp eyes
can only discern half of his trim little vessel of about a hundred and thirty-
five feet long, and two hundred and fifty tons burden, rigged in [7]a fashion
peculiar to the times of Queen Elizabeth of England, with three masts, the
main and the fore square-rigged, and the mizzen felucca-like, with a long
lateen yard, from which would be expanded a fore and aft spanker, were not
the vessel under storm canvas.

Below this top-hamper the Dover Lass shows on her decks as pretty a set of
snarling teeth as any vessel of her size that sails from the shores of merry
England—six long demi-culverins throwing nine-pound balls, on each
broadside; four minions on her quarter-deck, three falcons as murdering
pieces on her forecastle, and half a dozen serpentines mounted as swivels at
convenient places on her bulwarks, which are unusually low for a vessel of
that day. In this matter of cabins and bulwarks the Dover Lass is rather an
anomaly, carrying no high poop nor forecastle, and consequently able to
beat to windward with much greater facility than the ordinary ships of the
sixteenth century.

Round the butts of her masts in racks are quantities of cutlasses, boarding
pikes and battle axes; the arquebuses and pistols being kept by the armorer
in the forecastle or in the captain’s cabin.

Her crew, some hundred and twenty-five of as jovial sea dogs as ever cut a
throat or scuttled a ship, are out of their hammocks to-night, every man Jack
of them; lying in as comfortable places as they can find between the guns
on the weather side of the deck and cracking sailor-jokes with each other in
a manner unusual to a government cruiser.

Altogether the Dover Lass has the appearance of a man-of-war, though not
its absolute discipline; and is evidently one of those vessels fitted out by
private individuals to trade if they could, fight if they must, and plunder the
“Dons” everywhere and all the time; similar to the ships that, under Drake
and Frobisher and old John Hawkins, were a greater terror to the Spaniards
than any of the Queen’s vessels themselves.

“This is rather different to a week ago,” mutters the first officer, “when you,
Captain Chester, were flaunting it with court beauties at Shene and
Windsor.”

“And you were making love to every pretty lass in Harwich,” laughs his
superior.

These remarks, though intended to be whispers, are [8]really shouted, each
man with his mouth at the other’s ear, for the screeching of the wind
through the rigging and the smacks of the combing waves as they lash the
vessel would almost drown the voice of old Stentor himself.

A moment later the boatswain touches his grisled lock and calls out to the
captain: “Hadn’t I better get the second bower clear also?”

“Yes, we may need it with this sea,” assents the captain; while the first
officer caustically remarks: “By old Boreas Bill, this is a rip-roarer of a
night!”

“Aye, worse on shore than at sea,” answers Guy, bringing his tarpaulin close
around him with one hand and with the other trying to keep on his head his
sou’ wester, from under which a few Saxon curls blow out in spite of his
efforts. All the time the three are stamping savagely on the deck, shaking
off the water that comes flying over the rail, and restoring circulations that
have been impaired by the searching northwester which has been beating
upon them all this awful night.

And it is an awful night; one of those nights that impresses itself upon the
memory of suffering mankind by the widows it makes and the orphans it
leaves; a night in which the sea drowns the land; a night in which the dykes
go down before the dash of the ocean, which, tearing huge sluices in them,
rushes through to make the unprotected meadows and growing orchards the
beds of roaring torrents and deep salt seas that drown awakened farmers
and affrighted peasants with their flying wives and children, in Flanders,
Brabant, Zeeland, Friesland, and the islands and polders of both the
Hollands; a night that brought up another wail from the Netherlanders, rich
and poor, noble and bourgeoisie, who had been undergoing the tortures and
burnings and flayings of Philip II. and Alva, his viceroy, for five long years;
a night when the long-continued northwest gale blowing in from the
German Ocean upon the unprotected dykes of Holland, supported by a tide
of wondrous strength and height, sweeps in upon the defenseless

Netherlands to remind them of that great flood shuddered at for centuries—
that of the first of November, All Saints’ night, of 1570—though this one is
[9]nearly two years afterwards, in the early spring of 1572. Evidences of the
misery of the land soon come out of the darkness of the night. Lights move
about hurriedly on the South Beveland shore, and the cries of a hundred
drowning peasants come shrieking on the gale.

“By Saint George, there’s a dyke gone!” cries Chester to his lieutenant, then
he mutters: “God help the poor wretches, we can’t!” as the ship speeds by,
the gale now a little upon her starboard quarter.

A minute later he commands hurriedly: “Call two quartermasters and heave
the log.”

This being done, he suddenly mutters: “Ten knots—and the tide four more!
Two hours! We must be abeam of the Krom Vliet; the Drowned Lands are
on our lee bow,” then cries hurriedly to his lieutenant: “Go forward and see
both the anchors are ready. We must bring up under the lee of South
Beveland, in the slack water where the tide coming up the East Schelde
meets the current of the main channel. If we get into the main river with this
wind and tide our anchors will hardly hold us this side the Fort of Lillo, and
that means capture and death to every man, Alva’s death—you know what
that is!”

To this the lieutenant shortly mutters, “I know!” and goes hurriedly
forward, where he can be seen directing the men who have been summoned
by the boatswain’s call. Chester, standing beside the tiller, cons the vessel
himself, giving his orders to the two helmsmen.

Half a minute later Martin Corker, the boatswain, comes staggering aft over
the ship’s slippery deck and hoarsely whispers: “Boats ahead!”

“How do you know? you couldn’t see them to-night.”

“Lights!”

“Ah! the lights of Sandvliet.”

“No, boats! pistols firing—arquebuses! I saw the flashes of their guns three
points on the lee bow, in the slack water under the shore of Beveland!”

“Then I can catch these boats,” whispers the captain.

With this the nature of the man comes suddenly out; his wonderful rapidity
of thought and action. He cries: [10]“Order all hands to stand by to wear
ship. Send twenty men aft to handle the lateen sail! See the two anchors
stoppered at thirty fathoms! Tell the starboard division to arm themselves
with pikes, cutlasses and axes—only steel. I want no noise about this
business! Order three men to stand on the weather bow with grappling
hooks.”

A minute later he sees the flashes of firearms a cable’s length ahead broad
upon his larboard bow.

“Helm a starboard!” he cries to the men at the tiller. “That’s enough; steer
small, I tell you. Set the spanker!”

A minute after they are just passing the boats, and nicely calculating for the
drift, which is tremendous, he suddenly wears his ship, giving his orders by
speaking trumpet. “Hard a starboard—slack away the lee braces. Haul taut
the weather fore and main braces!” And as soon as the vessel comes round
bracing his fore yards very sharply and jibbing his lateen sail, which,
though nearly blown from its bolt ropes, drives the vessel hurriedly into the
slack water formed by the current of the East Schelde meeting that rushing
in by the main estuary.

The next minute he has ranged up alongside two boats, and his starboard
division, taking tow lines in their hands, have sprung into the boats,
boarding them and capturing them.

These are soon swinging alongside of his lee quarter, protected from the sea
and the wind, while he is dropping anchor in the slack water formed by the
South Beveland flats and marshes.

There has apparently been no contest in the boats, as his men have taken
their occupants too much by surprise.

A minute later the boatswain clambers back on board the Dover Lass and
reports: “We’ve got ’em both!”

“What are they?”

“One’s an enemy and one’s a friend.”

“Who’s the friend?”

“Dirk Duyvel and his band of Sea Beggars; and Dirk’s thunderin’ mad and
swears he is being badly treated.”

“Who’s the enemy?” [11]

“A Spanish pleasure galley or State barge, judgin’ by the fol-de-rols and
awnings.”

“Who are on board her?”

“Rowers, who are begging for their lives, and two or three women, all of
’em fainted but one. There was an Italian, Spaniard or something, but
Duyvel and his band when they captured the boat tied a rope round him,
threw him overboard and towed him, and I guess he’s drowned by this
time.”

“Very well, pull the Italian up and bring him on board. Also send Dirk to
me.”

A minute later a stalwart-looking Dutch sea-dog comes over the side,
stamping his heavy boots and uttering a curse with every stamp.

“Come here, Dirk, what are you growling about?” laughs the young captain.

“What am I growling about? Donder en Bliksem! I’m growling about you!
What have you come between me and my prize for? Who are you,
anyway?”

“You don’t recognize me, Dirk? Come this way.”

The captain throws open the door of his cabin and motions the Dutch
seaman in. There is a flickering candle or two and a swinging lamp hanging
from the skylight transom that give a subdued and melancholy glow to the
scene, though the darkness of the night has been so intense that both the
Dutchman and Englishman blink their eyes as they enter.

A second later Dirk cries: “Bij den hemel! I didn’t recognize the voice. It’s
Captain Chester, the First of the English!”

This nickname that he gives to Guy is one the Hollanders had bestowed on
him upon his first making his appearance among them as secret scout,
envoy and general agent of Queen Elizabeth; though England, being
nominally at peace with Spain, his sovereign has publicly disavowed the
acts of this man who has been risking his life for her interests day by day,
and night by night, off the coasts of the Hollands, watching the unequal
fight the Netherlanders are making against the power of Philip of Spain, and
the frightful cruelties, ravages, burnings, flayings, killings and torturings of
Alva, his viceroy. This soubriquet, De Eersteling der Engelschen, the First
of the English, has apparently been [12]given in the faint hope of his not
being the last of the English; that others will come over after him and help
them fight for freedom of thought, and that they will be, if not openly
protected, at least secretly supported, by the power of the daughter of Henry
VIII., whom Philip has sworn to crush, as well as them, in the interests of

his religion. For, utterly defeated at Jemmingen, and out-generaled and
dispersed at Friesland, their Staatholder and Prince now in exile in
Germany, the adherents of William the Silent have no hope, save in the
active intervention, or at least covert assistance, of England.

On recognizing the Saxon the face of Dirk Duyvel assumes a sleepy smile,
though he mutters savagely: “Captain Chester, your act is not the act of a
Beggar of the Sea.”

“Odds, herrings and turbots! You know I am one of you just the same,”
laughs the young man, exhibiting a medal which is strung about his neck,
from which hang two or three Beggars’ cups in metal, and on which is
inscribed: “En tout fidelles au Roy!” and an armed bust of Philip II. of
Spain.

“It’s a curious emblem for an English subject to wear,” continues Guy, “but
since I joined and became one of you, for the purposes of the one who—
who sent me here,” he hesitates a little over his words, “I have acted to you
as a brother Gueux, and abided by the principles of the Beggars of the Sea
—if they have any. Have they, Dirk?” he jeers. “Answer me, you sea robber.
Didn’t you steal your own brother’s vessel last year?”

“Well, there’s two sides to that story, captain,” guffaws the Dutchman. Then
he goes on anxiously: “But you’re not going to steal my prize?”

“No, only to help you take care of it. And you need my aid to-night; for in
this wind, without me, you would never get back to your vessels. Where are
they?”

“About four miles down the East Schelde, round the point.”

“Then your boat would never make them. You would be blown into
Sandvliet or past the forts and into Alva’s grip, unless you landed on a dyke
and took [13]the chance of being shot off-hand by his Spanish mercenaries.

You couldn’t anchor your boats here, they’d be swamped; without the lee of
my vessel you would be in the arms of the mermaids in ten minutes, or in
Alva’s hands in two hours. Which would be worst?”

“I think Alva would be worstest for me and for you! He hates the ‘First of
the English’ more as even he does us rebels,” grins the Dutchman. He
shivers though, at that name, dreaded by every Netherlander, and more than
all by those he had made outlaws, and forced for very livelihood to become,
under the name of Gueux (Beggars of the Sea), half way pirates and
robbers, though still apostles of freedom under William of Orange.

“Now, what have you captured? Tell me all about it,” breaks in the
Englishman, who has bright, flashing steel blue eyes and dancing, gallant,
wavy chestnut hair, in strong contrast to the Hollander, who has a quiet,
sleepy, soft countenance, embellished with a contented grin—one Dirk
Duyvel never changed, whether saying his prayers, looting a ship, or cutting
a Spaniard’s throat.

“Well, we drifted down here,” he answers. “The gale wasn’t as high then, or
we wouldn’t have come. We saw a dyke burst down this side of Sandvliet
and went over to take charge of the farmers’ goods, so if they came to life
again we might return em. While doing this we saw a barge put off from a
pleasure house that was being washed out, and it looked as if there might be
plunder aboard. Well, we followed it. It was trying to get into the river to go
to Antwerp, but we shot the sailors, and had just captured the boat and
thrown an Italian overboard and were looking for plunder, and finding none,
except the women, three of whom fainted when I talked to ’em and told
what we were going to do with ’em, when you came alongside; and before I
knew it I was down with two of your swash-bucklers on top of me with
daggers at my throat, making remarks about my life.”

This dissertation is here interrupted by the entry of the boatswain, who
touches his cap and deposits an inanimate and drowned form upon the cabin
locker, [14]remarking sententiously: “The Italian’s come aboard, captain.”

“Let’s see if we can get life into him.”

But after a short examination Chester makes the sign of the cross and
whispers: “He’s past revival. All the leeches, surgeons and blood-letters on
earth couldn’t make his heart beat again,” placing his hand upon the man’s
bosom.

Even as he says this he suddenly starts and exclaims: “There’s something in
the breast of his coat; something sewn in.”

“Duivelsch! Is it money he’s got in his jacket?” screams the Dutch
freebooter; then he continues sorrowfully: “And to think that we missed it
when we searched his pockets before we threw him overboard. Is it money?
If it is, it’s my money.”

“It isn’t money, its papers,” remarks Chester, cutting away the Italian’s
doublet and pulling out a packet carefully wrapped in oiled silk.

“Then if it’s only papers, you can have them,” observes the Netherland
Beggar of the Sea generously. The Englishman is examining the documents
that are disclosed to him.

A moment more of perusal and Guy appears surprised; then deeply
impressed, mutters to himself: “I wonder—can it be?—I can’t make out the
accursed Spanish cipher.”

Two minutes more of anxious inspection and a sudden flash comes in his
eyes.

He turns to Dirk Duyvel and says shortly: “How much do you want for your
capture? All of it! You have given me the papers, now what do you want for
the boat?”

“The boat’s a fine boat!”

“But it’s no use to you!”

“And then there’s the three women. I might get a ransom for them.”

“From whom?”

“From their fathers or brothers or lovers; they wouldn’t like to know that
they were carried off by the Beggars of the Sea, the champions of freedom,”
says Duyvel with a hideous chuckle, “and one of ’em is very beautiful.” [15]

“Humph! how could you see this dark night?”

“I couldn’t see, I heard. Her voice is as sweet as the softest stop in the grand
organ at Amsterdam, the one they call the ‘angel’s voice.’ ”

“What do you want for the whole lot?” asks the Englishman, trying to
appear indifferent, and attempting the tone of a man making a bargain at a
haberdasher’s.

“A thousand crowns.”

“Three hundred,” answers Chester, shortly.

“Five hundred crowns, anyway.”

“Three hundred in silver,” and the young captain opens a locker in his cabin
and produces a bag of carolus guilders. “Better take this in hand,” he says,
“than bargain on the shore, with the chance of being captured and strung up.
Three hundred for the whole lot, women, boat, everything, and I take the
goods off your hands!”

“What do you want to do with them?”

“That’s my business,” says the Englishman, looking once more over the
papers he has taken from the dead Spaniard or Italian, for the dress and
appearance of the dead man indicates that he is such. “And I’ll tell you what

I’ll do,” continues Guy, “if this matter turns out as it may, I’ll make it two
hundred more on my next return from England.”

“Well, the plunder is yours, only count the money down.”

This is soon done, Chester writing a receipt and quittance for the same,
which the Dutchman signs. A moment later Captain Guy remarking
carelessly: “Duyvel, you had better lie by us in your boat till morning, or
you will never outlive this storm,” steps on deck, and taking his first officer
aside, says shortly: “You will take command of this vessel, Lieutenant
Dalton, until my return.”

“You are going to leave the ship to-night?”

“Yes, some information that I have just received makes it necessary that I
go to Antwerp to-night.”

“To Antwerp! Into Alva’s clutches; into his very jaws?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“In that Spanish barge lying beside us.” [16]

“You’ll take some of your men?”

“No.”

“Your life won’t be worth a florin.”

“Oh yes it will. The cowardly rowers down there won’t give me any
trouble. You know I learnt the Spanish lingo in Hispaniola, and speak it so
well that I almost despise myself for it. I shall go as a Spanish officer, under
the name used by me in my former visits to Antwerp, Capitan Guido Amati.
I shall pose as the rescuer of that lady in the boat alongside; that is, if things

turn out as I expect. Have the cutter off the nearest dyke down the river
below Fort Lillo to meet me by to-morrow noon.”

“You are taking your life in your hands. You’re doing more than this, you
are throwing it away,” objects the first officer very anxiously.

“I’d do both for my bonny Queen Bess, whose hand I kissed before leaving
England,” whispers the young man. “Now I will see my prisoner.”

Seizing a rope he swings himself over the low gunwale and a moment after
is standing among his men, who are still on guard in the Spanish pleasure
galley—one second later Guy Chester hears the softest, sweetest, most
coquettishly alluring voice he has ever heard since his ears opened to the
sounds of man—or woman.

[Contents]

CHAPTER II.

THE LADY OF THE BARGE.
No tones have ever thrilled Guy Chester so before, though in the almost
impenetrable gloom of the night its witchery has no assistance from
graceful figure, fascinating face, nor flashing eyes. It is the voice alone that
charms him. It says: “Señor, are you an officer? Have you authority among
these wild men?”

The speaking figure has risen at the commotion made by Chester’s
springing into the boat. Perhaps even in the darkness the lady notes the
salute from his men by which he is received. The tongue in which the lady
[17]speaks is Spanish, pure, refined; the exquisite Spanish of the Castilian.

“I have, señorita,” replies Guy, answering in the same language, though his
accent and diction are almost barbarous beside her liquid idiom. The sound
of the Spanish language seems to reassure the lady, who, stepping from
beneath the awning that adorns and protects the stern of the boat, confronts
Chester, and in tones that are part pleading and part commanding, says:
“Tell me who you are?”

“A captain in Romero’s regiment of Sicilians. Not born in Spain, as you
may note by my accent,” returns the young Englishman, adding, “My
birthplace was in Hispaniola.”

“Ah! an officer of Spain,” cries the lady joyously; “then your ship is
Spanish?”

“Certainly,” returns the Englishman, who, having made up his mind to
deceive, does it with full hand and wholesome measure.

“Then,” replies the lady, her voice now growing strangely confident and
commanding, “Señor Capitan, you will attend me at once to the city of

Antwerp, guarding me on the way.” A moment after she continues: “And I
hope you will have those wretched Hollander cut-throats, those insolent Sea
Beggars, punished as soon as possible. They have murdered the captain and
soldiers of my barge, they have drowned the poor secretary of the Marquis
de Cetona, Chiapin Vitelli.”

At the name of Vitelli, Chester gives a sudden start. “Certainly, señorita,”
he answers promptly. “Every ruffian of them shall be hanged to the yard-
arm as soon as your barge is out of sight.”

“But you must go with me; I have commanded!”

“Your words are my orders,” says Guy gallantly, trying to keep down a
smile, as he thinks that his fair captive assumes a strange authority. “The
captain of the vessel will attend to the punishment of the marauders after we
have left.”

“You will be ready to accompany me soon.” The tone coming to him in the
darkness is that of one accustomed to command, though marvelously sweet
and winning. [18]

“In fifteen minutes,” answers Chester with soldierly promptness; then he
continues, a touch of gallantry in his voice: “May I not send you some
supper from the vessel? The night is very cold.”

“No, I am well wrapped up. My attendants can chafe my hands, and we
have some excellent Spanish wine and other refreshments in the locker of
the barge. Only be quick, or we shall not be in Antwerp before morning.”

“As soon as possible I will return.” With these words Guy springs lightly
out of the boat and clambers over the gunwale of his own vessel.

Then hurriedly drawing aside his first officer, who has been looking over at
this colloquy, he says: “It has all turned out as I wished. Besides, I know a

little more. This dead man in the cabin (whom you will throw overboard as
soon as possible) is the secretary of that accursed Chiapin Vitelli!”

“The scoundrel who is aiding Alva in his plans against the life of our
sovereign!” interjects Dalton.

“Yes. This thing makes it doubly important that I go to Antwerp. I may even
stay there some days. Keep the boat off and on near the dyke below Fort
Lillo, as I have commanded.”

“You are taking desperate chances,” mutters his subordinate, dissentingly.

“But they are chances I must take. In case anything happens to me, in case I
—I do not come back, tell my Queen it was for her sake. Return with the
vessel, Dalton, to England and utter to our Sovereign these words: ‘Be more
on your guard of Spanish poison or Spanish dagger than ever. It is the last
warning you will hear from your devoted liegeman, Guy Stanhope
Chester.’ ”

With this the young captain steps into his cabin, and within ten minutes, as
he re-opens the door, the dim light displays him as a different man.

No longer the weather-beaten sailor in tarpaulin and sou’wester, but as gay
and debonnaire a young gallant as ever flaunted with the court ladies of
Hampton, or ruffled it in the tennis courts of Windsor or Westminster.

A light blue velvet cap surmounted by two long [19]white plumes fastened
by a diamond clasp is on his youthful head; round his neck a long Spanish
collar of the lace of Venice; his velvet doublet slashed with silver and satin;
his hose and trunks of the finest silk of France; his high Spanish boots of
the softest bronze morocco leather. In this gallant garb, with his blue,
flashing eyes, and laughing lips and curly hair, Guy Stanhope Chester
makes as brave a figure as even Dudley, Earl of Leicester, himself, when he
charmed the Queen of England and her maids of honor.

Perhaps even more so, for his face is honest and his smile sincere, though
there is a determined expression in his face as he steps out of his cabin and
examines carefully the priming of the two long pistols he has in his belt,
and thrusts his hand in his bosom to be sure that the long, keen poniard is in
its place, and claps his hand on sword hilt to assure himself that his trusty
long Toledo cut-and-thrust rapier is right to his hand. For the chances of this
visit to the great city of the Netherlands, which Alva holds in his grasp,
mean to him the chances of not merely success nor failure, but the chances
of life and death. With the caution of common sense, Guy has given himself
the appearance of Catholic and Spanish cavalier; he has discarded the medal
of the Gueux and wears instead, quite ostentatiously, a rosary of golden
beads and ornamented cross.

In making this change he has displaced from his bosom a miniature set in
diamonds, a portrait of a girl of wondrous Castilian beauty, upon which he
has cast eyes of longing and muttered these curious words: “My only prize
from all of Alva’s treasures I captured for my queen—if I could gain the
original.”

Altogether the gallant array of Guy Chester makes a sensation on his
quarter-deck, even affecting the imperturbable sea robber, Dirk Duyvel,
who sits just outside the cabin calmly counting his three hundred florins.
This worthy remarks: “Hel en duivel! but she must be a pretty wench!” And
his first lieutenant, aye, even the second, venture to crack a joke or two
upon his appearance, Dalton remarking: “By the Four Evangelists! This
foray means love as well as blood!”

And the second mate, who is hardly more than a [20]chunky round-faced
boy, gives a wild guffaw as he whispers into his skipper’s ear: “Take me
with you, please, Captain Chester, for your cruise on shore. There are other
ladies in the boat besides the one for whom you are arrayed!”

“My poor boy, the run on shore would be the death of you,” remarks the
captain, then he suddenly strides back into the cabin, muttering to himself:

“By the Seven Champions of Christendom, that voice has nearly made me
lose my common sense. I was going without any money; that would have
been very dangerous.”

With these words he empties into his pocket from one of the lockers of his
cabin a small bag of Spanish gold, and thrusts into the other a loose
assortment of Spanish florins, Dutch crowns and Netherland stivers. As he
turns away, catching view of himself in a small mirror of Venetian glass that
is set in the cabin side between the two stern port holes, Guy Chester
suddenly ejaculates: “And I was forgetting my boat cloak also. That would
have been comfortable in this nor’wester.”

As he speaks he throws over his finery a long ample cloak of English wool,
and the next second he is over the side of the ship into the Spanish barge,
which, being cleared rapidly of his men, is now cast off from the ship.

At this he, going to the stern, takes the tiller in his hand and cries out in
commanding Spanish: “Give way, ye dogs of rowers! The man who
straightens his back or misses his stroke until we are at Antwerp dies by my
hand.” For he fears that the slightest fault of cadence in the stroke may put
the boat broadside to the wind and current, which would be fatal in this
chop sea, rapid tide and strong gale.

“You seem to be a seaman as well as a soldier,” remarks the young Spanish
lady, by whose side he is now seated.

“Yes, I have done a little of everything in the way of fighting, both by land
and sea,” returns Guy, drawing somewhat closer to the alluring voice.

“I shall always look upon you,” murmurs the lady, “as my preserver of this
night.”

Then she astounds and almost horrifies him, for she says patronizingly:
“This has been a lucky night for [21]you. Señor Capitan; for this I will have

you made a Colonel!”

This assertion is made by the sweet voice beside him as confidently as if it
came from the Queen of Spain herself. Its very assurance sends a cold thrill
down the Englishman’s back. “Who the deuce can she be?” he wonders. “I
am putting my head into Alva’s very hand in escorting her to Antwerp.”

But to turn back is now impossible. The boat is already in the main current;
both wind and tide are now sweeping them to Antwerp on the flood, that
bears beside them the bodies of drowned men and cattle, giving evidence of
the devastation the ocean is working upon the Netherlands.

“And whom am I to thank for this wondrous promotion?” Guy ventures
insinuatingly, for he is now desperately curious to know the name of the
lady sitting beside him.

“You may call me Doña Hermoine,” answers the fair one in a tone that
indicates that she is sufficiently well known to be recognizable without any
further description or attachment. A moment after she speaks to one of her
attendants, who is kneeling beside her, chafing her hands, for the night is
very cold, saying quietly: “That will do, Alida, try to warm yourself.”

“Yes, Excelentisima,” answers the girl.

This high-sounding title only adds to a curiosity that Chester can gratify no
further. He is compelled to devote every faculty of his mind, every muscle
of his body, to keeping the boat dead before the wind and current as it flies
up the Schelde. A single false movement of the rudder might cause it to
broach, and that would be destruction on this wild night.

He can scarce find time to direct the attendants of the lady to place
tarpaulins at her back and to protect her as much as possible from the spray
that is following them; every other energy is employed in keeping the frail
boat safe in her race with the wild waters round them. He has no trouble

with the oarsmen; they row as if they knew their lives depended on their
toil.

So they fly on.

A dark lowering mass upon his right hand indicates the grim Fort of Lillo.
This passed Guy knows he [22]is in the very hands of Alva, in the Spanish
lines. But they dash ahead, passing ships that have broken from their
moorings, and are drifting with the tide; others that have taken refuge in the
various estuaries and coves of the Schelde. No boats are out this wild night;
the storm has driven everything to shelter. No Spanish galleys patrol the
river; but the lights upon the dykes show that the husbandmen are awake,
trying to save their live stock and themselves.

A little later the lady, who all this time has been compelled to devote herself
to keeping warm by many stampings of tiny feet and clappings of delicate
hands, in which she has been assisted by her attendants, suddenly says:
“Can you not take a little refreshment, Señor Capitan? Even a glass of
wine? Your exertions for my safety have been untiring.”

“For God’s sake don’t take my attention from the boat!” mutters Guy
between set teeth. “We’re running a bend of the river. The wind will be on
our quarter. It is our lives that I’m fighting for.”

Then he settles himself again to the struggle, for the current and wind are
not now exactly together, and it makes his task at the tiller even more
difficult.

But after making this bend, which is just before they reach the water front
of Antwerp, the wind, broken by the land, becomes less fierce, and the
rising tide, which has almost reached its height, grows less violent and
rapid.

“Thank God, we’re over the worst of it,” Guy says with a sigh of relief.
“Now I’ll thank you for a glass of wine, fair lady; the night is fearfully
cold;” this last comes from between chattering teeth.

“Oho!” almost laughs the fair one at his side. “Silk, satin and velvet are not
as conducive to comfort, Señor Capitan, as your storm clothes and
tarpaulins when you first boarded my barge. It is necessary to suffer in
order to be beautiful. Your fine raiment is, I presume, for some fair lady of
Antwerp, Capitan mio.”

“Yes, for a very fair one,” mutters Guy, whose boat cloak has blown from
his shoulders, and whose lace cuffs have brushed the lady’s wrist, as he
holds the silver goblet to his mouth and permits the very finest old Spanish
wine that has ever trinkled down his throat [23]to revive his circulation and
reanimate his chilled form.

The elixir seems to bring his spirits back again, and he laughs.

“Another goblet, please, which I will drink to the fair lady’s health!” And
this being given him, Guy says, with sailor audacity and youthful ardor, “To
you!” looking with all his eyes at the fair one ministering to him, hoping
that their flash will even pierce the darkness. For he has touched the hand
that has tendered the goblet, and it is wondrously soft and dainty, and the
whole bearing and demeanor of his fair companion is that of bright,
vivacious, joyous youth; the youth that age may envy but never simulate;
the youth the gods give but once; the youth that even inky darkness cannot
hide.

Besides, thrown by a quick lurch of the boat, she has been close against his
bosom—once; but in that fleeting touch he has discerned the figure of a
Venus and the agile graces of a Hebe.

“Who in the name of all the saints can she be?” he wonders.

At his audacious toast the lady draws herself away quite hurriedly, with a
subdued ejaculation, partly of surprise, partly of hauteur. A moment after
she laughs the laugh of youth, enchanting, bewitching; and remarks: “Such
toasts will draw upon you the wrath of my duenna.”

“Your duenna! She is not here!”

“Oh, yes. She has been present during our whole journey. My awful duenna
lies on the seat immediately in front of you. The smell of powder always
makes the Countess de Pariza faint. She always becomes insensible when
her ward is in greatest danger. At the first fire by the Beggars of the Sea she
fainted comfortably away, and has been insensible ever since. When we
arrive at Antwerp she will probably have her sharp eyes open.”

“Then before they do open tell me about yourself,” whispers Guy gallantly,
for he can now devote a little of his time to the lady, into whose face he
would look with admiring eyes did the darkness permit.

“First tell me about yourself,” she answers a little hurriedly, a tone of
interest in her voice that pleases [24]the young gentleman. “The more I
know about you the better I can aid you to become a colonel. What is your
name?”

“Call me Captain Guido,” murmurs Chester in his tenderest voice.

“No other name?”

“I cannot give you my other name. I am absent from my regiment without
leave.”

“Then it will be very difficult to promote you,” laughs the lady. Next she
says: “But since you will not trust me with your name, tell me something
about your former life.”

This Guy does, inventing a story of birth in Hispaniola, various combats by
land and sea for the glory of the flag of Spain in Italy and the Netherlands,
giving the lady beside him an idea that he is devoted to the Spanish cause,
body and soul, a grand hater of all enemies of Mother Church, and weaving
about himself a web of romance and a tissue of falsehoods that some day
may rise up to strike him down; for his fair companion thinks him a true
soldier of Philip of Spain and his viceroy, Don Fernando Alvarez de Toledo,
Duke of Alva and Huesca.

“Ah!” she murmurs, “a gallant soldier. I must make you a colonel!”

“And the full name of my benefactress?”

Perchance she would answer this; but at this moment the lights of Antwerp
come into view. The whole city’s front is illuminated by moving lanterns,
vessels are being transported to safe anchorages; the immense shipping of
the port is on the alert this night to save themselves from the flood. The
merchants of this, the richest city in all Europe, are busy on the quays trying
to preserve the merchandise of the Indies and the produce of Northern
Europe from damage and wreck from the rising tide that is sweeping over
the half-submerged quays and docks of this great emporium of sixteenth
century commerce.

“Where will you land?” says Guy hurriedly.

Her answer is such that it almost makes the strong man beside her tremble.
She says nonchalantly: “I think you had better take me to the Citadel.”

“The Cit—a—del,” stammers Guy. [25]

“Yes, Sancho d’Avila, its governor, will be proud to make me welcome to-
night.”

“You can pass the sentries? You know the passwords of the night?” mutters
Chester, feeling himself growing cold at the thought of entering Alva’s very

garrison.

“Certainly. They sent me the words of to-night.”

“Give them to me, please, so that I may pass you through the guard.”

“That of to-night,” she says, “is Jemmingen.”

“And the countersign?”

“Santa Maria de la Cruz. You may need it, being an officer without leave,”
she whispers; then adds with a slight laugh, “I have, perhaps, saved you
from arrest. That is a little earnest of my gratitude.”

They are now speeding past the main town. The English quay is already
behind them, and they are opposite the great middle dock, the huge
warehouses of which are all alight, while gangs of men with waving torches
are on the adjacent wharves and ships, trying to moor the vessels safe from
the rushing flood and to salvage their cargoes, many of which are already
half unloaded. A few Spanish war galleys are in motion, their slaves toiling
at their immense oars towing to places of more secure anchorage some of
the sailing galleons, now helpless in this heavy gale.

Above all this turmoil and commotion the shouts of sailors, the curses of
captains, the screams of the galley slaves under the lash, the flashing lights
of the town and harbor, for all Antwerp is up this night, come the silvery
chimes of the grand cathedral, whose tower sounds the quarter of the hour
before midnight.

As they pass they are hailed by a patrol boat, but giving the word of the
night, Chester steers his barge upon its course unimpeded and unstayed.

So they fly past the city proper, skirting a further line of wooden wharves
and quays, behind which can be seen the city walls and gates—not as
strongly built, nor as elaborately fortified as those protecting the land side

of the town, but still garrisoned and guarded, and their Spanish sentries on
the alert, for this night of storm and flood has roused not only the burghers
of Antwerp to save their wares and chattels, but the Spanish [26]garrison of
the place, to see that no outbreak occurs during this commotion produced
by wind and tide.

A few moments after, beyond the Esplanade, or parade ground, that
separates the citadel from the town, can be seen the flickering lights of the
two river bastions of the vast fortification built by Alva, not to protect, but
to dominate and crush this great commercial city which is now within his
hands.

Gazing up the flood, Chester’s quick seaman’s eye discovers the danger of
approaching the massive walls that line the moat. With the tide running as it
does, and the wind blowing as it blows, their boat will be smashed like an
eggshell against the stonework. He speaks hurriedly: “Is there not some
other watergate? If I try to make the landing on this side it is death. Speak
quick, for God’s sake—answer me!”

“Yes! A small sally-port beyond the second bastion.” The liquid voice
beside him is nervous and agitated. The waves of the Schelde are foaming
against the masonry of the Spaniard.

“That’s it!” cries Chester, and steering the boat with rare precision into the
deep moat that surrounds the citadel, which the flood now makes a rushing
torrent, they fly past the great somber Bastion of the Duke, and a moment
later that named after Alva himself. Here, sheltered to a great extent from
the wind behind the massive walls of this stronghold of Spanish power, the
boat makes landing at a small sally-port situated on a little artificial island
in the middle of the moat, and connected by a light, movable bridge with
the main citadel between the huge bastions of Alva and Paciotto, the latter
named after the great engineer who planned and built this great frowning
pentagon with its five massive redoubts, considered the strongest fortress of
its day.

As the boat makes its landing the sentry stationed there challenges, and
receives as answer from the Englishman the word of the night. At this the
drawbridge is let down and lights from flaming torches flash upon them,
causing Chester to discover what darkness has heretofore concealed from
him, that the boat he has been piloting all this night is evidently a State
galley, whose fittings and awnings are decorated in exquisite [27]art and
ornamented with Spanish stamped leather bearing the arms of the Viceroy
himself. But he has no time to speculate upon this.

“My duenna,” says the lady hurriedly. “We must rouse her for the sake of
etiquette, Señor Capitan, we must rouse the Countess de Pariza!”

This is easily done, for the court dame has apparently been reviving for
some little time, and a couple of goblets of the same Spanish wine that had
cheered the young sailor bring almost immediate speech to the chaperone.
She ejaculates, looking round with wild eyes: “Holy Virgin! I am alive.
Santa Maria! The citadel of Antwerp. I am saved!”

Then this sentinel of etiquette and punctilio rises and puts a pair of haughty
patrician eyes upon the Englishman, and exclaims hurriedly: “Who is this
man?”

“The gentleman who has preserved us from the Beggars of the Sea,”
answers the young lady of the barge.

On this Chester, not wishing further discussion as to his identity, suddenly
offers his arm to the fair one, who is still cloaked and hooded, and who, as
the lights have flashed upon her, has drawn over her face a Spanish veil. A
moment later Guy feels a little thrill as his offer is accepted, and a tiny hand
is slipped within his arm.

Another second and he has assisted her from the boat and is passing with
her across the drawbridge, followed by the two attendants supporting the

duenna, who is apparently not yet very strong upon her feet, and is in a state
of semi-hysterics.

Just as they get to the last of the drawbridge Guy hears a sudden wild shriek
behind him, and desperate as is his situation, before the very citadel of
Alva, the open gate of which is waiting to engulf him, he cannot refrain
from an hilarious chuckle as he discovers that the Spanish duenna has
slipped upon the wet drawbridge and is now being pulled half drowned
from the waters of the moat. As her attendants somewhat unskillfully assist
her, the countess, falling into a wild rage, throws etiquette to the winds and,
with chattering teeth, and mouth full of water, stammers that the two
attendant hussies shall pay for their awkwardness. [28]

But Chester’s laugh dies away as the sentries at the gate bar their passage
by crossed pikes, and their ensign says hoarsely: “The countersign, señor!”

“Santa Maria de la Cruz” whispers Guy.

The pikes drop as the officer waves his sword, and they step past him
through the heavy Gothic archway. At this moment a light flashing from a
flambeau stuck into a niche in the heavy masonry falls upon the lady,
outlining her figure more strongly. Catching sight of this the Spanish officer
doffs his steel cap, and bowing to the very ground, says: “Had I known it
was you, Excelentisima, my challenge would not have been so
peremptory!”

“You but did your duty, señor,” says the unknown. A second later she has
left Guy’s arm and having taken the young officer aside, who stands before
her with uncovered bended head, is whispering something to him in
Spanish very rapidly.

A portion of the ensign’s answer comes to Guy’s ear: “No, Excelentisima,
he has not arrived from Brussels.”

“Then papa will not be anxious for me this night,” says the lady quickly.
Retaking Chester’s arm she says to the young officer: “You will attend us to
the quarters of the Countess of Mansfeld.”

A moment later, preceded by the Spanish ensign, they pass through the
gateway to the main parade ground of the Citadel, and passing between
piles of cannon balls and all the vast implements of attack and defense of
the great fortress, move towards what are apparently the officers’ quarters.
From the windows of one of these, evidently much larger and more
commodious and elegant than the rest, come the lights of festival and the
music of the dance. Situated immediately in the rear of the bastion of
Paciotto, the distance to this is quite short, and Guy has little chance of
conversation with his companion, being compelled to speed by the storm,
which is still cold and biting, and causes the lady to hug her wraps very
tightly about her.

They enter at a little side door of the house, a man servant in gorgeous
livery receiving them and immediately bowing to the earth.

“The countess expected me?” remarks Guy’s charge hurriedly. [29]

“Yes, Excelentisima, the fête of this evening is in your honor. You have been
detained? It is now near midnight,” answers the servitor, again bowing.

Any reply the lady might make to this is stopped by the entry of her
dripping duenna, who says querulously: “What are you standing here for,
Doña Hermoine? You are keeping the Countess de Mansfeld waiting
upstairs and me dripping with water and chilled to the bone down here.”
Then she cries: “Up, hussies, and help me change my raiment!” This last is
emphasized by a fearful chatter of her teeth and a ferocious wave of her
hand to the attendants, who scurry past the young Englishman and his
immediate charge.

Under the lights of the hall Guy notes that the maid servants are young girls
of lithe figures, pale olive complexions, and Moorish features, perhaps
slaves, as was common in Spain in those days. A moment after these
proceed up a little stairway with the Countess de Pariza, all punctilio having
apparently been entirely washed out of this dragon of etiquette by the salt
water of the Schelde, for she leaves Guy standing with her charge without
further remark.

Then he turns his eyes on his companion, hoping her face will now be
visible, but the heavy lace veil still guards her countenance, and her wraps
are still drawn tightly about her, giving outline to an apparently exquisite
figure beneath. While noting this the young Englishman also observes that
the lady’s mantle is of the very finest royal sable, and fastened by jeweled
ornaments of exceeding value.

“Had Dirk Duyvel known this,” cogitates Guy, smiling, “it would have
taken more than three hundred Carolus guilders to have bought that cloak
alone!”

But introspection is cut short; the sweet voice, even more beautiful now,
mixed with the cadence of the music of lutes and stringed instruments from
the adjoining part of the mansion, says: “My duenna has apparently
forgotten hospitality, but I have not.” Then she commands the servitor:
“Show Captain Guido at once to a refreshment room. Not the one of the
fête, as he is evidently not arrayed for festivity.”

She laughs a little, and Chester can see a roguish flash in eyes too brilliant
to be entirely shaded by the [30]lace, as she glances at his long cloak that is
draped around him, and murmurs: “Accept my hospitality; I have a missive
to give you.”

Then with light graceful movement she sweeps up the stairs and is gone,
Guy thinking complacently: “She does not guess my brave array; I have a
surprise in store for this lady.”

“This way, Señor Capitan,” murmurs the soft-voiced flunkey, and the
Englishman is shown into a private reception room, the regal luxury of
which astounds him, for its tapestried walls and inlaid Flemish furniture
excel those of his own Queen at Hampton Court and Westminster. Here in a
few minutes is placed before him as dainty a repast as ever hungry sailor
did justice to. The table is covered with snowy linen, massive silver and
fairy Venetian glass, and the viands are oysters from the Schelde, cold
partridge, a delicate salad of fresh lettuce with just a suspicion of garlic, and
a bottle of the royal wine of Xeres itself.

“Egad, this costume à la Leicester will make my lady open her bright eyes,”
thinks Guy, as he throws off his long boat cloak and displays himself in the
gallant attire that he has assumed before leaving the ship. Though his
handsome morocco boots have suffered somewhat from the sea water, the
rest of his costume has been pretty well protected.

Altogether Master Guy Stanhope Chester is very well pleased with himself,
as he sits down and makes short work of the repast in front of him, pouring
down the wine of Xeres into his benumbed frame from a huge silver
drinking beaker, and finding himself silently and deftly waited upon by the
man servant. Thinking to discover more of the lady he has rescued, Chester
suggests to the lackey, “A fine fête your mistress gives this night!”

“Yes!” answers the servitor, proud of the grandeur of his house. “We have
for the entertainment of our guests, rederykers from Ghent who will give us
declamation and farce, two gipsy girls imported from Andalusia, our own
court fool to make us merry, also the daughter of the ex-burgomaster, who
will dance for us in her father’s highest-priced silks. I shall contrive to get
into the hall to see her prance; the Flemish wench has very [31]pretty ankles,
and the airs of a countess,” guffaws the fellow.

But he says naught of the lady of the barge, and, the meal being finished,
the table is cleared by several flunkies in gorgeous liveries, the resources of
the house being apparently princely.

“Odds doubloons!” soliloquizes the young man, watching the last of the
lackeys disappear. “The Countess de Mansfeld’s hospitality is very taking!”

Then a sudden coldness flies through his veins, in spite of the generous
wine, as he remembers that he is eating the salt of the Spaniard in the
Citadel of Antwerp.

But now suddenly the cold jumps from his body; he springs up with a start,
his eyes gazing for one moment in rapture and admiration, and the next in a
kind of dazed surprise, his hand seeking his breast feeling something
beneath his satin doublet as if to be sure that it is really there.

For a girlish form of wondrous beauty and grace, with the fair skin and
deep, lustrous, languid, but vivacious eyes, peculiar to the purest blood and
highest loveliness of Castile, arrayed in evening dress, of velvet court train
and shimmering silk and lace stomacher, that shows ivory shoulders and
arms, stands before him, and the soft voice that has charmed him all this
night in a mixture of coquetry and shyness says: “I thought you might like
to see the face of her whom to-night you saved from the Dutch pirates!”
Then she laughs lightly and murmurs: “If they had only known who I was I
suppose the Flemish outlaws would have cut my throat,” giving a little
gesture across the white ivory column that supports her lovely head, “before
even you could have recaptured me.”

“Who under heaven can she be?” gasps Guy to himself, clutching again at
his bosom. “She is the lady of the miniature, but who—who?”

But surprise and admiration are not all on his side.

As he rises the lady standing before him sees a gallant, well-knit figure of
six feet in height, stalwart shoulders, strong arms, active, lithe body; above
all this a face of manly determination, bronzed by weather, [32]giving almost
the appearance of a brunette to a fair Saxon cheek, though this is
contradicted by light chestnut hair, blue, but determined eyes, and a fair

drooping mustache, which conceals a mouth remarkable for its firmness.
Altogether a manly man—one fitted to make a woman’s heart beat a
thousand to the minute; one fitted to love like a troubadour and fight like a
paladin for what he wanted in this world, and standing a very good chance
to get it; one who, at all events, for this evening, makes the blood of the
lady who faces him rush very warmly through her veins, and brings even a
greater brightness to her eyes, though these were bright enough before.

Not that she has never seen handsome men, for most of the Spanish
chivalry of her age have bowed before her. But this new type, this Anglo-
Saxon manliness, this wealth of brawn, these great big honest English eyes,
this boy’s forehead and man’s face, make her heart beat a little differently
than ever dark-eyed Spanish grandee or soft mustachioed Italian cavalier or
knight of France or stolid Netherland noble had made it beat before.

The same motive seems to actuate them both—involuntarily their hands
clasp.

But astonishment is too great in Chester—he forgets the Spanish salutation,
and the lady, laughing lightly, draws her hand away, murmuring: “No kiss?
You—you slight me!”

“Slight you! Is that a slight?” And in a second the lady utters a faint cry of
astonishment, perhaps even of terror, for Guy Chester, forgetting the
Spanish form of salutation, has given her a good, whole-souled honest
English kiss, such as the son of the squire was wont to bestow on the fair
lips of maids as they stood under the mistletoe bough at Christmas tide.

“Madre de Dios!” cries the girl, blushing with almost a ruby light, “I meant
my hand. Holy Virgin! what a mistake. If the Countess had seen it”—then,
in spite of herself, she laughs, though she droops and turns away her head.

Of this Guy takes advantage—for her beauty is of a kind to make men
crazy. In an instant he has taken the soft, exquisite, patrician fingers in his,

and [33]has rectified the mistake of Anglo-Saxon fervor and impetuosity.

But just the same, this kiss on the lips has done his business, and also that
of the lady, though at present she doesn’t know it. She says hurriedly: “I
have told the Countess de Mansfeld of your service to me. She would have
begged your attendance at the fête, but I had presumed you were not in the
costume of ceremony. I see my mistake. You are gallantly arrayed. Will you
not join in our festival?”

“I beg you not,” answers Guy more hurriedly, for he knows in the glittering
throng he will have no such chance of a tête-à-tête as he has now.

“Ah, you fear your being absent without leave from Romero’s Sicilians.
They are quartered at Middelburg, I believe. That accounts for your coming
by ship. But,” the lady goes on earnestly, “I have thought about that. If you
are questioned in Antwerp, say that you have come as their Eletto from the
officers to demand when their back pay and arrears shall be made good. For
since the Queen of England stole from us eight hundred thousand crowns,
you know no soldier in Brabant, Flanders nor Friesland has had pay. Make
such a statement as that, and it will probably save you from any further
questioning on the subject of written leave of absence from Romero.”

“Egad!” thinks Guy, “I wonder what she would say if she knew I had had a
great hand in stealing that eight hundred thousand crowns.” But he goes on
very earnestly, for the lady has apparently forgotten her embarrassment and
her eyes are looking straight into his: “Many thanks for your kind
suggestion, Doña Hermoine. I will remember it if questioned by provost
marshal. But,” here his eyes make hers droop before his, “I am more
pleased than you can imagine at your suggestion—not that it may save me
from arrest, but that it shows me that while away from me you had mind of
me.”

“In that case permit me to show you that I thought of you more than you
even now imagine,” answers the girl, blushing at the admiration with which

the young gentleman is regarding her. “I also wrote a missive—this. After
you have rejoined your command, at the [34]first convenient opportunity
present this at headquarters, and I think it will insure you a colonelcy.” With
this she hands him a note, at which he starts astounded, for it is addressed to
“Don Fernando Alvarez de Toledo, Duke of Alva, Viceroy of Spain.”

“Who the devil can she be?” thinks Guy, but he has no time to waste on
queries; surprises come fast upon him. The girl says hurriedly: “The
Countess de Mansfeld and her guests await me. This fête is in my honor;”
then adds in a faltering tone that gives Guy one great gasp of hope: “To
remain longer would invite comment,” touching a silver hand-bell on the
table.

And he, hearing this knell of parting joy, knowing that it may mean death to
him to see her more, and dominated by that wild passion which comes but
once in a man’s life-time, and makes him know that she, of all the beings of
this earth, is the one for whom, if necessary, he would die, mutters
agitatedly: “Then there is but time to thank you with my whole heart for
your kindness to an unknown one; to tell you—” but his eyes are speaking
faster than his lips, and with an affrighted “Madre Mia!” she draws
fluttering back, as he, made desperate by approaching footsteps, whispers
three words: “I love you!”

To which she gasps: “No! no! you don’t know who I am!”

And he, dropping on one knee, whispers: “Were you the Queen of Spain
I’d tell you that I loved you!” and presses on her jeweled hand the kiss of
truth and devotion eternal.

But the servitor is entering, and she speaks, haughty and commanding, as if
she were the Queen of Spain: “Order an ensign to escort Captain Guido
with all due honor from the Citadel.”

A quick rush of silk and flutter of laces and she is at the door of the room,
but turns as if regretful of her going.

And he, gazing at her, his heart in his eyes, sees a picture that he never
forgets; for the girl stands in graceful attitude of fairest youth, arrayed in
laces, silks and glittering gems, with bare white neck and snowy maiden
bosom; one little Andalusian foot in [35]fairy web of Brussels and tiny
slipper of velvet advanced from under her short petticoat of lace and silk,
and one white hand draping the tapestry of the door above her, the other
motioning farewell.

He makes hurried steps towards her and whispers: “Is it eternal?”

“Eternal? How solemn!” she tries to laugh, “Remember me by this!” and,
taking from her white finger a ring set with one bright flaming ruby, drops it
into his astonished hand, and flits from view.

And as he turns away he gives one great, deep-drawn breath of hope. For in
her eyes has come something that has answered to his words: “Were you
the Queen of Spain I love you!”

[Contents]

CHAPTER III.

THE SIX DRUNKARDS OF BRUSSELS.
A moment after, as Chester presses the ring upon his little finger, a young
Spaniard, almost a boy, with dark fiery eyes and ornamented by an incipient
mustache that he attempts to curl fiercely, in full uniform with breastplate
and plumed steel cap, enters the apartment and says briskly: “I am the
officer deputed to escort you from the Citadel, señor. Permit me to present
myself as Ensign José de Busaco, of Mondragon’s Arquebusiers.”

“And in return,” answers Guy, throwing on his boat cloak and preparing to
follow the young man, “I beg to announce myself as the Capitan Guido
Amati, of Romero’s Musketeers.”

“Of the Middelburg garrison, I presume,” remarks the ensign, as they leave
the house together. “I suppose you have run up for a little roistering at
Antwerp. Middelburg is a desperately sleepy place; I was quartered there
three years ago. Brabant is slow also now since we smashed Louis of
Nassau up at Jemmingen. I cut ten German throats there,” adds the boy very
fiercely and very proudly. [36]

“Diablo! You are a fighter,” mutters Guy.

“Pooh! these German burghers and townspeople were nothing against us
Spanish veterans,” replies Ensign de Busaco. “We killed eight thousand,
you remember, and lost only eight men. That was Alva’s generalship. He
has put up a big monument to himself over there,” and the boy points across
the great enceinte of the citadel through which they are passing on their way
to the main gate leading to the city.

Following his gesture in the gloom Chester can see the pedestal of that great
statue made of the cannon taken at Jemmingen, which the pacificator and

ravager of the Netherlands is erecting to his own honor and glory, greatly to
the disgust of Philip of Spain, who does not care to have his generals too
famous.

“Jake Yongling has made a great figure of the Viceroy. It is sixteen feet
high, and with the pedestal nearly thirty. Here’s the last one of the arms,”
continues the boyish warrior, giving a careless kick to the representation in
iron of his general, lying on the ground. Then he whispers mysteriously:
“They say this statue has a secret. What does the Duke with his tenth penny
tax, eh; where does he put the money?”

But, passing this, they are soon at the great military causeway that leads to
the drawbridge across the moat that gives egress to the Esplanade of the
city. Above the massive archway of its heavy gate, chiseled in stone, is a
shield with a royal castle with three towers, on each a raven, and each
guarded by a wolf—the arms of Alva; beneath, the collar of the Golden
Fleece, from which hangs, as if in mockery of this country conquered by
blood and fire, a representation of the Lamb of God. This decoration is
easily revealed to Guy as he passes by flaming flambeaux, some of which
are held in the hands of the guard and others stuck in the niches in the wall.

The military etiquette of the place compels Chester’s attendant to report to
the officer of the day.

To do this they enter a guard-room, well lighted by a dozen burning
candles, and while the young ensign is making his report and receiving
order for the lowering of the drawbridge, Chester carelessly looking over a
[37]number of military placards on the dingy wall, sees one that, sound as
are his nerves, causes him a quiver, for it reads as follows:

LARGESS!

THREE THOUSAND CAROLUS GUILDERS!

Whereas, a certain Englishman named Guy Stanhope Chester, and better known among the
inhabitants of these Netherlands as De Eersteling der Engelschen (The First of the

English), who has been disowned and disavowed by his Queen, Elizabeth of England, on
March twenty-first of the year 1571, resisted arrest by our own armed Spanish galley,
Santa Cruz, and has since been acting against the weal of these provinces of Spain, killing
and murdering the soldiers and sailors of Philip Rex, this will be warranted for any
governor of our towns or garrisons to make payment of the above sum to any one
delivering the body or head of said named Guy Stanhope Chester, whom we hereby
proclaim as pirate and outlaw, by order of

(Signed) ALVA, Viceroy.

(Countersigned) Juan de Vargas, President of the Council.

This is posted up among various military orders pertaining to the Citadel,
and one or two other proclamations of outlawry or taxes. After the first
emotion Guy reads it calmly, and is relieved that the description attached to
the proclamation is faulty in several particulars.

“All right, Captain Guido! I’ve got the order!” says the young ensign,
clapping him on the shoulder. Then he continues: “Ah! you’re reading about
the First of the English,” and as they turn away together he runs on
vivaciously: “Three thousand Carolus guilders! That would be an addition
to my pay. Wouldn’t I like to get my hands on him! Three thousand
guilders! We’d have a banquet, wouldn’t we, Señor Capitan, bought by the
pirate’s head!”

Here the young Spaniard is cut short in his speech by the necessity of
giving the countersign and passing himself and his companion through the
gates, as the drawbridge [38]is lowered. This is easily accomplished, as a
strong detachment of the garrison are under arms, and a portion of the
troops have just moved out to reinforce the Spanish guard in the town and
to give as much assistance as possible in protecting the property of the
government that is endangered upon the wharves and quays of Antwerp by
the flood, which is apparently still rising; the town being still lighted up and
the church bells still ringing out their alarms.

“Here I must leave you,” says De Busaco, after they have passed the
drawbridge and the last line of sentries; “What inn will you lodge at? the
Red Lion? That has the best wine, I think.”

“No,” answers Guy shortly, for he has considered this point; “I shall rest at
the Painted House. It is more quiet.”

“Is it?” laughs the young man. “You don’t know what’s going to happen
there to-morrow. Par Dios! half the burghers of the city will be there to see
it, and half the officers of the garrison. You have not heard the news? The
great painter, the Raphael of the Netherlands, Frans Floris, has accepted the
wager of the ‘Six Drunkards of Brussels’ that he will drink them all under
the table at one sitting. Sapristi! from stories about him, I believe he’ll do it.
I shall come in to see it; I pray I may meet you there!”

“Very well, come in and drink a flagon with me!” says Chester, thinking
that being seen with this Spanish officer will be additional passport to him
in this city of his enemies, with a price set on his head. At this young De
Busaco, for the two have chatted together quite jovially as they have passed
along, and have grown to be rather en comrade, remarks: “You see your
way across the Esplanade; the street of the Beguins is straight ahead of
you!” and with a friendly salute marches back to the Citadel.

For one second the Englishman turns after him, a question that has been on
his mind every instant since he left her, is now full upon his lips. The next
moment he pauses, thinking, “No—to ask from the officer in whose charge
she placed me the name and station of my—my love—” he rolls the sound
in his mind as if it were a very sweet morsel—“would be too dangerous. I at
[39]least should know the lady I have escorted to Antwerp.”

So he strides across the Esplanade, which is kept free of trees and all other
impediment to the fire of the guns of the Spanish Citadel, that dominates
this Flemish town. Cogitating upon this being of his dream, Chester
mutters: “That painter can tell me, he knows,” and quickens his pace.

A moment after the Englishman finds himself at the entrance of the great
street of the Beguins, which leads into the heart of the city. Here, clapping
his hands several times, he calls out: “Link boy! Light! Link boy!” which in
the course of a little time brings to him a wandering urchin of the street
carrying a flaming pine torch.

“Which way, your nobleness?” asks the Arab, for Guy’s manner and bearing
are patrician.

“To Wool street! The house of Jacques Touraine.”

“Oh! The blood-letter and barber,” answers the boy. “I know his painted
pole.”

So skipping along ahead of the young Englishman’s rapid strides, they
proceed down the street of the Beguins, lighted occasionally by lamps
hanging from the gable ends of the houses of the burghers, and pass by the
imposing Church of our Dear Lady of Antwerp, now known as the
Cathedral Notre Dame, from which the chimes come every quarter of an
hour, silvery and sweet upon the midnight air. Then they dive into the
labyrinth of narrow streets filled with the mediæval filth that still clings to
them even to this day, making toward the northern end of the town.

A few minutes of struggling through close alleys and they stop at a long
pole painted in alternate stripes of red, blue and white, that distinguishes the
house of Monsieur Jacques Touraine, the little French leecher, surgeon,
blood-letter and barber.

Late as it is there is no need to knock and rouse him, for this gentleman is in
front of his door, talking excitedly in his Gallic way to several of his
neighbors. He has a little child of some seven years of age by the hand, and
is saying nervously: “Mon Dieu! if the tide reaches here!”

“Drommelsch!” answers one of his companions, “The [40]devil himself
couldn’t make the flood run up this hill! The mark of the deluge of 1300 is
fifty feet below us.” Then he gives a hideous laugh and jeers: “How you
French hate water.”

Breaking in upon this colloquy, Guy beckons the barber to one side and
says to him: “Is the painter who lodges with you, Antony Oliver, in to-
night?”

The answer he gets is discouraging: “No, he is in Brussels.”

“Ah!” assents Guy, the corners of his mouth drooping at these words, for it
is this Oliver he has braved so much to see, and he dares not remain long in
Antwerp. Then he asks anxiously: “Do you know when he will return?”

“To-morrow. He will come with his master, the Duke of Alva, to-morrow.
He is herald and under-secretary to the Viceroy.”

“Yes!” cries the little boy, “I’m so glad of it, because when Monsieur Oliver
comes we have so much pigeon pie. I like pigeon pie—don’t you?”

“Desperately,” laughs Guy, relieved at the knowledge of the painter’s quick
return.

“Then I hope you won’t ask Monsieur Oliver for my share of pigeon pie,”
babbles the child. “Perhaps, though, we won’t get any—a man carried so
many pigeons away to-day.”

“Well, here’s a stiver to buy pigeon pie for yourself, my little man,” laughs
Chester, giving the child a coin. Then he says to the father: “You are sure
about your information?”

“Oh, I think so. You can make absolutely sure by asking his great friends,
the Bodé Volckers. They will certainly know. He is a nice man, this Oliver,
and a great painter—at least, he thinks himself a great painter. He has my

son Achille as his student—my youngest is the little Maredie, the one who
likes pigeon pie,” babbles the Frenchman, who has apparently been relieved
from fear of the flood and pleased by Guy’s douceur to his child. Then he
queries suddenly: “Haven’t I seen you before? You came to visit Monsieur
Antony six months ago.”

“Yes,” answers the Englishman shortly, and to prevent [41]further
interrogation queries: “Can you tell me where the Bodé Volckers’ live?”

“Oh, every one knows that; he is our ex-Burgomaster, the merchant prince,
Niklaas Bodé Volcker, who lives on the Place de Meir.”

“Ah, the Place de Meir, thank you, señor,” answers Guy. He turns away,
and calling the link boy again, says: “Bodé Volcker’s!”

“That means two stivers more,” cries the urchin; “anyone that would visit a
burgomaster’s could afford two stivers.”

“Four, if you take me there quickly.”

“Four? Pots dit en dat! you must be a count,” cries the delighted child, and,
skipping vivaciously before his patron, he soon guides him back past the
cathedral to the magnificent residence where old Bodé Volcker, merchant
prince of that day, whose argosies sailed to the Indies, the Baltic and the
Mediterranean, lived in great state and pomp and wealth, but for all that was
still only a merchant, trader and burgher; and to the haughty nobles of that
day nothing more than the dust of the earth—unless they wanted to borrow
his money. But as has always been the case, great financial success has
prompted social ambition. Niklaas Bodé Volcker’s family is even now
knocking at noble and aristocratic doors.

Evidences of this comes to Guy almost as he reaches the portals of the
merchant.

The house is pretentious, being built of cut stone around a large courtyard,
the archway to this permitting a carriage to drive in, and acting as the
entrance to the mansion itself, which is lighted up, one portion more
brilliantly than the other. This is apparently the counting and sample room
of Niklaas Bodé Volcker himself. From out its open doors several clerks
and half a dozen porters are passing, and big vans of goods are arriving
loaded with what are apparently cloths, silks and satins from the flooded
water-front. Everyone seems to be on the alert.

“I must see Heer Bodé Volcker for a moment,” says Guy to a bustling
apprentice.

“Must see Heer Bodé Volcker to-night?” gasps the [42]man; “the night in
which his warehouses are all flooded?”

“I must see him. Do you hear me, fellow? Quick!” mutters Chester, who,
being of gentle blood, is accustomed to command merchants, burghers,
tradesmen and the like.

“That’s impossible, unless you go to the docks,” returns the apprentice.
“Heer Bodé Volcker is seeing to the removal of his perishable merchandise
at his big warehouse below the English quay.”

Baffled in this direction, our adventurer turns his steps from the counting
room and going to the principal entrance of the house finds a voluble
servant girl in conversation with a man who is apparently the family
coachman, the horses and equipage being drawn up in front of the house.
They are evidently discussing the inundation of the city, for the girl is
interspersing her periods with a good many excited “Och Armes!” and
“Groote genades!”

As there are lights in the front windows of the house Guy immediately
addresses the girl, saying: “Is it possible for me to see any of the members
of Niklaas Bodé Volcker’s family?”

“I’m not sure,” is the answer. “If Mijn Heer would step in I’ll ask.”

She emphasizes this with a respectful courtesy, as Guy’s ready hand puts a
few stivers into hers. His manner is commanding, his appearance
aristocratic, his hand is generous, and the girl is anxious to do his bidding.

Turning toward the right she shows the way into a large vaulted room hung
with Spanish stamped leather, the furniture and appointments of which have
all the indications of wealth, even luxury, as it has tapestries upon its floor,
and many of the articles of its furnishing have been imported from Italy,
Spain, and even Turkey itself, some of the rugs being from the looms of
Ispahan and Bokara. The apartment is illuminated by a handsome swinging
candelabra full of lighted wax candles. From this room a carved oaken
stairway leads apparently to the upper apartments of the house.

“Wiarda Schwartz!” cries the girl; “Wiarda!” clapping her hands. Receiving
no answer to this she says: [43]“I’ll be back in a minute,” and running lightly
upstairs returns in a few minutes followed by a bright, vivacious, dark-eyed
lady’s maid, whose attire indicates she is the favorite of her mistress, and
whose short muslin skirts and white, high Friesian peasant’s cap denotes the
soubrette.

In answer to the girl’s rather off-hand courtesy, Chester remarks: “I am the
Captain Guido Amati, of Romero’s foot. Can I see Vrouw Bodé Volcker for
a moment?”

“Not unless you go to the other world,” answers the girl pertly. “Vrouw
Bodé Volcker has been dead four years.”

“That is going further than walking to the warehouses for her widower,”
smiles Guy. Then he asks: “Can I see the mistress of the house?”

“Oh, you mean Freule Wilhelmina Bodé Volcker,” says the girl. Next adds
majestically: “Freule Wilhelmina Bodé Volcker is at present at the fête of

the Countess de Mansfeld.”

Remembering the Countess Mansfeld’s lackey’s slurring remarks about the
daughter of an ex-burgomaster dancing in his highest priced silks for the
entertainment of the company, it is difficult for Chester to fight down a
chuckle. However, being very anxious for information, he suggests: “Then,
perhaps, you can answer my question. Do you know when Antony Oliver,
the herald of the Duke of Alva, is returning to Brussels?”

And this ruins Captain Guido Amati in the estimation of Wiarda Schwartz,
maid in waiting to the ex-burgomaster’s daughter. She says with pert
arrogance: “Well, I never! That good-for-nothing, beggarly painter? I know
nothing about him. I had supposed Mijn Heer Captain was acquainted with
the nobility!”

As Guy passes out of the house without information, he sees Mademoiselle
Schwartz’s pert nose very much up in the air and Mademoiselle Schwartz’s
red stockinged ankle and shapely foot patting the floor in jeering gesture.

“There is nothing but to be quiet and sleep until morning. I might as well
get some of that,” cogitates [44]the Englishman. “God only knows what to-
morrow will bring to me.”

So getting hold of the link boy again, who has evidently loitered about in
hopes that Guy’s visit at the Bodé Volckers’ will be short, Chester gives him
his orders, and is conducted to the inn known as “The Painted House,”
celebrated for its wine and beer, and situated on the Shoemarket opposite
the Place de Meir. It is but a few steps from the residence of the merchant,
and can be easily distinguished, Guy notes as he approaches, by its high,
painted gables, which give it its name.

Lights are showing from its lower rooms, the pentice or wooden awning in
front of it is ornamented by evergreens and shrubs and illuminated by
swinging lamps; chairs and tables are under these, on which lounge several

of the better-to-do burghers of the town, a couple of Spanish officers, and
half a dozen travelers. Late as it is the sound of revelry comes from the
main inner room.

He is welcomed at the door by mine host, the obsequious Herman Van
Oncle, who is making a fortune out of his famous supper parties and
weddings, for this is the house of festivity par excellence of the town. Den
Rooden Leeuw (“Red Lion”) may be more aristocratic, but for wine
bibbing, beer drinking and gorgeous wedding festivities that last three days
at a time, “The Painted House” of Antwerp easily holds the vantage.

“Welcome to the Painted House!” cries the voluble innkeeper. “Welcome
señor—colonel?”

“No, captain,” says Guy.

“Welcome to anyone who is in the employ of the State, civil or military.”

“I would like a room and bed.”

“Impossible!”

“Impossible?”

“Yes; my house has been crowded all day.”

“You must give me a cot.”

“Well, a cot over the stable. My house has been full—you have heard the
news! The great drinking bout takes place to-morrow between our
celebrated artist, Frans Floris and the Six Drunkards of Brussels. People
have come from the neighboring places to see [45]it. A delegation is here
from Brussels itself. It is rumored that the Duke in person will arrive to-
morrow. Perhaps he will honor me—perhaps he will come to see the

greatest drinking bout that has ever taken place in Flanders, Brabant or
Holland! I shall have twenty barrels of Rhine wine on tap.”

“Twenty barrels for six drunkards?” laughs Chester.

“Oh no; all the town will be here, all the town will get drunk also!”

“I wish the town would be more quiet,” says Guy, who thinks he will have
little chance of sleep, judging by the convivial sounds that come to them
from within.

“Hush!” whispers the innkeeper nervously, as they enter. “Don’t disturb
them. They are,” and his eyes expand in admiration, “they are the Six
Drunkards of Brussels taking supper!”

“Apparently the Six Drunkards of Brussels,” remarks Guy, who is
unimpressed by the sounding title, “are not holding themselves back much
for to-morrow. They are doing pretty well now.”

“Yes, that is the beauty of it,” says mine host, waving his Flemish hands in
admiration. “That is the reason they are called drunkards; nothing will ever
make them drunk. They have finished six gallons of wine and are just
commencing. They have a lovely pigeon pie in front of them; I made it
myself from birds furnished by Señor Vasco de Guerra himself. He is the
leader of the Six Drunkards, though the betting is still two to one on our
Netherland painter, the greatest artist of his day, the Raphael of the low
countries, our honor, our glory, our debtor (for he owes me four thousand
Carolus guilders), but still the pride of Antwerp! Will you not have bite and
sup, señor Capitan, before retiring to the attic over the stable?”

“Yes, a quart of Rhine wine will be enough for me,” says Guy. “Or, rather,”
he suggests, “as you are celebrated for your beer, I will take some of that,”
the Englishman upholding his national beverage.

“The finest in all Flanders. And then we have some malt from London.”

“That’s it!” cries Guy, forgetting his Spanish character, “English malt for
me!” then checks himself and mutters: “I’ve been drinking Rhine wine all
day.” [46]

His host departing, he lounges about while his meal is being prepared,
tracing figures with his toe on the white sand of the floor, and reading
among other placards on the walls of this, the wine room of the inn, one
announcing the grand drinking bout between Frans de Vriendt, nicknamed
Floris, and the six most celebrated topers of Brussels. This is placarded side
by side with Alva’s generous offer of three thousand carolus guilders for the
Englishman’s head.

A moment later he finds himself placed at a table near the one occupied by
the six champions of Brussels. Carelessly he gets interested in them, for
they are six of the most remarkable looking people his eyes have ever rested
upon.

During their conversation he catches their names.

Vasco de Guerra, apparently the leader of the party; Tomasito, called by his
companions the one-eyed, an ensign of De Billy’s Waloons, who lost an
optic at Aremburg’s defeat, and Pablo Mendez are Spanish officers, and
apparently, from their conversation, consider themselves nobles of rank and
distinction. The other champions are more modest in their self-assertion,
except as regards the amount of liquid that they can consume. Two are
addressed as Alphonse de la Noel and Conrad de Ryk, both Netherlanders,
one of Brabant and the other of Holland; the last member of the party is a
sneaking little Italian, designated as Guisseppi Pisa, a dealer in perfumes
and women’s powders from the capital.

Having nothing better to do as he drinks his beer, Guy Chester listens to
their conversation in a languid, dreamy way, as the exertions of the night
have made him very tired.

“Par Dios!” remarks Vasco de Guerra, who is tall and has big, opaque, fishy
eyes, and a long drooping mustache which has in it that single lock of grey
which is generally considered proof of extreme dissipation, “I see our
adversary Floris has painted a caricature of us.”

“Diablo! Is it insulting?” cries Tomasito, the one-eyed, a little Spaniard of
diabolical disposition, famous as well for his cruelty on the battle-field as
for his dissipation in the banquet hall. [47]

“No,” says Mendez, laughing, “only he has painted us all under the table.”

“Sapristi!” chuckles the Italian Pisa. “He may paint us under the table, but
he can’t drink us under the table.” Then he calls: “Pot-boy! another stoup of
strong Rhine wine. I must get in training for to-morrow’s bout. Marietta is
coming from Brussels to do honor to my drinking powers.” This is
emphasized by a hideous wink and a leer at his companions, who cry:
“Brava! the health of Marietta, the prettiest light of love in Brussels!” and
pour down great flagons of wine in compliment to wicked little Guisseppi,
whose powders and laces have captured the leader of the demi-monde of the
capital.

While this is being brought Mendez exclaims: “Caramba! there are no more
pigeons in this pie,” withdrawing a knife with which he has been exploring
the open pasty before him, and licking his fingers regretfully in the absence
of a napkin. “You only gave us six pigeons, Captain Vasco.”

“That was all I shot with my cross-bow,” answers De Guerra.

“You shot pigeons with your cross-bow?” jeers Conrad de Ryk.

“Certainly!—to-day—here!”

“Bah! your hand trembles, Vasco, as if you were paying over the five
hundred guilders we have wagered against the painter!” sneers De la Noel.

“Notwithstanding, I shot them,” returns Vasco, a strange light coming into
his fishy eyes; “and I not only killed the six pigeons, but I shall kill—
another! We’ll have a banquet when I get my reward for his head!” He
grinds his teeth at these words.

“His head?” cries one.

“The reward of three thousand caroli for the Englishman’s caput?” shouts
another, pointing to the placard, and making Guy’s hand involuntarily seek
his sword.

“Bah!” chuckles Vasco. “Do you think I am going on the briny deep to get
seasick and have that English pirate cut my throat? No, there are rewards
nearer home, when I kill my seventh pigeon we’ll have more pigeon pie and
a carouse with a little of the money.”

This rather equivocal promise is greeted with cheers [48]and a clattering of
beakers and flagons. The Six Drunkards of Brussels seem to like pigeon-pie
as well as the little son of the surgeon and blood-letter, Jacques Touraine.

But Guy’s attention is called from the scene of conviviality. The host,
bowing before him, says humbly: “Señor capitan, your bed is ready, the
sheets are clean, nobody has slept in them for three days!”

Following Van Oncle, who carries a wax candle, Chester is escorted to a
loft over the stable, which is at least airy and well ventilated, as it has
several open windows which nobody has taken the trouble to close.

A moment after he finds himself practically alone—the only occupant of the
neighboring cots being in a drunken sleep, the others have not yet come in.
Securing his valuables (and most carefully of all that which he deems the
most valuable—the miniature of the lady whose name he does not know,
but whom he now knows he loves heart and soul), Captain Guy Chester
looks carefully to his arms, then goes to bed. Then taking a last dreamy look

at the fair, delicate face and glorious eyes and red lips that he has kissed
once, but swears to kiss again, he goes to sleep calmly and peacefully in the
city of his enemies, under the flag of Spain and Alva, while in the room
below, the streets about him, and on the walls of every guard-house in
Brabant and Flanders, are placards offering three thousand carolus guilders
for the head of the “First of the English.”

[Contents]

CHAPTER IV.

THE PATRIOT PAINTER.
The sun is well up in the heavens when Guy opens his eyes. In contrast to
the night before, the gale has died away and the sun is shining brightly as if
to mock the farmers and peasants of the surrounding fields and polders,
whose cattle are still drowning or starving, for the flood gives no signs of
receding. A little of this Chester can see as he makes hasty toilet; [49]looking
from his window he gets a glimpse of the river, which is still at its height,
and upon whose bosom still float the carcasses of drowned sheep, cattle,
hogs, and even human beings.

But the city seems now to pay little heed to this. The gale has gone down,
ships are preparing to sail out of the Schelde for the Indies and the
Mediterranean; the merchants have removed their wares to places of safety;
mediæval commerce stops no more its battle of trade and bargain, for the
disasters of humanity—than that of to-day.

The hum of traffic comes floating up to Guy from the neighboring
Shoemarket and Egg streets. All the guilds of Antwerp are at work this day,
and seemingly happy, save that of the Butchers, which has lost many fat
beeves that have been pastured on the great meadows running out to the big
Kowenstyn dyke.

As it is late in the morning most of those who have occupied the
surrounding cots during the night have departed on their way. Consequently
Guy, having, after the manner of sailors, slept ready to go on deck, slips on
doublet and cloak uninterrupted save by the snores of a toper who is still in
drunken slumber.

Then going down to the wash-room of the house, upon the lower floor, the
Englishman makes hasty ablution, succeeding by the bribe of a stiver in

obtaining an unused towel for the purpose.

This being done, and feeling very bright, vivacious and cheery,
notwithstanding he catches glimpses of the placard in the wine room
offering a reward for his head, Chester passes out and makes his way
rapidly through the dirty alleys of the lower portion of the town to Wool
street. Remembering his unsuccessful inquiries at the Bodé Volcker
mansion, the Englishman has concluded that he will see if he can obtain
further information from the French blood-letter and barber about the
arrival of his lodger. For speed is vital to the business that has brought Guy
into the clutches of his enemies, and every moment that he stays in the town
of Antwerp adds to his danger of recognition and arrest; too many Flemish
traders from Zeeland and the islands of Holland journey to this great
commercial city, some of these know the [50]“First of the English” quite
well by sight, and a few of them, for three thousand carolus guilders would
sell anything upon earth, including themselves.

Arriving at the barber’s pole of Jacques Touraine, Chester receives a
pleasant surprise. The voluble little Frenchman darts out to meet him,
crying: “He is anxious for you; I told him you had asked for him!”

“He—who?” gasps Guy.

“Why, my lodger, the painter, Antony Oliver. He came in from Brussels this
morning. He is as eager to see you as you are to see him.”

But the last of this speech is lost upon the Englishman, who has darted up
two flights of stairs to the top of the house, where, under the tiled gables,
amid the swallows’ nests, is the lodging room and atelier of Antonius Oliver
(familiarly called Antony), geographical map maker, herald and pursevant,
and at times assistant secretary to Alva, Viceroy of the Netherlands. This
gentleman’s salary is not great; his position, while partially confidential, is
not very exalted; though it often brings him into direct contact with the

great Duke himself. For Oliver has striven, with all his might and main to
gain the confidence of his master.

He is a native of Mons, near the French border of the Netherlands, and is
partly of Flemish and partly of Gallic extraction. At present he is apparently
washing the dust of travel from his face, as he makes his appearance minus
his cloak and doublet, towel in hand, and answers the Englishman’s smart
knock on his door.

“Ah!” he cries, his face full of sunny smile, “I am delighted to see you, my
friend, my Guido!”

“And so am I, Antony, my boy,” answers Chester, with hearty outstretched
hand. For a few weeks of supreme mutual danger have made these two men
as good comrades as years of ordinary friendship.

“So glad to see you,” goes on the Fleming, “and yet sorry.” He whispers:
“You know of the reward for you?”

“Yes, I’ve seen it,” answers Guy, shortly.

“Ah! at your inn?”

“No, in the guard-room of the Citadel.” [51]

“Mon Dieu! You have been arrested and examined,” the painter gasps,
anxiously.

“No, I went as cavalier to a great court lady!” laughs the English sailor.
“For it I am to be promoted to a colonelship in Romero’s musketeers!”

“Impossible! Tell me your story!”

“I will,” says Guy, “it contains the business that brought me to Antwerp.”

“Yes,” answers the other, meditatively, “your business must be of the
greatest importance to make you again take this risk.”

“It is for the same old reason—my Queen!” whispers Guy; “Is there no one
about?”

“No; Achille, my apprentice, I have sent out on a long errand, as I expected
your coming and wanted to have private converse.”

“What long errand?”

“I sent him out to buy wine, bread, provisions, cheese, beef, on credit.
Achille is an active boy, if I had given him the money he would have been
back in half an hour.” Then carefully barring the door and drawing a heavy
curtain over it, Oliver says: “Tell me your story.”

“Then can you interpret these letters bearing, I think, upon the welfare, yes,
the life, of my sovereign?” whispers the Englishman. And producing the
packet wrapped in oiled silk which he had taken from the body of the
drowned Italian the evening before, Guy tells the artist the curious story of
the preceding night. His recital is punctuated by vivacious exclamations of
surprise, deep interest, and several times by uproarious laughter from his
Flemish listener.

As the Englishman finishes the painter takes up the conversation.

“Ah!” he exclaims, looking carefully at the documents, “you took these
from the body of the secretary of Chiapin Vitelli.” Then he adds: “I am one
of the few men who could read them. They are in the private cipher used by
the secret correspondence bureau of my master, my benefactor, he who pays
me my stipend, the man whose hand I kiss—he of Alva!” A strange light
coming into his eyes as he speaks of his benefactor. [52]“The reading is very
simple when you know the key, which I have memorized and have in my
head—I dare not keep it anywhere else.”

“Then give me the meaning of these letters!”

“Certainly,” says the artist. “You can amuse yourself with my sketches as I
look over them.”

This he does hastily, while Guy passes the time examining a number of
studies in charcoal upon canvas and panels, apparently the work of the
young Fleming. At one side of the apartment is a marble slab used in
grinding colors, upon it a number of brushes, a palette, and some little
bladders of ground paint, such as were used by the artists of that day. Upon
an easel stands an unfinished picture of a fair haired, blue eyed Flemish girl
of great beauty, though it is of almost the peasant style. This has been
sketched after the manner of the Venetian school upon what was known
then as the red ground. At the back of the apartment is a large curtain,
apparently concealing some more important work, as it is quite large,
covering the whole rear of the garret floor of the house.

“Don’t peep behind,” says the painter, looking up as Guy’s footsteps
approach the curtain. “I have a surprise for you there, I think,” and pausing
in his reading, he looks up with a quizzical expression at the Englishman.
“Something you will be interested in, I imagine; you could not see the face
of the fair one of the barge!” For Guy, in his description of his evening’s
adventure, has omitted, with the instinctive delicacy of the gentleman and
the lover, any account of his interview at the house of the Countess de
Mansfeld, with the lady he rescued.

“What do you mean?” asks Chester, eagerly. “Wait for a moment,” and a
muttered exclamation of surprise calls Guy to the painter’s side, who has
apparently become greatly excited over the cipher letters.

Here he stands, impatient, awaiting the outcome of the Fleming’s inspection
of the documents.

A minute later Oliver looks up and remarks: “I can now tell you in rough
form the contents of these letters.”

“What are they?” inquires Guy eagerly.

“These are two letters, written by Chiapin Vitelli, [53]Alva’s confidential
officer, and evidently given to his secretary—such is their value—to deliver
in person to one Ridolfi, an Italian, who is a banker in London.”

“Ridolfi? Yes, I’ve heard of him. He has a great many dealings with Italy;
he is a goldsmith as well as banker; his place is on Cheapside,” mutters
Chester. “What about him?”

“Well, this is apparently a letter of a series, some of which must have been
answered, in which Alva is arranging with Ridolfi, who is apparently the
agent of the Duke of Norfolk, the man who would marry the Queen of
Scots, now in Elizabeth’s hands, for the poisoning of the Queen of
England!”

“The poisoning of my sovereign! Good God!” gasps Guy. A moment after,
forcing himself to calmness, he continues: “Yes; rumors of this or of a
similar plot have been brought to the notice of Lord Burleigh, Secretary of
State. You know it is to investigate such matters that I am sent over here and
disowned by my sovereign, who wishes at present to appear at peace with
Alva, but who, in her time, will have her reckoning—and an English
reckoning at that—with your Netherland tyrant!”

“I know that. That is why I aid you,” mutters the painter. “Elizabeth is the
only hope of the Netherlands. We have been crushed and butchered at
Jemmingen, the Prince of Orange is now in exile, a fugitive in Germany,
France distracted with her own affairs, Coligny and Condé at swords points
with the league, can give us but uncertain aid—England is our only hope.
As such I have welcomed you as the ‘First of the English’ to come to aid the
Flemings. You will not be the last—I know it! But”—here the light of

patriotism comes into the painter’s face, “we must do our part. As such I
have condemned myself to live under the most terrible suspense that can be
put upon a man—a traitor in the very household, at the very writing table,
of the Spanish Viceroy, so that I may give information of his movements to
Louis of Nassau and William the Silent. Discovery means—you know
what!”

Then he laughs a ghastly laugh and whispers: “What would Alva, who
burns people alive slowly for eating [54]meat on Friday; who beheads
women for sheltering their own husbands; who permits his troops to burn,
outrage, pillage and ravage defenseless burghers and peaceful citizens; what
would he do with a discovered spy in his own retinue? Are there enough
racks, thumb-screws and faggots for him?” he shudders; then adds
determinedly: “But all for my country!”

“And I all for my own,” answers Guy. “A price set upon my head as a
pirate, and all for my Queen. Elizabeth smiles on me at court, calls me her
valiant freebooter, yet tells the ambassador of Philip of Spain that I am here
on my own account, and disowns me; though she knows it is for her
interests, to guard her life, to discover such damnable plots as these, that I
take my life within my hand! Besides,” he goes on, his eyes beginning to
blaze, “I don’t love the Spaniards.”

“Personally,” remarks the Flemish painter, “I have found some very
pleasant gentlemen among them; though among those who flock here to
Alva’s banner are scoundrels innumerable. But it is for my country that I
live a life of suspense, each breath almost an apprehension.”

Looking at the painter, Guy sees that this is true. He is rather small of
figure, though well-built and agile; but has dark soft eyes, singularly
delicate, mobile lips for a man, and a high, intellectual forehead. As Chester
gazes, he is sure Antony Oliver is a brave man. At the same instant he
knows he is a man with such a terrible fate hanging over him that his nerves
are unstrung by constant and never-ending apprehension.

However, he speaks to the point.

“I hate every Spaniard, gentleman or no gentleman, peasant or noble,
because I have a brother in the prisons of the Inquisition at Hispaniola.”

“Poor fellow!” mutters the painter, with a little shudder. “In Hispaniola!
That’s a long way off.”

“Not for an English sailor. Seven years ago Dick and I, full of youth and
ardor, sailed with Captain Ned Lovell to the Spanish Main, and traded there
with the Dons of Hispaniola, and as we were Catholics, lived quite
comfortably in the town of Haytien, accumulating wealth. Then I, with my
doubloons and pieces [55]of eight, returned to merry England, leaving Dick
to turn the rest of our merchandise into gold and follow after. A year passed.
Then no Dick; but word was brought me by Hawkins coming back from his
third voyage, that Dick had fallen in love with a Spanish girl; that his rivals,
for revenge, had denounced him as an English heretic, and the—the
Inquisition—.” The Englishman’s voice is broken, there are tears in his
eyes, though they burn fiercely. “Then I was ready to hate the Spaniards and
do Queen Elizabeth’s work,” mutters Guy, after a moment’s pause, “the
work that gave me this miniature.”

“Can you tell me,” he says suddenly, producing the likeness, on ivory set
with diamonds, “the name and title of the lady whose face is here?”

“Oho!” chuckles the painter, a twinkle in his eye, “I had been expecting
some such question ever since you told me about the lady of the barge. Did
she give you this? Has she also been smitten by Cupid’s dart?”

“What do you mean?” growls the Englishman, blushes showing beneath his
sun-burned skin.

“I mean,” laughs Antony, “that you are a man very deeply in love. In your
tale of last night every time you mentioned the ‘divinity of the barge,’ the

‘fair unknown,’ the ‘graceful creature of the shadow,’ the ‘fairy-like form
the gloom could not conceal,’ the ‘voice soft as an angel’s,’ your manner
betrayed that even the darkness had not prevented your falling in love with
the lady you rescued from our Sea Beggars; that though she had been your
captive, you really were hers. Did she reciprocate enough to give you this?”

“No,” returns Guy, “I believe I’ve been in love with this picture ever since I
captured it three years ago.”

This answer astounds the painter. He murmurs: “I never supposed you
English a romantic race, but you prove to me that the Italians are as beggars
to you islanders in impetuous passion. In love with a picture?”

“Yes, it came to me under peculiar circumstances,” answers the
Englishman, a little sulkily perhaps, for the artist’s tone is somewhat
bantering. “Towards the end of ’68 I was playing tennis in a London court.
Elizabeth of England and her prime minister, Sir William [56]Cecil, now
Lord Burleigh, sent for me. The Queen’s exchequer was empty. Five Italian
vessels bearing a loan from the bankers of Genoa to Alva, and loaded with
eight hundred thousand crowns in silver, on their way to Antwerp—”

“Yes,” interjects the other with a chuckle, “I know—the money with which
the Duke intended to pay his troops—”

“Had been driven into the harbor of Southampton by privateers
commissioned by the Prince de Condé, who had been on the lookout to
seize this treasure. The Spanish ambassador had appealed to the Queen for
naval protection. Being at peace this must be accorded him, but Elizabeth’s
exchequer was empty, and harassed by milliner’s bills and other feminine
expenses, she had determined to have this silver for her own. Cecil had sent
for me, as he knew I spoke Spanish, and thought I was the man for the
business. They had already notified the Spanish ambassador to make
arrangements for the transport of the treasure from Southampton to Dover
by land, so that the Queen’s vessels could meet it there. But while he was

making his preparations I received the following curious commission: I was
to go down and offer ten thousand crowns to the French privateers not to
leave their position outside of Southampton water, so the Genoese vessels
dared not sail. Meanwhile the Queen investigated and found the money was
loaned by Italian merchants. ‘If they can loan to Alva, they can loan to me,’
she thought. Under the private directions of the Queen of England I seized
the eight hundred thousand crowns of silver.”

“And that nearly drove Alva crazy! I can see him now,” laughs the painter,
“the morning he received the news twisting both his long pendants of beard
in impotent rage. Since then he has hated your Queen and you who forced
him to put this tenth penny tax on the Netherlands to pay his troops. But
what has the theft of Elizabeth of England to do with your miniature, my
marauder?”

“Only this,” answers Guy. “On board the Genoese vessel, when I made the
seizure, the only spoil I took for myself was this likeness. Judging from the
direction [57]on the packet that contained it, that the lady whom it
represented must be living in the Netherlands, I was very happy to accept
Queen Elizabeth’s private commission to come over here and turn sea rover
in her cause, knowing that I took my life in my hand, but also knowing it
was my one chance of meeting in the flesh the face that I have loved from
that day to this. If that’s romance, make the best of it! Who is she?”

“Ah!” says the painter, “In reply may I show you another picture?”

“Of whom? What do I care for pictures except this one? You artists are
always thinking of art—I think of flesh and blood, which beats art.”

“Does it beat this?” laughs Oliver, and drawing away the curtain from the
rear of the room he discloses an enormous altar piece, unfinished except the
central figure, the Madonna, at which Guy looks and gasps, for it is the
picture of the woman whose lips he had kissed the night before, whose
miniature he now holds in his hand, gazing alternately from it to the

magnificent altar piece figure, the Mother of God, on the canvas. It has
apparently been a work of love. The Englishman grows red in the face, then
deathly pale, and mutters: “You love her also!” scowling at his supposed
artistic rival.

“No,” answers Antony, “I do not love the lady; though I love my picture.
You need not be jealous my dear Englishman, the woman I love is a much
more flesh-and-blood being—Juffer Wilhelmina, daughter of the ex-
burgomaster Bodé Volcker. Her blonde picture is on that easel. I don’t
hesitate to tell you my secret, as I have yours. But this,” he looks
affectionately at the canvas, “is a work of love, love for my art. It is my one
hope to leave a name in the world. If I can finish my altar piece before the
time comes when the hand that is forever over me crushes me in its iron
grasp, I hope to be remembered—not as the patriot, but as the artist!”

“And, by heaven! you will be,” cries Guy, who would certainly give this
picture of the woman he loves the post of honor and the wreath of fame,
“for you have painted not only a Madonna, but a goddess, fit to be the
mother of God.” Here he crosses himself devoutly [58]and looks lovingly at
the picture again, which well merits his admiration, not only for the
loveliness of its model, but for the originality of its effects and richness of
its coloring.

Unlike the picture on the easel, this altar piece is sketched upon a pearl gray
background, the only completed figure in it being the central Madonna, the
likeness of Guy’s love.

The girl stands posed in virgin beauty; her white, blue-veined feet rest light
as a fairy’s on a rainbow of softest sunlight; her form, outlined with all the
beauty curves of woman, but full of maiden grace and lightness, draped by
robe of softest clinging white, and decked with floating azure mantle.
Above the ivory throat is the face of exquisite brunette beauty, those soft
though shining eyes, those lips of coral red, those cheeks of changing lilies

and roses that made Guy’s heart beat so madly before, and make it beat so
madly now.

The whole, deified by the grand soul that shines out from the lovely face,
backgrounded by and floating upon sun rays, and full of those wondrous
effects of golden light and deep warm shadow peculiar to the school of the
Venetian Tintoretto, makes Guy very eager; for it is the breathing, speaking
portrait of the woman he loves, yet still is not equal to her.

For this is but one view of her mobile loveliness, and the night before she
had given him a different effect, a varied expression, a new rapture, each
time he had gazed upon her changing, vivacious, yet always noble beauty.

He cries impatiently to the painter: “You don’t answer my question. You
only show me what makes me more hungry for her name. Tell me who she
is?”

The answer that comes startles him, dismays him. “She is,” says Oliver,
sighing his words, “the only thing upon this earth that Alva loves!”

“No, no, I’ll not believe,” gasps Chester.

“You must! She is the only thing he adores, the only being to whom the
Viceroy of Spain ever gives the loving ‘thou’.”

“I can’t believe you,” cries the Englishman, clenching [59]his hands in
agony. “She is too pure to be the love of any one, least of all of that fiend.”

“She is not too pure,” says the painter slowly, “to be his daughter.”

“His daughter? Saints above us!”

“Yes, Hermoine de Alva is the Duke’s natural daughter. Her mother, the
Countess di Perugia, an Italian lady, of great beauty, died four years ago.
Since then the Duke has given Doña Hermoine his own name. She is the

purest, sweetest, noblest flower that Spain has ever sent to the Netherlands.
Her mind is as bright, her intellect as strong, as her father’s, but her heart is
as tender as his is cruel. Still, she is the daughter of Alva, and as such, my
Englishman, I fear your love is hopeless! Beware! Your brother loved a
Spanish girl!”

To this Guy answers nothing. In a flash he feels the truth of the painter’s
last crushing remark. But a moment after Anglo-Saxon pluck springs up
again in him, and he mutters:

“By heaven! what a triumph to pluck the thing Alva loves most out of his
hands; to make his own daughter that he prizes the most of anything on this
earth the bride, the honored bride, of the man upon whose head he has
placed three thousand carolus guilders reward—the sea pirate—‘The First
of the English.’ ” and he bursts out into mocking, triumphant, but loving
laughter.

[Contents]

CHAPTER V.

“THE LION’S JAWS GAPE FOR ME!”
“Bravo!” cries the Fleming, “Bravo! But first she must love you.”

“I’ll make her love me,” exclaims Chester, looking at the ruby ring upon his
finger that seems to him not the red light of danger, but the beacon of
Cupid.

“Well, I’m glad you are so confident. I wish I were equally so.” the painter
sighs; then goes on energetically: [60]“But now to business. You cannot
linger over your love-making. Queen Elizabeth must be warned of the plots
against her life, and of Ridolfi, the Italian banker in London.”

“Oh, we’ll take good care of him,” says Guy, savagely. “I must join my ship
this evening and sail for England, and to do this I must get the words of to-
night so I can pass the gates of the town after sunset.”

“Why not leave at once?”

“Because,” answers the Englishman, “you have not yet given me the
translation of those letters. That will take you some time.”

“No, it won’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I shall not make the translation; I shall simply give you the key to
the cipher, then they can be interpreted in England, and any other letters of
this correspondence that may come into your hands will be equally readable
by Queen Elizabeth and her ministers. It will save you many dangerous
visits here.” With this the artist sits down and writes in a few minutes the
explanation of the cipher.

Then saying: “Place that with the letters,” he gives it to Guy, smiles at him,
and murmurs: “Now I should think you would be in a hurry to leave, with
that price upon your head.”

“I’m not going until to-night,” answers Chester, almost surlily. “The
evening tide will serve as well for my vessel—it will not delay me much.
Besides—” here he catches sight of the painter’s face in quizzical smile,
and cries out: “Gadzooks, man! you don’t think I’m going to leave Antwerp
without seeing her again.” He waves his hand toward the divine beauty of
the face upon the canvas lighted up by the morning sun, and shining upon
him not only with heavenly, but with earthly, love—at least so this
audacious young man imagines.

“Ah! going to ask papa for the young lady?” jeers the painter.

“Not yet, though I have a letter of introduction to him,” remarks Guy,
piqued into producing the billet given to him by Doña Hermoine the
evening before, the one addressed to Alva, Viceroy of Spain. [61]

“And you haven’t opened it?” queries Oliver, examining the missive.

“Certainly not; it is sealed.”

“Ah! my boy,” rejoins the painter, “you have too difficult a game to play to
be over scrupulous. You must know how you stand with this lady before
you attempt to see her again.” Then he horrifies Guy, for he says: “You have
powerful rivals; General Niorcarmesis looked upon not altogether
unfavorably by the lady’s father, in whose confidence that officer stands
very high.”

“A rival?” falters Guy.

“A rival? A host of rivals! Do you pay your beautiful inamorata so poor a
compliment as to think she has charmed no other man than you? Every one
is bowing down to the beauty and the wit of the Countess Hermoine de

Alva—generals and nobles.” Then he continues commandingly: “You must
open this letter. The game you are playing forces you to use every card. It is
apparently not a confidential communication, and must apply to you, for
she told you to deliver it with your own hand.”

While he is speaking, and before Guy can interpose, Oliver has rapidly
lighted a taper, passed the letter over it with the deft hand of one
accustomed to such business, and is presenting it, seal removed, open to the
inspection of the Englishman.

“Read it you must,” he says. “Your life might be the forfeit of too strained
an honor. Read it! Some day you may be compelled from the exigencies of
the case to deliver this to Alva. In your position you should know what it
contains. Read it, or I have no further communication with you.”

“Why not?” mutters Guy, who, though desperately anxious to see the
handwriting of his sweetheart, still holds out.

“Because,” says the painter, solemnly, “this is a game in which both you
and I have put up our lives as the stake; and I play everything in my hand.
You must do the same, for my sake as well as yours. If I communicate with
you, if I am seen in your company, and you are arrested, perhaps I fall with
you. Besides, we owe it to our countries to use every weapon that God
throws into our hands. READ!” [62]

While saying this he has opened the delicately scented billet, which has
only been held together by its seal, and is suspending it before the eyes of
the Englishman, which become radiant with hope as they read this short but
pithy note in the very prettiest of feminine handwriting:

“Dear Papa:

“Please make the bearer of this, Captain Guido, of Romero’s foot, my rescuer from the
Beggars of the Sea (though he is too modest to give me any other name) a Colonel as soon
as possible, and then give him a chance to make himself a General, and oblige, your loving

Hermoine.”

Rapture and pride are too great in the Englishman for him to avoid showing
this note to his friend and mentor.

“By Saint Denis!” cries Oliver, inspecting the missive, “I believe she does
love you. If you have hit her heart you’re the first, and she has had half of
Spain at her feet, I’m told.” Then, looking over the young man, he adds
contemplatively: “It must be your peculiar blonde ferocity that has done it.
If you had been a brunette Adonis, I wouldn’t have given a stiver for your
chance. Dark eyed dandies about here are as plentiful as windmills.”

“With this in my hand can I fail to make the attempt to see her before I go?”
says Guy stoutly, securing the missive with a lover’s care in the breast of
his doublet.

“Apparently you will not, no matter what I say,” smiles the artist. Then he
goes on earnestly and solemnly: “But let me give you a little advice. Under
no circumstances; no matter how much she loves you; no matter if she
swears to you she adores you better than all else in this world, do you tell
her your secret.”

“You think she would betray me?”

“No! A thousand times no!”

“You think it might destroy her love for me?”

“Not if she loved you before. Hermoine de Alva once true, will be forever
true.”

“Then why should I fear to tell her?”

“For this reason. She knows how much her father loves her. She has no fear
of the human tiger; to her his claws are always velvet. By this note you can

tell that Doña Hermoine thinks her word is law with the [63]dictator of the
Netherlands. So it is in little things!—a diamond necklace, a dozen new
dresses, even the discarding of a suitor; for if she says no, that is the end of
the gentleman with her father also. But in matters of State policy she has
never run against him. She does not know that in affairs of government, in
upholding his own laws, edicts and proclamations, Alva is ice and iron
together. What I fear is that you may one day be persuaded to go with her
and tell the dictator your story, and she will tell papa that she loves you,
assured that he will spare you and pardon you and put you up on high for
her sake; but for God’s sake don’t ever deceive yourself about Alva’s
mercy. If you do, you are lost. Her tears, her prayers, will never save you.
Remember that, my Guido, who are in love with the tiger’s cub!”

“Why should you call her that?” cries Guy savagely.

“I should not call her that,” returns the painter sadly. “She has been all
condescension and kindness to me; she has permitted me to take her
beautiful face and put it on my canvas, to give me a chance for fame and
immortality.”

“Ah! she has granted you sittings here?”

“Yes, with her duenna present.”

“Then arrange an interview for me this afternoon here.”

“It would do you no good. She would not come without attendants. Do not
think that Hermoine de Alva will forget any point of etiquette, even though
she adores you—of which you seem to be very confident.”

“But I must arrange a meeting. I’ll kill two birds with one stone. She will
know the words of the night. From her I can obtain them. She will come to
me, I know,” says Guy very confidently. “You can gain admission to her as

the under-secretary of Alva. Do so to-day. Give her this ring;” he takes the
beautiful ruby from his finger and puts it into the painter’s hand.

“Mon Dieu! You have exchanged rings—did kisses go with them?” laughs
Oliver; and as a flaming blush appears upon Guy’s face, he mutters:
“Parbleu! I believe they have. Talk about Italian passion! It is as ice to you
wonderful English.” Getting no answer from Chester he continues: “I can
arrange an interview to-day, [64]but it cannot be here. The duenna would
stand in the path of any tête-à-tête between you. The only way I can think of
private word for you with your love, you fortunate young man—you
unfortunate young man—is at the house of the man I hope one day to call
‘papa.’ ”

“The burgomaster, Niklaas Bodé Volcker?” exclaims Guy.

“Yes. On the plea of rare bargains in silks that have been slightly damaged
by the flood Doña Hermoine can bring her duenna into the town. At the
merchant’s you can speak privately with Doña de Alva.”

“But the duenna—the infernal duenna?” growls Chester.

“The duenna will be made blind and harmless in the next room inspecting
bargains. If we arrange to have Bodé Volcker’s stock low enough, the
Countess de Pariza is good for an hour of rapture and bargains. Besides,
they will probably be coming in to-day to learn the talk of the town, about
the great drinking bout between”—here the painter flushes with indignation
—“between the man who disgraces his genius and his art, by intemperance,
and the Six Drunkards of Brussels. You have seen it placarded on the walls
of the inns and wine houses, bearing the name of the greatest artist the
Netherlands has yet produced, the Raphael of the North, the man whose
disciple I was, the man whose altar piece in the great Church of Our Dear
Lady would have made him renowned forever had it not been burnt by the
Iconoclasts four years ago, when they threw down all the images of the
church, and destroyed innumerable masterpieces of art, in blind rage at the

Inquisition. I and another old pupil of Floris’s saved that night one picture
of his, a smaller one, ‘The Fall of the Angels;’ it is not his best work; in fact,
it is very much beneath his genius, but it is the one thing of his that will go
down to posterity, for now he has become a sot and a drunkard,” and Oliver
sighs.

“Very well,” cries Guy, breaking in upon the artist’s indignant rhapsody,
during which he has remembered he has not eaten since he has risen. “Now
having finished our business, perhaps when Achille returns with the
provisions you will give me a little breakfast, [65]perchance a little pigeon
pie, eh?” and he playfully pokes the painter in the ribs, for Antony’s
remarks about Hermoine de Alva have made this audacious young man very
jovially happy.

It is a laughing remark, but the laugh dies away as Guy sees its
extraordinary effect upon the Flemish painter. At the words “pigeon pie”
Oliver’s face grows pale. He turns and says suspiciously: “What do you
know about pigeon pie?”

“Only what I heard last evening from little Marvedie, son of Touraine the
barber.”

“What did he say about pigeon pie?” asks the painter, whose manner begins
to impress Guy, as he mutters; “Speak quick—our lives may depend upon
it!”

“Only this,” says the Englishman, “that when you were here he had plenty
of pigeon pie. He asked me if I liked pigeon pie, and then afterward—I
think, yes, I am almost positive, he said perhaps he wouldn’t have so much
pigeon pie now, as a man had taken away so many pigeons.”

“A man—taken away so many pigeons—from here!” falters Antony. Then
he suddenly exclaims: “That explains why there were no letters from Louis

of Nassau in my cote above—no pigeons bearing them. I thought it was
curious; I was nervous. My God! I must know.”

Just then a rap coming upon the door he draws aside the curtain and opens
it, confronting his apprentice Achille, a bright-eyed French youth, who says
discontentedly: “I can’t get anything without the cash. Our great artist,
Frans Floris, owes so much money that no other artists can buy anything for
credit.”

“Very well, put down your basket. I’ll see if I can get you some money,”
says Oliver meditatively. Then a sudden idea seems to come to him, he
cries: “Achille, where is little Marvedie? Bring him up, and we’ll send out
and get some pigeons, and have some pigeon pie for him,” affecting great
lightness of manner, though with evident effort.

“All right. Marvedie is death on pigeon pie, and so am I,” says the youth,
and flies downstairs.

“I must question him,” murmurs the painter. “If [66]this is true, the sword
suspended by the hair is about to fall.”

A moment later and the laughing voices of childhood are heard on the
stairs, Achille and his little brother bound into the room, crying: “Pigeon
pie! pigeon pie! Hurrah for Monsieur Oliver’s pigeon pie!”

“Yes, pigeon pie,” cries the painter, “pigeon pie. But what has become of
my pigeons? Have you taken them, Achille?”

“No!”

“Were there any flying about the cote? Not those in the coop, but in the cote
—around in the air flying?” The artist’s voice has become hoarse—his eyes
terrible.

“Oh yes, a good many, for the last day or two,” answers the boy. Then
noting his master’s manner, he screams out: “But I have not taken them, I
swear to heaven, Monsieur Oliver, I have never taken any from the cote. On
the word of an honest boy—do not discharge me!”

“No, he didn’t take any,” cries little Marvedie; “a big tall man with nasty
black eyes took them away.”

“When?”

“Yesterday.”

“Did you see him? How do you know?”

“Oh, I remember him because he laughed and seemed very happy, and gave
me two stivers to get him a bag to put them in.”

“Can you tell anything about him? Do you know his name, little Marvedie
—little pigeon pie Marvedie?” gasps Antony, attempting a grimace, with a
face that is like a death mask.

“No, but he was ugly and had nasty eyes, eyes that looked like the codfish
they sell in the market.”

“How many pigeons did this man take away? Did you count them, little
Marvedie—little pigeon pie Marvedie?” and the painter achieves a ghastly
chuckle.

“Yes, there were six, with bunches on their beaks and eyes that looked back
and front. The kind whose necks you wring when you give me pigeon pie,”
says the little child.

“And where was your brother?” The painter’s voice is low and stern. [67]

“Oh, I was out trying to sell one of your pictures,” says Achille. “At least I
think I was. That’s what I’ve been trying to do ever since you went away,
but they’re all here yet. The Duke’s tenth penny is ruining everybody. No
body has any money to spare, at least not for works of art.”

“Very well,” sighs Antony, “here’s a florin. Yes, get the pigeons!” he laughs
dismally. “We’ll have the pigeon pie.”

The two boys run away. The painter’s face is white as his own chalk, and he
falters. “At last it has come. Some one has my secret.”

“What secret” mutters Guy, half guessing.

“The letters brought to me by carrier pigeons from Louis of Nassau, with
whom I am in correspondence for the benefit of the Netherlands. Of course
they are in cipher, they cannot be construed in a moment; but the hair has
been cut, the sword is descending, I am no better than a dead man; worse
than that—I am a tortured man! Oh, my God! think of the rack, the faggot,
that await me!” and the Fleming’s eyes become bloodshot, his cheeks gray,
and his lips blue.

“If we could discover the man who has your secret,” says the Englishman,
prompt to action, well knowing that danger to Oliver now means danger to
himself.

“Ah! but how? When Alva arrives the man will surely give him the
information; it would be very valuable, warning of a traitor in the Duke’s
own corresponding bureau. I—I had been anxious all the morning. When I
—I arrived here I expected to find the pigeons with the letters tied to their
tails from Louis. Now I know—the reason. Six! Six letters—each one of
them enough to send me to the slow fire!” moans the painter, striking his
hands together till his finger nails are blue.

“Six! Six pigeons!” echoes Guy. Then he suddenly cries: “Do you know a
man with dark, fishy eyes, such as the boy described, and a black mustache
with one single, whitish gray lock in it?”

“My God!” cries the artist. “I do. He—you have told me who—Vasco de
Guerra—my enemy! He has—has my letters!—What gave you the clue?”

“Only this, that Vasco de Guerra, at supper last night, [68]gave to the Six
Drunkards of Brussels, who have come here for the drinking bout with
Floris, a pigeon pie containing six pigeons which he asserted he had shot
with his cross-bow, but he spoke of the seventh, declaring for the head of
the seventh he would receive such a reward that would enable him to give a
great banquet to his comrades.”

With this Guy tells the astounded Oliver what he saw and heard at the
carouse of the Six Drunkards of Brussels in the Painted Inn the night
before.

“Yes, that’s proof enough, proof that he has my secret—he of all men, he
who is sure to use it—this Vasco de Guerra is my enemy. He is a miserable
scamp, disreputable enough to be cashiered from the Spanish army—think
what that must be, when soldiers are permitted to beg, steal, murder, torture
and ravage without one word of rebuke from their officers. What must a
man be who is cast out from such troops as this? He is a drunken fortune
hunter; he seeks the hand of Mina Bodé Volcker, who loves me. He has her
maid, Wiarda Schwartz in his pay.”

“Aha!” returns Guy. “That is the reason she treated me so cavalierly when I
asked for you last night.”

“Wiarda? Yes, miserable little paid soubrette. But we must think—we must
act—and that quickly,” returns the painter, who seems to have regained
composure, now that he knows his betrayer. “Vasco must guess the value of
these letters, for he must have been upon my scent for weeks. He will try to

decipher them himself, for he will not wish to trust the information to others
who might obtain the reward for it. He can hardly act to-day. He doubtless
keeps them on his person.”

“In that case we must kill him at once,” says Guy. “That’s what we’ve got
to do. We must kill him for both our sakes. At all events, we must have the
papers. Send for him, get him here, and I will do his business with a dirk.
Then we can carry him out and toss him into the flood. He’ll float away to
the ocean. There are plenty of drowned carcasses like his, so it will not be
noticed.”

“No,” says the painter, “that might bring suspicion upon us. Perhaps I can
suggest a better way,” and [69]begins to think, racking his subtle Flemish
brain as it has never been racked before. Ten seconds and he cries out, hope
in voice, joy in his eyes: “At the drinking bout Floris is sure to win. Floris
will drink every one of the Six Drunkards of Brussels under the table,
insensible, inert, lifeless. In the confusion we can assist the insensible Vasco
from the table, take him to a room apparently to revive him, and steal from
him the letters he has stolen from me.”

“But if Vasco wins?”

“Impossible! I’ve seen Floris drink more wine at one sitting than any other
human beast on earth, I think, can hold and live.”

“But we must be prepared in case he does not,” says the Englishman; then
he adds slowly: “Perhaps I can aid you; I have here,” he produces from his
breast a small glass flagon of Venetian manufacture, this is protected from
breakage by golden filigree work and its stopper carefully sealed, in it is a
colorless, limpid fluid.

“What is it? Poison?” asks the painter. “The poison of the Borgias?”

“No, the poison of the Antilles. This is the juice of the Manchineel tree,
prepared by the Indians of the Carrabees, after some secret process of their
own. You know the wonderful properties of the tree; to sleep under it even
for the night is death. It is peculiarly volatile, therefore I keep it sealed. I
have carried this with me in case I should be captured and given over to the
rack, to make me sleep so that my tortured lips can tell no secrets of my
Queen. If it should happen that the painter doesn’t drink Vasco de Guerra
insensible and inert, a few drops of this in his flagon will make the Spanish
spy sleep forever.”

“Then if Frans Floris doesn’t succeed—the poison of the Antilles,” mutters
the painter. “It is his life or ours.” After a second’s thought he continues: “I
must kill mine enemy Vasco anyway. Were he only made insensible, even
did I recover the letters of Louis of Nassau, he would still suspect me. Some
day he would get other proof. If I don’t kill him now I must fly at once, and
William the Silent will have no spy at Alva’s elbow. For my country’s
cause, I stay here. [70]At the drinking bout Vasco de Guerra dies. The lion’s
jaws gape for me. By heaven, they shall not close!”

“That’s well said,” returns Guy, briefly. “Put a dose of this into the Spanish
spy.”

He presses the flagon of Manchineel poison into the painter’s hand, but
suddenly looks doubtful, and asks anxiously this pertinent question: “How,
by all the saints, will you get this into Vasco’s drinking cup and not into the
flagons of the others?”

[Contents]

CHAPTER VI.

THE DRINKING BOUT AT THE PAINTED INN.
This question seems to stagger the artist. He mutters feebly, “How?” then
says: “Let me think. I know the customs of this country,” and meditates
with knitted brows.

A few moments thought and he cries: “I have solved the problem.”

“How?” asks the Englishman eagerly.

“How? Why, it is the usage at these drinking bouts when the banquet is at
its height for friends of the combatants, for the honor of Bacchus, to send
huge drinking beakers full of the finest wine with their compliments to the
various contestants. Vasco de Guerra is a suitor for the hand of
Mademoiselle Bodé Volcker, the fair Mina that I love. That shall be his
destruction. After the tenth round, it would not be prudent before—perhaps
in his case I had better make it the fifteenth huge goblet that he drinks—I
shall send to him a flagon of wine containing this, the poison of the
Antilles,” he taps the vial the Englishman has given him, “with the
compliments of Wilhelmina Bodé Volcker. De Guerra will not refuse a wine
cup with such a message as this, and then—, then—you and I,” he whispers
this last, “my dear Guido, in some quiet, happy, peaceful country would be
called murderers; but here we are simply playing out the game of life and
death. Now to business.” [71]

The two now go to mapping out their plan with the cool precision of men
who, having made up their minds, act rapidly upon their resolutions.

“The drinking bout will take place at twelve. It is now ten o’clock. I don’t
think De Guerra has yet risen,” says Guy, “but I’ll watch him to see that he
doesn’t leave the inn to give your secret to any one. If he makes any effort

toward this, by some means I will detain him; while you, my dear friend, go
to the Citadel, get word with the lady Hermoine, and arrange the meeting
that is necessary, not only to my safety but to my love.”

Then, while Chester secures upon his person the cipher letters of Vitelli and
the key furnished by the artist, and perchance with even greater care
deposits in his bosom the miniature and letter of his love, Antony Oliver
arms himself with sword and pistols and looks carefully to the keen Italian
stiletto he always wears ready to his hand.

This done, the two go out together, Oliver leaving word with the barber that
his sons can get their meal for themselves when they return, but that Achille
is to meet them at the Painted Inn at the hour of noon. Then striding through
the narrow alleys into which the sun is but now finding its way, the two
pass to the pleasanter portion of the town.

Here the painter takes leave of the Englishman, whispering: “Don’t lose
sight of Vasco.”

“While you will do my errand?” suggests Chester wistfully.

“Certainly. I have a good excuse for my interview with Doña Hermoine.
Her father only leaves Brussels at noon to-day. Alva will not be here until
late this evening, and would wish word of this given to his daughter,”
answers Oliver, and takes his way toward the Esplanade, beyond which lies
the Citadel.

Going once more to the Painted Inn, Chester discovers that it is now the
scene of unusual animation.

The wine room is crowded so that he can hardly get a seat to order his
breakfast, appetite having by this time obtained temporary ascendency over
love. By some deft questioning and pumping of the waiter who attends him,
the Englishman soon learns that the man [72]he is in search of only left his

late carouse at three o’clock in the morning, and has not yet arisen;
probably thinking that retirement will best fit him for a supremely great feat
at the shrine of Bacchus.

The conversation at the neighboring tables naturally turns upon the drinking
bout. The room is full of burghers and artists, some of whom have come to
enjoy the artist’s triumph, others to sorrow at the genius that is being killed
with wine. There is also a goodly delegation of his creditors, who are here
with anxiety in their hearts and on their lips, for Frans Floris’s life is worth
a large sum to them on account of the paintings his facile brush creates; but
Frans Floris dead is of very little use to them, and they fear that some day
he will kill himself by the enormous quantity of wine he may imbibe in his
effort to place his competitors beneath the table.

“Ah, Mijn Heer Dirk Coornhert, this is a sad day,” remarks a fat, adipose
citizen, whose smell of the malt-house proclaims the brewer.

“Yes,” replies a man evidently of artistic tastes and education. “Have you
seen the poem I’ve printed to warn Floris of the danger of his dissolute
habits, not only to his genius but to his life? I read it to him last night. It
was an inspiration in which I depicted a dream wherein the spirit of Albert
Durer appeared to me and spoke in melancholy and ghostly tones of the
spirit sadness that was brought to him even after a hundred years in the
other world by an artist of Floris’s ability becoming a drunkard.”

“And did it reform him?” jeers the other.

“Reform him!” cries Dirk Coornhert. “No, he swore he’d drink the health of
Albert Durer’s ghost to-day, and laughed in my face: ‘When I’m drunk, I’m
happy; I forget my creditors. When I’m sober my creditors don’t let me
forget them.’ ”

“Verdomd! And I’m one of them,” growls the brewer. “Two thousand
carolus guilders for malt beer consumed at his house. A painter building the

greatest palace in Antwerp! Above its portal that drunken conceit he’s
painted: himself standing brush in hand and the muses flying from all over
the heavens to crown him. And out of it he drives each day with four white
[73]horses in state, everybody doffing their hats to him, his creditors bowing
most humbly of all. If I didn’t think the populace would mob me, I’d have
him in the debtors’ prison. And then his wife! Faugh! her dandy airs—as if
she were a countess.”

“Yes, she has ruined him,” murmurs the painter. “A woman’s ambition to
flaunt it with the noblesse, which a painter cannot do, though some of our
burghers seem to think it an easy task. There’s poor Bodé Volcker! Have
you heard of his daughter? They say the fair Wilhelmina aspires to consort
with the nobility, and has been taught to shake her feet under the rod of a
French dancing master and play on the harpsichord and spinet, and sing
with rare shakes and quavers and high-screeching notes like a lewd Italian
masquer. Ah! the days of Antwerp are changing. What would her poor
mother say? But old Niklaas is up in arms, and swears his daughter shall go
into his shop and sell his silks and satins behind his counter, as her mother
did, though they say he’s worth a million crowns or more.”

“Donder en Bliksem!” growls the brewer, “what’s a million crowns, or two
million, either, now—it’s only so much more for the accursed tenth penny
tax to eat up.”

“Yes, God help every one,” assents the printer. “The tenth penny tax will in
time take all we have.”

Then the brewer shakes his head sadly over a mug of strongest Flemish ale
and the printer sips his Rhine wine in silence; for Alva has just levied his
celebrated tenth penny tax, which decrees that every transfer of
merchandise in the Netherlands shall yield one-tenth of its amount to the
royal treasury, each and every time it is bought or sold. This, of course, on
active business means ultimately complete confiscation and absolute ruin to
the great trading classes of Brabant, Flanders and Holland.

This tenth penny tax does not make the crowd very loving to the smattering
of Spanish and Italian officers of the garrison, who stride about with
jingling spurs and clattering swords and armor, caring very little whether
they tread on burghers’ toes or not, and burying every now and then their
fiercely curled mustachios [74]in flagons of Spanish wine, mine host and his
assistants serving them with greatest deference and humility; for Antwerp
writhed and groaned, but still lay prone under the iron heel of Spanish
military rule—from noble to peasant, from merchant to fisherman.

Among these military gallants none swagger more proudly than Ensign de
Busaco. Seeing Guy, this ferocious little dandy strides over, and, slapping
the Englishman cordially on the shoulder, cries: “What do you wager,
Capitan Guido, on the drinking bout? I am offering even doubloons on the
Drunkards of Brussels.”

“That’s hardly fair,” says Guy, “six drunkards to one drunkard. But sit
down, and remember your promise of last night to join me in a friendly
beaker.”

“Gracios, Señor Capitan,” murmurs the young officer, and soon he and
Chester are chatting over the juice of the grape.

“You have come, I suppose, from the Middelburg garrison,” remarks the
Spaniard, “to see about your back pay. We haven’t had a stiver here, one of
us, for a good many months, and I imagine you are no better off. But the
tenth penny, my boy, will open up the paymaster’s department of the army
If it doesn’t—” he looks savagely round, “we intend to take things into our
own hands. This is a rich city, eh, for looting; the spoils of the Indies and
Peru right here within our grasp. Some day we’ll make mincemeat of these
burghers and take their goods and chattels and wives and daughters into our
keeping for a day or two, eh! Booty and beauty!”

“God help them,” thinks Guy, looking round the place, and into his mind
coming a vision of that awful “Spanish Fury” that broke forth on Antwerp a

few years afterwards. But he turns the conversation, murmuring: “Of course
we haven’t been paid, but still I have a few doubloons in my pocket!” then
cries: “Boy, another flask of wine!”

This the two discuss together, the Spaniard telling the Englishman that,
though Floris is owned to be the greatest wine bibber in the world, it is
thought that the Six Drunkards of Brussels have some extraordinary plan
for defeating him, at least so it is whispered about, and [75]that if he has any
money to venture on the game, to put it against the artist.

“They’ll win, my boy,” he laughs. “I’ve seen little Tomasito himself drink
eighteen flagons and never flinch a hair. Fancy what he will do when
stimulated by the magnificent banquet that is going in there,” he points to
the great wedding room at the rear, “and with the chance of winning five
hundred guilders and side bets as well. Besides, De Guerra has been
strangely happy for the last day, and he is never chuckling except when he
sees the ducats ahead. But I think I can get a bet from Valdes, of our
regiment. He has seen Floris drink, and swears that no man under heaven is
his equal. Excuse me on this little matter of business,” and Ensign de
Busaco rises and joins a group of Spanish officers at the other end of the
room, much to Guy’s pleasure, for he sees that the painter, Antony Oliver,
has returned and is anxiously looking at him.

As the Spaniard turns his back the Flemish artist is by Chester’s side
whispering: “I have done your errand.”

“She will come?”

“Yes, but I had great difficulty. She was as chilly as an iceberg at first,
asking how I dared bring such an audacious message.”

“And then?” queries Guy eagerly.

“Then I gave her the ring and told her that it was necessary for your safety
that she meet you; that you had periled yourself coming to this town for her
escort when you were absent from your garrison without leave.”

“What next?” says Chester.

“Next she said nonchalantly: ‘I shall be at the house of the burgher Bodé
Volcker at three o’clock this day. My duenna, the Countess de Pariza, thinks
she would like to see the merchant’s daughter dance again.’ ”

“Anything else?” mutters Guy, discontentedly.

“Oh, yes, she also remarked that her duenna would probably spend some of
her time, as she usually did, cheapening the silks, laces and velvets in the
merchant’s stock, while she would remain in the burgomaster’s house and
enjoy herself with the arts and graces of Señorita Wilhelmina. ‘Where you
will be, too, I suppose?’ [76]she laughed, ‘Señor Oliver, and, perchance, the
gentleman whose messenger and envoy you are. Have you transferred your
service from my father to the Capitan Guido?’ At this,” says Oliver, with a
slight chuckle, “I had the audacity to remark, ‘Perhaps it may be all in the
family,’ and left her as red as the ruby ring she was holding in her hand.”

This makes Chester flush with delight, and the room which had been dark
and gloomy to him at the painter’s first words, is very sunny and bright.

A moment after it is brighter still, as Oliver remarks: “I never saw
Hermoine de Alva blush at the mention of a human being before. Neither do
I think, my audacious gallant, there is a man in this world, saving her own
father, to whom she would accord a meeting. But you’d better stop
drinking,” he adds, “or you’ll be considered one of the Drunkards of
Brussels yourself, and we’ve something more than a drinking bout on hand.
Come, they are going in, I see my enemy and know he has my fate in his
hands.” He looks anxiously across the room, for there stands Vasco,

surrounded by his five fellow topers, all bearing the arms of Brussels on
their doublets.

As De Guerra’s eyes meet those of Oliver a smile of cruel triumph lights
them up, and, with one quick, perchance unconscious, gesture, his hand
goes to his bosom, as if to reassure himself that something very precious to
him is still safe and ready.

“See that movement?” whispers Guy to Antony. “That’s to be certain of the
letters that are your ruin if you don’t get them now!”

“And will,” gasps the painter, though his hand trembles slightly, as he feels
to make sure on his part that he has the poison of the Antilles.

With this the two join the surging throng that is now squeezing into the
great painted room at the rear of the inn, in which the grand weddings of
Antwerp are celebrated. This is now set apart for the banquet which is to
test the drinking powers of Antwerp’s genius and the Brussels’ society for
the prevention of intemperance—by drinking up all the liquor in the world
themselves. [77]

A minute later there is a wild cry—“He has come!” the people turning from
the dining-room and rushing toward the entrance of the house to see De
Vriendt, the artist, riding up upon his white horse, followed by six of his
pupils.

This gives Guy and Oliver an easier entrance to the banquet room, of which
they take advantage, finding themselves in a high, heavily studded
apartment, with beautifully carved balustrades and roof beams, the walls
decorated by paintings and frescoes, some of them from the brush of the
contesting artist himself.

In the center is a large oaken table, with seats for seven, covered with
everything that can increase the thirst and appetite for wine—salt fish,

caviare, and viands steeped in oil, which is supposed to develop the
capacity of man for liquor—all these decorated and arranged in highest
style of Netherland garniture; for there are flowers on the table, and a
wreath of roses with which to crown the victor. The whole is a horrible
hurly-burly of art, mediæval luxury and barbaric vice.

Six seats about the board are occupied by the Drunkards of Brussels, Vasco
de Guerra sitting at the foot of the table as manager and captain of his band
of topers. Each man has before him an immense silver frankforter or beaker
glass holding a quantity of wine that would put a temperance society in
convulsions of righteous indignation.

The seat at the head of the table is reserved for the one man who contests
against the many; the glory of Antwerp; the great genius who is going to
drown it in drink; the great toper who, in honor of his city and a wager of
five hundred guilders, is going to drink these six other topers under the
table; while all around this board dedicated to gluttony and to Bacchus
stands a melange of the masculine society of the town, from Spanish
General Vargas to little Ensign de Busaco; from the fat merchant prince to
the brawny representative of the Butchers’ Guild—even to little Achille
Touraine, who comes crawling and sneaking in between the legs of the
assembly to reach his [78]master, getting viciously kicked and spurred in this
business by several dandy officers whose uniforms he disarranges in his
transit.

“I am here as you directed, Monsieur Oliver,” he pants. “That is, part of me
—one of the officer’s spurs lanced me like my father does his bleeding
patients, and my face has been scraped as papa does his shaving customers.
But I—I couldn’t get here before, it took so long for Marvedie and me to eat
the last of the pigeon pie.”

Here the boy’s voice is drowned by the buzz that greets the entrance of the
painter; as De Vriendt comes striding in, his pale Flemish face and mild
blue eyes lighted with a convivial smile, while tossing his hat on high he

cries: “Welcome, brother junketers of Brussels!” taking his seat at the head
of the table.

This is responded to in kind, little Tomasito remarking: “Greeting, brother
pig of Antwerp.” A sally of mediæval wit, that makes the crowd roar with
laughter, though Floris’s pale face grows red with humiliation—for one
moment.

The next he has forgotten all save the pleasure of the wine cup, for a serving
man places before him an immense Frankforter of strongest Markobrunner,
and in the love of the liquor he forgets his love of the esteem of his fellows
and townsmen. Rising from his chair he calls out: “Let us begin, Drunkards
of Brussels. The terms of the wager are settled. I drink every one of you
under the table, and leave you all there.”

“Those are the terms, Señor Floris,” murmurs De Guerra, a snicker in his
voice, and the six topers stand up, each man in his place, and each with
flagon in his hand, filled to the brim with the same strong wine that faces
De Vriendt.

“Then down!” cries Floris, and each man tosses off his ration with a smack
of delight, at which the crowd cries bravo.

But the contestants have hardly seated themselves and got pick at caviare or
salted herring or potted anchovy, when the attendants have refilled their
beakers, and Floris shouts: “Again!” [79]

With this they rise once more, and down flies the Rhenish wine; then take
to eating—for with drunkenness goes gluttony.

So the drinking bout goes on, viewed with varying faces by the crowd, the
excitement growing higher; but none have faces like Guy Chester and
Antony Oliver, for none, not even the greatest gambler in the town, has so
high a stake at risk upon this battle of giants at the shrine of Bacchus.

All the time the crowd gets greater, and dogs creep snarling in—they have
scented the feast, and hope for bones and pickings—and the dresses of
women can be seen in the great balcony used by musicians at the wedding
banquets, that stands at the further end of the hall; and friends commence to
send flagons of wine with their compliments and good wishes to the various
contestants.

But the drinking is even, flagon for flagon, each man tossing off his goblet
at the same moment with the others, and then calling for another—though
sometimes the brand of wine is changed to stimulate their appetites by
varying flavors. Rothenberger has succeeded Markobrunner and been
displaced by Hochheimer.

It is the tenth round. Seven immense silver mugs of strongest Rhine wine
are just passing the lips and sizzling down the gullets of the contestants.

“At the fifteenth,” whispers Oliver.

“Why not do it now?” says Guy in his ear.

“No, it wouldn’t be prudent before the fifteenth,” returns the painter. “No
one would believe that ten goblets would be the death of him.”

A minute or two and the twelfth turn has passed, and after drinking this one
of the contestants, the little weazened Italian, Guisseppi Pisa, attempting to
rise from his chair—staggers, and goes down quietly under the table.

“Do it now,” whispers Guy.

“I dare not—not yet,” returns Oliver.

The thirteenth round is quaffed amid laughter and cheers, and as De Guerra
takes the goblet from his lips, Oliver’s face grows white and drawn, and
Guy’s also, for to their horror they see the man they intended to [80]poison
at the fifteenth round, reel and fall insensible beneath the table.

“Too late! My God, he’s escaped me,” falters Antony.

“We can get the documents anyway, from his insensible carcass when the
bout is over,” mutters the Englishman, recovering first.

“Yes, but that is only postponing my destruction. Vasco’s suspicions are
aroused—the torture chamber gapes for me. I shall have to fly. I can no
longer do the work I had laid out for myself.” This is sighed from white
lips.

But another shout goes up from the surrounding crowd; at the fourteenth
round two of the remaining Drunkards of Brussels have gone down. Two
more are left for the painter to vanquish, but these are very tough ones. De
Vriendt smiles in triumph; his Flemish face, though red and flushed,
appears mocking now; but his legs are a little shaky.

Thus four more rounds pass; another of the Drunkards of Brussels joins the
company of those beneath the table. Now only one, little Tomasito, is
standing up for the ducats his friends have wagered upon him, and the
honor of the capital; when suddenly (for Guy has turned away his head,
only awaiting his opportunity at the finish of the bout to rob De Guerra of
the papers, and cares but little who wins the contest) the Englishman feels
his sleeve plucked, and looking up, sees Antony’s eyes blazing.

“He’s recovering!” whispers Oliver.

“Who?”

“Vasco! See him! He is staggering up to his feet again. He will win the
bout. It’s a trick—a trick to gain the advantage of so many flagons over De
Vriendt.”

This is the feeling of Floris’s friends; and when De Guerra, staggering up,
shouts: “Another stoup of Rhine wine for the Drunkards of Brussels,” they
interpose and engage in angry altercation.

But De Vriendt says: “I give him the advantage of five flagons, I will finish
him up also.”

Another round is quaffed. Before it little Tomasito goes down as if struck
by a cannon ball, leaving only [81]De Guerra and Floris standing fronting
each other, looking in each other’s faces, one with the smile of the Fleming,
the other filled with that curious rage peculiar to the Spaniard, who, when
excited, becomes savage in everything—savage in war, savage in play,
savage in love.

Each pours down another beaker, and Floris is reeling.

“Now’s your last chance,” whispers Guy.

Calling a waiter Antony says: “A flagon of your strongest Rhine wine at
once.”

While De Vriendt and the Spaniard are appetizing themselves for another
bout, one eating caviare savagely and the other lovingly dallying with some
pickled cod’s livers, to give him greater thirst, is the opportunity of Oliver.

The waiter, pouring the wine from the flask into the flagon, goes his way,
and a moment after, with a hand that has become deft by using the delicate
brushes of his art, the hunted artist skillfully unseals the little vial and drops
unnoticed a portion of its subtle poison into the beaker.

“Be sure you give him enough,” whispers Guy, who has been standing in
front of his friend to screen him, though the crowd is so great and the
excitement so intense, bets being offered two to one on the Spaniard, it
would have been unnoticed had no precaution been taken.

At this suggestion Oliver pours a double dose into the flagon. Then,
handing it to Achille, who has been devoting his time to sucking the
oranges thrown from the table by the reeling and unsteady hands of the
contestants, he whispers: “Take this to the Spaniard, Vasco de Guerra.”

“Yes!”

“Be sure! The one with the black mustache with the single gray lock!”

“Certainly, the brunette, I’m not a fool!”

“Give it to him with the compliments and good wishes of Mademoiselle
Wilhelmina Bodé Volcker. Quick! get it to him at once!”

As the two contestants rise and confront each other for another round, the
Spaniard standing up more [82]strongly, for his tactics have given him a
great advantage, the boy Achille glides to De Guerra, gives him the beaker
prepared for him by the hand of the hunted one, and whispers words into his
ear that makes a flush of delight run over the drunken redness of his face.

Tossing aside the goblet that was to his hand, Vasco de Guerra cries: “This
is old red Rhine wine; I drink this, my reeling Floris, to the beauty of
Antwerp!”

And clapping the flagon to his lips he pours down the whole stoup in one
long continued, triumphant gulp. Then looking at his rival the joy of
winning comes into Vasco de Guerra’s eye, for the painter, having drunk his
flagon, can scarce keep his feet.

“Malediction!” whispers Oliver, “The drug does not work.”

“Wait,” answers Guy.

Then, too anxious to speak, their faces distorted with suspense, the two gaze
on while the contesting topers sink into their chairs and fortify themselves
with condiments for the next round.

As the Spaniard eats he smiles on the painter, whose hands seem scarce able
to do their office.

But their goblets are re-filled, and the two rise once more, Floris supporting
himself with one hand, as his feet need help now.

“Drink!” says De Guerra, and the painter manages to get his portion down,
his competitor standing firm, erect and mocking.

“Now see me!” and Vasco raises his flagon lightly, easily, triumphantly, his
backers giving a shout of joy.

But just as he gets the goblet to his lips a kind of dazed expression comes
into De Guerra’s face, his hand falls nerveless by his side, and the beaker,
dropping from it, goes clattering to the floor, then clutching with both hands
at his throat as if for breath, he sinks down, senseless and inert, upon the
bodies of his companions, who lie there in drunken stupor, while a cry of
triumph goes up from the assembled backers of Floris.

A moment after De Vriendt, staggering, reeling, surrounded by his friends,
gets to the fresh air of the street, which gives him new strength. Assisted by
his six pupils, who will take him home and put him to bed and nurse him
after his drunken bout, he cries: “Ho! [83]for another stoup of Rhine wine,
strong Rhine wine, landlord of the Painted Inn!” and putting one foot in the
stirrup, quaffs down a mighty libation to his defeated ones. Then he rides
reeling to his palace on the street named after him, surrounded by happy
creditors, who think if Floris lives he will paint more pictures and pay some
of his debts.

The crowd, as it surges about, gives very little attention to the Drunkards of
Brussels, save one who indulges in a sly kick or two at the recumbent forms
that have lost him his money; but almost as he fell Guy and Oliver have
taken De Guerra, who is breathing heavily, and borne him to an adjoining
room.

Here hastily opening his doublet the painter slips his hand in, and sewn
between the linings of his garments he feels a little packet.

Ripping this out, he whispers, as he examines it, “Thank God! the six letters
from Louis of Nassau!”

A moment after, Guy, putting his hand upon the breast of the Spaniard,
mutters: “The spy is dead.” And a great, deep-drawn breath of relief comes
from the Fleming—this one of his many dangers has died with Vasco de
Guerra.

The color has returned to his face, and he laughs: “It was your lucky
coming and the pigeon pie that saved me—for a little while—my friend, my
Guido!”

The two go out together, and on the street Oliver again looks serious and
mutters: “Alva! Here before his time. He was not to arrive till evening.
What has brought him so suddenly from Brussels?”

For a cavalcade is prancing up the street; thirty horsemen armored in steel
with long lances bearing the pennon of Vargas. Before these, upon a strong
Andalusian charger, rides a man of spare but very tall stature, in complete,
glistening, gold-embossed Milan armor. Over the gorget about his neck is
the ribbon of the Golden Fleece upon which hangs the Lamb of God, the
insignia of that Order. This is covered by a long sable, silvered beard that
falls in two peculiar pointed locks upon his breast, his dark hair cut short, is
likewise grizzled; so is his mustache, which drapes peculiar lips, the upper
thin, firm and determined; the lower sensual—but determined also; his
forehead high, [84]pale, blue-veined and strangely intellectual, that of the
military mathematician; his nose aquiline and of rare beauty, keen cut,
precise, immovable, his cheeks sallow and pallid—altogether a face cold as
death, lighted by two blazing, sparkling, unflinching, serpent’s eyes, and yet
at times in certain features so like the woman that made Guy’s heart beat
with love the night before that he knows it is her father, and murmurs:
“Alva!”

The Duke is talking quietly to Alfonso de Ulloa and Pedro Paciotto, his
great military engineer, who ride immediately behind him. All are covered
with the dust of hasty travel.

As they pass the Painted Inn the Viceroy’s piercing eyes look haughtily
upon the crowd that stand upon the steps and throng the pentice of the
hostelry with doffed hats to do him reverence. Suddenly reining up, he
cries: “Oliver! Antonius Oliver!” and the painter, stepping forth, bows
before the Duke of Alva’s charger.

“It is fate I have got word with you so soon. Find for me at once one Vasco
de Guerra, ex-Captain in Ladroño’s Musketeers. Tell him I will hear his tale
within the hour, and bring him with you to the Citadel at once,” commands
the captain-general.

“Under favor, your—your Highness,” returns Oliver, “the—the man you
ask for—”

“Yes, speak quickly. What are you stammering about?” says the Viceroy, for
the sudden demand for the man he has murdered has staggered the painter,
tactician though he is—for a moment.

“I was about to say, your Highness, that this Vasco de Guerra, who is one of
the Six Drunkards of Brussels, now lies stupefied from his potations at the
drinking bout.”

“What, with that rattle-brain artist Floris!” says Alva; then he suddenly
remarks in tones that send a tremor through the frame of Oliver: “And that
drunkard thought I would reinstate him in his rank in the army! Some
communication he would make to me to-day—something upon which the
safety of the realm perhaps depended—something that brought me to
Antwerp four hours ahead of my time! Take word to the captain of the
provost guard to arrest De Guerra at once. I will speak with him in prison

when he recovers [85]his senses—this fool, this drunkard, this wine-bibber.
And yet—I wonder what he had to tell me? Forward, gentlemen!”

And the Duke rides on, leaving the painter standing almost as breathless as
the corpse inside the Painted Inn; for Oliver knows the hand of death has
been almost as near to him as to the dead, and mutters, as he rejoins Guy;
“Ehu! truly the lion’s jaws had nearly closed!”

[Contents]

CHAPTER VII.

LOVE—BY A COUP DE MAIN.
“Yes, just in time,” whispers the Englishman, drawing a long breath also.
Then he takes a hasty look at the tall Dutch clock ticking lazily away in the
wine room.

Noting this the painter laughs. “The sight of the father makes you impatient
for the daughter, eh? But you’ve another half an hour to wait, my impulsive
gallant. Besides, I haven’t eaten to-day. The provost marshal must wait until
I get a bite. Join me in—in my dinner.”

So giving order to an alert serving man, the two sit down to a very hasty,
yet comfortable meal, seasoned by peace and contentment, for these young
men are so accustomed to danger that any little breathing spell in their
struggle with sudden death seems to them a calm, quiet and contented time.

As he eats and drinks Guy looks lazily up and down the street; crowds of
people are passing along the Shoemarket. This throng is made picturesque
by a smattering of the costumes of most of the nations of the earth; for at
this time Antwerp is the mart of Northern Europe, and the greatest
commercial emporium of the age.

Ships are taking cargo at its river front for the Indies, East and West, for
even the distant coasts of Peru and the Cape of Good Hope, and others are
unloading [86]from the Baltic and the Mediterranean: consequently seamen
and visitors from all known portions of the globe increase the vivacity of
the scene.

Curiously enough, there are no English walking the streets of Antwerp to-
day, for since Elizabeth stole Alva’s eight hundred thousand crowns, the
Duke has forbidden any commerce with Great Britain, and has sequestered

all English property and driven out all English merchants living or doing
business in Antwerp, of which before this there have been a great number,
the English wool trade being one of the great sources of revenue of the city.
Just now Antwerp is at its very zenith, from which it is about to go down
under the exactions, taxes and tyranny of the Spaniard into a fourth-rate
commercial town.

But the burghers, though gloomy and oppressed, do not anticipate, and the
merchants still laugh lightly upon the street, thinking themselves princes
upon the throne of a commerce that can never be destroyed.

This absence of English blood and English feature would make Guy
conspicuous, were not several Danish officers of De Billy striding about the
street, and some of these have fair hair, blue eyes and Saxon blondness.

“Now I must carry Alva’s orders to the provost marshal. Fortunately his
office is not far from here. Wait for me, I will return in quarter of an hour.
You need not look so impatiently at the clock,” remarks Oliver.

But Guy is not looking at the clock. His eyes are fixed upon a man in the
costume of a South Zeeland trader who is carefully wiping a pair of
tortoise-shell rimmed spectacles and inspecting the placard offering reward
for the head of the “First of the English.” As the Zeelander turns the
Englishman knows that he has seen him before.

A moment after Chester thinks this man recognizes him, for, though he
turns away his head, he keeps one eye upon this gentleman, and notes this
gentleman has one eye on him.

“Take me to the provost marshal’s with you,” he whispers to Oliver.

“You—want to go there?” gasps Antony, opening his eyes very wide. [87]

“Yes,” returns Guy. “There’s a gentleman here who recognizes me, and has
also made himself acquainted with the value of my head. If he follows me

I’ll astonish him.”

As the two rise, Oliver’s face very serious at this, they are joined by little
De Busaco, who comes striding up to them to be rather effusively
welcomed by Chester, who thinks that apparent intimacy with Spanish
officers may remove the suspicions of the man who is watching him.

“You’re in good company, I see, Amati,” says the little ensign. “Introduce
me to the honor of the acquaintance of the Duke’s under-secretary.”

And this being done the young Spaniard says: “Where are you going?”

“To the provost marshal’s office.”

“Then I’ll go with you,” remarks De Busaco. “I’ve business there myself. I
wish to get leave to remain in the town this evening. A little Flemish girl,
you understand!” he strokes his mustachios knowingly.

As they walk along the street together, De Busaco, who apparently has
joined them for this purpose, goes to questioning and pumping Oliver as to
what prospect there is of a near pay-day for the garrison of Antwerp; if he
knows anything of the Duke’s plans; how the tenth penny tax comes on,
etc., etc., his losses at the drinking bout having apparently made him
anxious on this subject.

Guy, however, pays little heed to this. Eye and ear are intent to discover if
he is followed by the Zeeland trader. The Shoemarket is so well peopled
that this is difficult to determine, but after they have walked from it to
Kammer street, past the Inn of the Red Lion, and turned into the network of
narrow alleys that lead to the main watergate of the town, where the provost
marshal’s office is situated, the crowd grows less and Chester, turning
slightly, catches sight of the man whom he fears.

This personage dogs them straight to the city gate, but stands gaping in
astonishment as Guy and Oliver, accompanied by the young Spanish

officer, enter the office of Alva’s provost marshal, the very door of which
[88]is placarded with the reward of three thousand Carolus guilders.

“De Busaco,” remarks the Englishman, pausing at the door, “do you see that
man in South Zeeland dress?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want something that will save you anxiety about your back pay?”

“Santos! yes!”

“Then take a couple of men and get him. He lives in the disaffected
provinces at Flushing. I think the Council of Troubles are looking for him.”

“A reward!” cries the little Spaniard, then flying into the guard room and
unheeding military etiquette he calls out, “Some men with me, quick—
there’s money in it!”

Two Spanish soldiers, springing up at his bidding from the crowd lounging
about the guard-room, he starts with these hurriedly for the street, and is
soon in hot pursuit of the trader from South Zeeland, crying: “Heretico
fugitivo!” and other words of rage and fury which make that gentleman
quicken his steps to so good a purpose that apparently knowing the town
well, he dodges into some of the blind alleys in this densely crowded
portion of the city, and escapes from the little Spaniard, whose jack boots
are not conducive to extreme fleetness of foot.

“I couldn’t catch him,” remarks De Busaco, five minutes afterward,
returning breathless, “but I’ll keep my eye open for him.”

“Very well, his reward will make you forget your back pay,” remarks Guy,
as Oliver returns from the inner office, where he has been closeted with the
captain of the guard, and says the necessary orders have been given for the
arrest of De Guerra.

“I don’t think,” laughs Chester, as he and Oliver walk along the street
together (for they have left the ensign at the provost marshal’s) “that that
gentleman from South Zeeland will be anxious to report himself at any of
the guard-houses of this town to give information about me. And now, after
danger—” the look on his face tells his meaning to the little painter, who
murmurs: “Love!” [89]

So the two stride up Kammer street again, and along the Shoemarket to the
Place de Meir, where the great house of Bodé Volcker is situated, and going
in, find themselves very shortly en rapport with the family of a merchant of
that day.

As they reach the arched passageway leading to the courtyard, seeing no
signs of equipage, the corner of Guy’s mouth droops.

“Don’t be impatient; it is better to be first, then I can arrange our little
scheme of bargains before the arrival of the duenna Countess and her
charge,” says the artist.

Leading the way with the familiarity that denotes a friend of the house,
Oliver raps upon a side door situated at the further end of the courtyard, and
almost immediately is admitted by the servant girl of the evening before;
the lady’s maid, Wiarda, she of the haughty nose, apparently being engaged
elsewhere.

They enter directly into what is the living room of the house. Here the
family of Bodé Volcker, consisting of himself, Jakob, a boy of sixteen, who
has just left school for the counting room, and the daughter, Wilhelmina,
whose soft blonde curls and merry blue eyes have induced Oliver not only
to put her upon his canvas but in his heart, are apparently engaged in a
family discussion that is becoming highly flavored.

The old gentleman, an energetic but fat Fleming, with commercial
expression and commercial eyes, is evidently excited. His cheeks are red

and angry. The young lady’s blue eyes are equally angry, though they are
slightly dimmed by latent tears, and one of the corners of her dear little
mouth is twitching nervously. The boy, like most cubs of his age, is
seemingly enjoying some dispute between papa and sister, for his blonde
German face has a suppressed snicker in it. If he dared he would laugh.

“Ah, Oliver,” cries the merchant, rising with outstretched hands, “back from
Brussels! A short trip,” and welcomes the painter with the easy familiarity
of a friend of his house.

Miss Wilhelmina, on the contrary, greets Antony in haughty Spanish style,
extending white fingers for her sweetheart to kiss. [90]

The cub merely snickers; “Hoe maakt je ’t?”

“I’ve taken the liberty of bringing a friend, Captain Guido Amati, of the
Middelburg garrison,” remarks the painter.

“A friend of yours, Oliver! Welcome—welcome to everything in my
house,” says Niklaas with Flemish hospitality, giving Guy cordial greeting.

“Captain Amati is known to the Doña Hermoine, and as the Duke’s
secretary—”

It is unnecessary to say more; at mention of the Viceroy’s daughter Miss
Wilhelmina most affably seconds her father’s hospitality and extends her
white fingers for Spanish welcome. These Guy, making no mistake this
time, kisses, perhaps lingering a shade too long over the soft, fair hand for
the pleasure of his friend Oliver.

Then the merchant cries out suddenly with Flemish primitiveness: “Chairs,
Wilhelmina; chairs for the gentlemen!”

“Father!” remarks the young lady haughtily, “you forget we have lackeys in
the house,” and, ringing a hand bell, orders the serving man to place seats

for the cavaliers.

“Oh, ho! more foreign airs!” jeers the old gentleman snappishly, apparently
taking up a discussion that has been dropped. “Don’t forget Flanders
simplicity, my daughter. Though your father is called a millionaire, perhaps
he won’t be a millionaire long, with that accursed tenth penny tax,” adds
Niklaas, grinding his teeth.

“You come from Brussels, Señor Antony,” interrupts the young lady,
adopting the Spanish style of address. “While there I presume, as the
Duke’s under-secretary, you met the Duchess of Aerschot. She arrives in
Antwerp to-day, and gives an entertainment to-morrow evening. You will be
there, I presume, Captain Amati, also Señor Oliver?”

“Unfortunately I leave Antwerp this evening,” answers Guy.

“And under-secretaries and heralds are not invited,” remarks the painter,
apparently by no means pleased at the idea.

“You’ll go, I presume, Freule Bodé Volcker?” suggests [91]Guy,
persuasively. “Your dance, I believe, is much admired.”

“Of course,” murmurs the young lady, nonchalantly.

“Of course not!” cries the Flemish father with the air of a Roman one.

“Papa!”

“Verdomd! Do you suppose I’ll have you, my young lady, keep my carriage
horses out again as you did last night, so that they went to sleep in the
goods van this morning! The Countess of Mansfeld’s yesterday and the
Duchess of Aerschot’s to-morrow and you not up until dinner to-day. My
servants eating me out of house and home; you haven’t kept your household
accounts for a week! Don’t answer me, miss, I have looked at your market
book, not written up—not written up—no commercial ideas! But let me tell

you,” adds the old gentleman, “if this happens again, down you come at
eight in the morning and attend to women customers in the wareroom,” he
points toward the commercial end of the house. “Remember that!”

And bottling up his wrath, Papa Bodé Volcker makes adieu to Guy and
Oliver, remarking that he must attend to business if none of the rest of the
family do, but dragging off the snickering boy Jakob.

“Papa is very eccentric. This sort of discussion always begins with the tenth
penny tax,” remarks the young lady solemnly. Then she half sighs, half
laughs: “We have this every week or two, though not generally in public.
He’ll be coming back again in a minute,” giving a little horrified snicker as
the old gentleman fulfils her prophecy by popping his head in at the door
and crying:

“And that French jumping-jack, who teaches you to sling your feet about! I
flung him out, waistband and neck ruff, this morning!”

But this news is too much for the fair Wilhelmina’s complacency. She
springs up with a scream of horror, “Oh, papa! Poor, dear little Monsieur de
Valmy!” and there are tears in her eyes.

“Yes, and the music master, that spinet playing fellow, goes also. No more
flipping the heel and raising the toe; no more semi-quavers and high Italian
[92]screeches,” jabbers the ex-burgomaster. “Remember the tenth penny tax!
Some day I will be a music teacher myself,” and with this extraordinary
prophecy Bodé Volcker darts for his counting room.

But this astounding prediction is too much for every one. They go into
laughter, which Miss Wilhelmina leads, ejaculating: “A music teacher,
indeed! Screeches and semi-quavers!”

Tossing herself into a chair in front of a near-by spinet, she gives out
smilingly a little Provençal chançon with such unaffected ease and grace

that both Guy and Oliver declare it would be a shame if the music master
should be suppressed, tenth penny tax or no.

This seems to put them all at their ease, Miss Bodé Volcker regaling the
gentlemen with an account of the grand fête of the Countess Mansfeld in
honor of Doña de Alva the night before, mentioning the names of the
Signeurs de la Noircarmes, D’Avila, Mondragon, Gabriel de Cerbolloni,
and other officers and nobles as being present, as well as the younger
Countess Mansfeld, the aristocratic Baroness d’ Ayala, and the beautiful
Doña Anica de la Medrado, just come with the latest Madrid fashions. “I
was the only one from the town,” she adds innocently, “but my dancing was
greatly admired.”

A moment after they have proof of this.

There is a clatter of hoofs in the courtyard and four prancing Spanish mules
come clattering in dragging a coach of state, their outriders and lackeys in
the glittering liveries of Alva.

A second after Doña Hermoine, robed in priceless furs, her glorious head
shaded by jaunty Spanish hat and long white plumes, her face brilliant with
brunette radiance, her eyes growing, perchance, more brilliant, as they look
upon Guy Chester’s well-knit form, enters the apartment. Behind her comes
the attendant Countess de Pariza, duenna-like aspect on her formal face.

Though Guy and Oliver rise quickly to greet rank, title and beauty, Miss
Bodé Volcker is before them at the door welcoming the ladies who do her
and her house so much honor.

“It is so condescending of you, Doña de Alva, so kind of you, Countess de
Pariza,” she murmurs, “to [93]honor me in my own home,” and courtesying
to the ground, kisses Hermoine’s hand, which that young lady, daughter of
the Viceroy of Spain, courteously permits,—then steps immediately across

the apartment to allow the two gentlemen, bowing before her, the same
privilege.

The Countess de Pariza does not extend her formal, thin, severe hand, as the
daughter of the ex-burgomaster courtesies to the floor before her, but says
rather brusquely: “We have called, Juffrouw Bodé Volcker to see you dance
again. It pleased me greatly last night.”

“To see me dance—here?” says the young lady, pouting, as the Countess
uses to her Juffrouw, the title of the middle classes, with little more
ceremony than she would to a serving girl. “I—I am not in costume.
Besides, these gentlemen—.” Miss Bodé Volcker looks embarrassed, as the
request has the form of a command, that will make her seem more like a
dancing girl than a young lady of society to Captain Guido Amati.

“To be sure. You can put on your costume. Run upstairs, and deck yourself
at once. Those pink silk stockings become you,” replies Señora de Pariza.
“As for these gentlemen,” she turns her argus eyes upon Chester and Oliver,
who are in conversation with Doña Hermoine, though as her father’s under-
secretary, Antony has stepped slightly behind the Englishman, who is a
military swell under his title Captain of Musketeers, “they must be relatives,
you converse with them alone, Juffrouw Bodé Volcker. It’s a very bad habit
for girls of your age to adopt. Lines of propriety are drawn at brothers;
cousins are very dangerous. So trip upstairs and put on the costume of
Hungary, which became you so well last night. I will call in one of my
Moorish girls who plays the spinet.”

With this the duenna would stride to the door to summon an attendant, but
Doña Hermoine, noting the embarrassment the order causes the aspiring
Mina, with that unaffected condescension which very great rank permits the
potentates of this world to make those below them in station easy and
happy, suddenly cries;

“Dancing, Countess? then I’m your young lady!” [94]and tossing off with
one graceful gesture her furry wraps, with another sweeps up a trailing
silken skirt and stands a picture before them, laughing: “Castanets, and I am
an Andalusian gipsy!”

But the duenna, suddenly drawing herself up, utters a horrified ejaculation:
“Before these gentlemen, Doña de Alva?”

“Why not, if I can dance well enough to please them? Captain Guido has
placed me last night under obligations that permit me to do anything for his
benefit and pleasure, and Señor Oliver is one of my father’s household, and
as such very near to me.”

Here Oliver winces. He could betray the tyrant father, but the thought that
this being of goodness and kindness will one day think him a traitor and
ignoble brings with it twinges of remorse.

“Dance! The daughter of the Viceroy tossing her feet about?” ejaculates the
duenna.

“Pooh!” laughs the girl archly. “Have I not posed for Señor Oliver’s
Madonna—in bare feet too. Some day I am to make Señor Antony
celebrated, or, rather, he will make me worshiped by his genius and his altar
piece.”

“You posed for your foot” murmurs Guy, casting an enraptured glance at
the exquisite member the girl displays as she still holds the Gitana attitude.

“Yes, I hope he painted them small enough to please you,” laughs the young
lady. “But sit down at the spinet, Señorita Mina, and play for me so that I
may enrapture the Countess de Pariza by dancing,” adds Doña Hermoine,
looking archly at her duenna, who seems to have lost her appetite for
Terpsichore.

To this, the dragon says sharply: “Since Juffrouw Bodé Volcker is
indisposed to repeat for me the pleasure of last evening, I will go into her
father’s shop and see if there are any bargains to-day in Lyons silks and
velvets and the lace of Venice.”

“There should be,” remarks Oliver, suggestively. “Great bargains! The
damage from the flood must have cheapened everything.”

“Bargains! Come, let me see,” and La Pariza would call her two Moorish
attendants, but Guy, who has been wishing her God-speed in his heart ever
since [95]she has entered, very politely opens the door for her departure
across the courtyard to the warerooms of the merchant.

Doña Hermoine has apparently not come on a shopping expedition, at least
not for laces and dress goods; she does not accompany her duenna, but
remains standing, a picture of grace, in the attitude she has taken for the
dance.

“You don’t care for new costumes, Doña de Alva,” remarks Guy dreamily,
the beauty of the girl’s pose enchanting him, as well it may, for the young
lady wears some soft clinging costume of southern Spain with Moorish
effects in it, that outlines her lithe graceful beauty in every curve, and,
swept up by one dainty hand, permits a suspicion of ankle so exquisite in
proportion and symmetry that poets would dream over it—but this
audacious sailor simply loves it.

“No, why should I? I have dozens I never use, and papa would give me a
thousand if I were foolish enough to want them,” replies Doña Hermoine,
resigning Gitana attitude and sweeping her Moorish jupe upon the floor
again. “He gives me everything I ask for.” Then she remarks naively: “You
have discovered my name—that I am the daughter of the Viceroy, Captain
Guido Amati. You—you see I have discovered your name. Or rather I
should say, Major Guido Amati.”

“Major?”

“Yes; promoted since noon!”

“But your father—?”

“Oh, I told him nothing about it. You are absent without leave. Neither did I
tell Sancho d’Avila, who is colonel of your regiment in the absence of
Romero in Spain. But there was a vacancy, and it was easily granted to
Captain Guido Amati, who, I am informed, is the bravest officer in the
army, or one of the bravest. That is all that can be said for any man under
Alva.”

“Major in Romero’s foot!” gasps Guy, who, during this speech, has been
gazing at her in a dazed, startled way.

“Yes, I took the muster-roll of the regiment myself, and saw that Captain
was altered to Major.”

“The muster-roll!” murmurs Chester, not believing his ears. [96]

“Yes, there are duplicates at the Citadel.”

“The muster-rolls at the Citadel,” he stammers, stunned by surprise. Then
suddenly it flashes through him that amazement will betray him, that
gratitude is the only way he can receive this astounding communication; a
gratitude that is very pleasant to him. Taking advantage of the young lady’s
position, for she has extended a hand toward him in happy, gracious
gesture, he imprints one kiss of obligation upon it and two more of
rapturous love, and Miss Brunette’s lilies become roses.

This is effected without undue publicity, as Oliver has taken the fair Mina
into the next room, and is whispering into her ear: “Look in Doña
Hermoine’s eyes. Don’t you see a request, you foolish girl? She saved you
from the embarrassment of the dance; do something for her. Please your

father. Go in and be a saleswoman. Show the Countess de Pariza every
bargain in your store. Furthermore, make them bargains. Cut the price of
everything in half.”

“Cut prices one-half! Great heavens, my father!”

“I’ll pay the balance, or rather Captain Amati will.”

“Oh, I see,” laughs the girl. “But what will her father, the awful Duke,
say?”

“He’ll never know if you give Countess de Pariza bargains enough to keep
her busy. Do it—for me.”

“Oh, you—!”

For the painter has emphasized his “for me” by a lover’s salute.

Thus urged, and catching Hermoine’s bright eyes with a request in them,
Mina runs away under Oliver’s promptings to make a bargain counter of her
father’s whole store, and to cut prices in such a way that would rouse the
old Bodé Volcker to madness were he present; but fortunately Heer Bodé
Volcker has gone down to the quay to see about the unloading of a ship.

A minute later Oliver has sauntered to the extreme end of the great
banqueting room. Though theoretically he is present, practically he sees
nothing, hears nothing, and the daughter of the Viceroy and Guy Stanhope
Chester are alone together.

“You see,” says the young lady, archly, “I’ve been inquiring about you. Oh,
don’t be afraid. No one [97]knows that you are here—absent from duty.
They wouldn’t have made you Major, perhaps, if they had. But it has been
whispered to me that you are even more than Major Guido Amati. You are
Major Guido Amati de Medina, son of Hernandez de Medina, once Viceroy

of Hispaniola, and have sworn never to assume your exalted family name
until you are a general, which you soon must be.”

Then she cries out suddenly, clapping her hands, “Why, since you’re a
Medina, you must be a cousin to the Duke of Medina Cœli.”

“Only—only third cousin,” stammers Guy, who thinks his ears are playing
him false, though he knows his eyes are doing very good work, indeed.

“Well, anyway, you have the blood of the grandees of Spain, and as such
your family is equal to mine,” murmurs the girl, a curious emphasis on the
last remark. “As such, of course, you may sit by my side,” and the young
lady sinking upon a Turkish sofa, a dream of vivacious grace, motions Guy
to the familiarity of equal social station.

As she looks on the Englishman a great wave of color flies over Hermoine
de Alva’s face, and in response Chester’s heart gives a big jump or two as
he sees what must have been the drift of the girl’s mind.

“I am glad that you know so much about me,” he says, laughingly, then
goes on grimly: “Glad that what you have learned has not displeased you.”

“Oh, I don’t know altogether that,” remarks the young lady; then she says,
archness in her tone, but a quiver on her lip: “It was also whispered that
Captain Guido Amati was a very wild young man. I hope that Major Guido
Amati will be more circumspect. But still, they said you were the bravest
officer in the army.” And the girl looks at him joyously, radiantly, proudly.

She has apparently been conjuring up some dream, some vision of her
imagination, the center of which has always been Guido Amati; it brings a
light into her eyes that adds even to her beauty, for at times were it not for
womanly graces, vivacity and emotion, her brilliant intellect would,
perchance, give too great coldness to Hermoine de Alva’s exquisite face.
[98]

But, fired by the latent romance of her nature, her delicate face is as
inspired—it would put glow into a saint: but with a sailor—.

And what she says gives golden opportunity. She has held up the ruby ring
and whispered, “You returned this to me?”

“Only that I might see you again,” and Guy is seated beside her.

“Then if you wish to see me once more, take the ruby from me—quick!”

“Never!”

“Never?”

“Never, unless on your finger, you wear this, one of my spoils of
Hispaniola.” And the Englishman has taken from a chain about his neck a
ring bearing a single brilliant.

“Oh, Santos! What are you doing?” falters the girl.

He has got possession of her fair hand now, and her eyes look into his for
one great glance, then turn from him, and droop; their long lashed lids
falling upon flaming cheeks. The next instant the diamond sparkles on the
taper finger and Hermoine de Alva, the daughter of Spain’s Viceroy is only
woman—loving woman—before this man, who has not wooed her heart,
but has seized it.

“Take the ruby—now you’ve given me the diamond,” she murmurs. “You—
you know what this means?”

“Please God, I do! You are my plighted bride. Mine—mine now forever!”
And his audacious lips give lover’s greeting, not as the night before, the
kiss of hasty mistletoe effect, but the long rapture of clinging hearts.

“Beware! I—I am the Viceroy’s daughter,” murmurs the lady. She hangs her
head, then suddenly raises her eyes to his and goes on firmly, distinctly:
“My Guido, you are audacious!”

“Yes,” he whispers, “Were you the Queen of Spain, I’d love you.”

“Then you could not win me!”

“But as, thank God, you are Hermoine de Alva,” answers Guy sturdily, “I
will win you and wear you, daughter of the Viceroy though you be, for my
beloved [99]wife. You hear the term!”—for she gives sudden start at this
new title. “Wife! And every time you say to me, ‘I am the daughter of Alva,’
or ‘Beware the Captain General of the Netherlands!’ your lips that do the
deed shall pay the price, two for each word.”

“Madre Mia! How impulsive you are,” cries the girl panting and struggling
under the penalty exacted. For Guy Stanhope Chester is half mad with love
and rapture, and though he respects this captive of his masculine bow and
spear, still he woos her in a free and easy sailor manner which enthralls but
astounds this daughter of the Viceroy. “Holy Virgin! you—you are so—so
different.”

“From whom?” cries Guy in jealous tones.

“From—from the other suitors, who come bowing to the earth, mincing
compliments and fawning for the honor of my hand.”

“And they have dared?” snarls this gallant, who now regards all this
brunette loveliness, these drooping, melting eyes, these lily and rose tinted
cheeks, these ivory shoulders, this exquisite form, half girl’s, half woman’s
—in short Hermoine de Alva—as his very own.

“Dared!” pouts the young lady; then laughs, “Why not? Am I so very
ugly?”

“No, no! too beautiful.”

“Then why should not grandees of Spain and generals in the army and
Hidalgos of twenty-four quarterings aspire in humble tones and modest
manner for an honor you take, my audacious Guido, as if heaven had given
you title to me, the daughter of a Viceroy!”

“And so it has, and love likewise, thy love,” and Guy has her in his arms
again, murmuring: “You spoke the words ‘the daughter of a Viceroy!’
Beware the penalty.”

“Take it, tyrant,” whispers the girl, and with this name that women love to
give to those whose domination commands their love, she puts her soul
upon her lips and gives it to him.

And this game might go on indefinitely, the two seeming to like to play it
very well, did not the sound of Oliver’s rapid footsteps announce his
coming from the banqueting room.

He steps to them, and bowing before the young lady [100]says: “Doña de
Alva, I have the honor, as your father’s herald, to announce his coming!”

“Papa! Here!” and with these words the girl is up.

“Yes, the Duke’s cavalcade is already in the Shoemarket, doubtless he is in
search of you. I will tell the Countess de Pariza.”

As Oliver on his errand closes the door Guy knows his time is very short,
for Hermoine is dallying with her furs and whispering: “Away from your
garrison without leave, papa had better not see you. I will meet him in the
street.”

Then as Guy is wrapping the cloak about her, each touch a caress, she adds
significantly; “I shall spend a month or two in Brussels, but if Major Guido
Amati de Medina asks for leave from the Middelburg garrison, he will

doubtless get it. Though don’t, for sight of me, neglect the duties of your
post. Remember, my Guido, that every step you take in the army brings you
nearer to the church door where a bride awaits you—whom you have made
forget she is the daughter of a Viceroy!”

“Penalty!” mutters Guy, and takes this kiss very solemnly, for already the
murmur of the approaching crowd tells of the coming father.

At this the young lady says, with a delicious moue: “How doleful! One
would think you an unsuccessful suitor! But your message by Oliver spoke
of danger,” and there is a tremor in her voice.

“Yes, I must have the word of the night to pass the sentries. I must leave
this evening.”

“Of course to be in Middelburg when your commission arrives. I have
thought of that and brought it with me.” With this she hands him a little
paper.

It reads:

THE WORD IS “SANTA CRUZ.”
COUNTERSIGN “DON FREDRICO.”

As he glances at this, she smiles in his face: “I’ve half a mind not to give it
to you—not to let you go. What brought my rash young officer to Antwerp
without leave?”

“You.”

“Oh!”

“And for you I’d come again a thousand times. I [101]was going to the
Drowned Lands duck shooting, when, by the blessing of God, I saved you
from the Beggars of the Sea, my own—my prize.” And knowing that every

chance of this earth is against his wearing as his bride this sweetheart he has
won, Guy’s face is drawn and contorted with the agony of a parting that is
to him like death. Sadness is catching as well as love, and the girl gets to
sighing and sobbing under his farewells that are so solemn—though she
can’t guess why.

But Oliver, with rattling door-latch, cries: “The Countess de Pariza is
already in the carriage. Quick!”

Then Guy, seeing his time has come, though his sweetheart would linger
longer, and begins to cling to him with little sighs of love, hurriedly assists
her to the carriage and puts her in.

Half turning round, his affianced holds up her white finger to him. Upon it
glistens the ring of his love.

The postilions crack their whips, the state vehicle flies through the arch, and
all that he has to remind him of the woman who was but now in his arms, is
the memory of her kisses, her ruby ring upon his finger, and a little
document that bears the talisman that will make him safe from her father’s
sentries at the gates.

[Contents]

CHAPTER VIII.

“THE UNGAINABLE!—BUT I’LL GAIN HER!”
“Look,” says the painter, leading the way to a window opening on the
street.

And Guy, from the curtains of Bodé Volcker’s house, sees the man of the
death’s face, before whom the crowd cower and tremble, bow to his saddle-
bow before the coach of his daughter, his face illuminated by the proud eyes
of father’s love.

“Egad! I think I’ve run up my account with him,” mutters the Englishman.
Then he turns suddenly to Antony and says: “A word with you. On my first
visit here, for my safety you invented for my use the name of Captain
Guido Amati, of Romero’s foot. [102]There is another living Guido Amati,
Captain of Romero’s foot.”

“Certainly there is,” returns Oliver, and astounds Guy. “I took the name
from the roster of Romero’s regiment. It was then quartered in Friesland,
two hundred miles from here, the most distant of all the Netherland
provinces, and I thought it better to give you a name that could be verified.
But what does this matter?”

“Matter!” replies Chester glumly. “Only this, that I have just learned that
Guido Amati has been promoted on my account to Major in his regiment;
that Captain Guido Amati of Romero’s foot has been behaving in some
wild, reckless kind of manner, apparently with ladies, and that Major Guido
Amati has just been severely cautioned to behave himself from this time
forth most circumspectly. Zounds!” he goes on savagely, “if this gentleman
I am christened after doesn’t take good care he’ll have an account to render
to me, who have now his sins on my shoulders!”

Then he bursts into a laugh in which Oliver joins, and says more
complacently: “But I’ve also got the reputation of being the bravest man in
the army. Besides, I am the third cousin of the Duke of Medina Cœli, and, I
imagine, entitled to keep my hat on in the presence of Philip II. of Spain.”

“Very well, my grandee,” returns Antony smiling. “Here is the bill the
Countess de Pariza has run up against you—two hundred guilders! That’s
your half of the affair. If his Highness of Alva hadn’t chanced along I
imagine she’d have bought all in Bodé Volcker’s warehouses.”

“A—ah,” sighs Guy, passing over the money, “I’d give everything I have
for another tête-à-tête with my—my promised wife,” he struggles with a
tear as he thinks of the beautiful being whose love he has captured by a
coup de main.

“Your promised wife!” gasps Oliver. “Morbleu! you have been making
hay,” next shortly says: “By heaven, if Alva ever puts hand on you and
knows this, dread the reckoning, my audacious Englishman. Besides, you’ll
have to be quick about this matter if you ever get her!” [103]

“Why so?”

“Alva will not remain in the Netherlands much longer. The country is
crushed (pacified he calls it), though the embers are smouldering. He’s
collecting the tenth penny tax, but not paying the troops. Some of the
money he sends to Spain—just enough to keep Philip quiet, but the balance
—God knows what he does with it, though I guess it is for transmission to
Italy or to Spain, to make him equal in wealth to many a king.”

“By St. George, if I could get my hands on it,” answers the Englishman, the
instinct of the sea rover coming up in him. “That would be a fitting dower
for his fair daughter.”

“As far as my information goes,” says Oliver, “no living man has put his
eyes on where he keeps this treasure, though I have a suspicion. The great
statue that he is erecting, the one that will be undraped next week, in the
enceinte of the Citadel here, has something peculiar in its dimensions. Its
pedestal is enormous. The workmen employed upon its base have been
brought from Italy, and are under the direct personal supervision of
Paciotto, his engineer. These having finished the pedestal, have all been
reshipped, bountifully rewarded, to their native country. Not one has been
permitted to remain in the Netherlands. There’s a secret in that statue!”

Further consideration of this is suddenly broken in upon by the entrance of
the ex-burgomaster and his daughter. The old gentleman seems pleased.

“You’ll stay and sup with me, gentlemen, I hope,” he remarks. “I am happy
to announce that my daughter Mina has been an obedient little girl this
afternoon, and sold goods for me in my shop—four hundred guilders worth,
to the Countess de Pariza, two hundred paid in cash, something that never
happened to me before in my dealings with the nobility. But then,” he
chucks Mina under the chin, “my little girl is a very sharp business woman.
Some day she’ll be as valuable as her poor mother was.”

“Father,” says the young lady, taking advantage of the circumstances, “can I
go to the Duchess of Aerschot’s?”

“Humph! Well, you’re young, you shall be happy; [104]but don’t keep the
horses out all night; you know I use them in the goods van in the morning.
Gentlemen, remain, and I’ll show you my little girl is not only a good
saleswoman, but a cook and housewife.”

“Father!” ejaculates the young lady very sternly, “Remember that we have a
Frenchman-cook in the house!”

But Guy does not stay to test the cuisine of the Bodé Volcker mansion.
Having had his tête-à-tête with brunette, he gives Oliver a chance of

interview with blonde, and goes off to the Painted Inn, where Antony
promises to join him early in the evening.

It is now dark, and seating himself in the wine room, which is illuminated
by oil lamps and flickering candles, the Englishman orders a bounteous
supper, knowing that he may be up all the night returning to his ship.
Success has given him appetite, though he scarce knows what he is eating,
for his whole meal is a succession of recollections, each one a rapture.
These rhapsodies are suddenly and disagreeably broken in upon.

A man, apparently from his dress and demeanor the captain of some trading
vessel, strides into the room followed by a burgher, and with a muttered
oath slaps himself into a chair at the table next to Chester. “Voor den
duivel!” he growls, “not permitted to pass the city gates to go to my own
ship. What’ll become of my cargo, half landed. The mate and drunken crew
will be having a fine time!”

“Calm yourself, Captain,” says his consignee in soothing tone. “The
regulation is very unusual. You will doubtless be permitted to pass through
the gates to the quay at daylight.”

“Yes, giving me the expense of a berth at an inn, and my comfortable cabin
unoccupied. Another guilder wrung out of me in this port of Antwerp. If this
thing goes on, the commerce of this place will be damned forever.”

“But it will probably never occur again,” says the merchant. “Such a thing
has not been heard of before for a year.” And the two go into conversation
discussing the why’s and wherefore’s of this unusual vigilance at the gates.

Guy gets to meditating upon this also. He had noticed [105]before, during the
early part of his meal, this same captain, apparently the guest of the same
merchant at supper at one of the tables. Half an hour before this they had
gone out; they have now returned, the captain having evidently been unable
to pass the guards. If such orders have been issued the word of the night is

probably useless. What can have caused it? Can it be some suspicion of his
presence in the town?

Even as he meditates, Oliver enters, a very serious look on his face.
Stepping up to Guy’s table he seats himself by him and whispers: “Come
with me.”

“Why?” This is a whisper also.

“Orders have been given for nobody to pass out of the gates of Antwerp to-
night.”

“The reason?”

“I don’t know, unless they suspect your presence in the town. Come to my
lodgings with me.”

“No, I shall remain here,” replies the Englishman firmly.

“Why?”

“For two reasons. First, I won’t put further jeopardy upon you. Second, if
orders are given for no one to pass the gates, I expect they will very shortly
come to the quick ears of a young lady who is interested in one Major
Guido Amati de Medina, an officer of Romero’s foot, absent from his post
without leave. Incidentally to-day I mentioned to her that I stopped at the
Painted Inn. This is the place where she would send to find me. But don’t
stay with me, Oliver. My seizure in your company might bring suspicion on
you—sit at another table!”

“I won’t leave you, when perchance I can aid you,” says the generous artist.
Then he mutters suddenly: “By heaven, perhaps it has come now!”

And it has, though not as Antony fears, for little Ensign de Busaco,
swinging through the door, takes one glance about the room and strides up

to the Englishman.

“I want you,” he says, while Guy’s hand quietly seeks the dirk in his bosom.
“I want you to take one of the state barges down to Sandvliet to-night.”

“Ah!”

“Yes, I was unable to obtain leave to remain out of [106]barracks to-night at
the provost marshal’s office, and went to the Citadel to get it. While there I
was summoned to Doña de Alva. She remarked to me that Captain Amati,
who had brought her barge up so successfully last night, was just the man to
take it down this evening. It goes on some errand of the young lady. She
charged me to give this note to you, and to conduct you through the Citadel
to the place of landing the night before, where the rowers and a new crew
will be ready—I believe the Beggars of the Sea killed the last.”

With this he presents a sealed letter to the Englishman in the handwriting
that he loves.

Breaking the seal of Alva, Guy hastily reads:

My Dearest Guido.

I can’t help calling you that. It is, perhaps, rash, but that is how I think of you.

It is just now known to me that the gates of the city are closed to egress to-night,
information of some daring pirate or outlaw being concealed in Antwerp having reached
headquarters. Knowing the necessity of an officer absent without leave reaching
Middelburg before his commission, I am despatching my galley to my country house at
Sandvliet to bring up some articles left behind in the hasty retreat of last night. Will you
not be kind enough to steer the boat down the Schelde as successfully as you steered it up?

Ensign de Busaco will pass you through the Citadel.

Praying that God will watch over you and bring you back to me with as much love in your
heart as I have for you in mine, I am, as I ever shall be, your

Hermoine.

“You look happy,” laughs De Busaco, “at an order for a long night boat
journey?”

“I am always at the orders of Doña de Alva,” remarks Guy. “Come!”

“Quick,” replies the little Ensign. “I’ve got my leave to stay out of barracks
this night. The sooner we get through with this the sooner I am free for my
affair.”

So, Guy hastily settling his score, the three leave the Painted Inn and
making their way to Beguin street, stride rapidly along that thoroughfare to
the Esplanade, where Oliver, in low tones, and with hearty grasp, says:
“Good-bye.”

“God bless you!” mutters Guy. [107]

And though they speak it not, as their hands clasp they mean friendship and
brotherhood.

A few minutes after Chester and De Busaco are at the Citadel, where,
passing over the drawbridge and through the great gateway, Guy learns that
the word of the night has been changed and is now “San Sebastian,”
countersign “Corpus Christi.”

From here they pass through the enceinte right by the statue of Alva, De
Busaco remarking parenthetically: “They’ve got his arm up to-day. They’ll
be all ready to show him off next week. Caramba! that means the trouble of
a dress parade. And no pay day yet. Some day we may dig out our arrears
from this hollow pedestal. Alva is cunning, but his troops have their eyes
open also!”

Going across this great fortification, they come out at the little sally-port in
the moat where Guy had landed the night before. Here they have no
difficulty of exit. The same galley that the Englishman brought up is
waiting for them; the rowers in place with a new crew, to whom De Busaco

introduces him as the officer who will take charge of the boat to Sandvliet;
then goes on his way with a hasty “Adios, Señor!” for the little ensign is
behind in his appointment with some young lady of the city.

Just as the boat is casting off, for Guy does not waste much time about this
matter, a waiting maid, one of the Moorish handmaidens of the night before,
comes running over the little drawbridge crying: “Stay!—one moment—
stay!”

Then, as Guy stands up in the barge, she whispers to him, holding out a belt
of heavy leather: “Buckle this round your waist, Señor Capitan, my
mistress charges me to tell you to be careful of it. It is the one you left in the
boat so carelessly last night.”

“Oh—ah, yes,” says the Englishman, to whom lies this day have become
easy. “I was looking for it. I didn’t know where I’d left it,” and buckling it
about him, wonders what the deuce is in it.

“Egad, it’s not a life preserver,” he thinks. “It would send me to the bottom
like a shot.”

Anyway, whatever it is, he is enraptured to get it from the hands of
Hermoine de Alva. [108]

But he has not much time to think of this; he has called to the rowers and
the boat is now under way and gliding through the moat that surrounds the
great bastions of the Spaniard.

Five minutes after they are in the open river, and, though the tide is against
them, they are en route toward Sandvliet and safety. Keeping well across by
the further bank of the river they pass unchallenged, though Guy can see the
lights of several guard and patrol boats moving among the shipping on the
city’s edge.

“Give way, my lads,” cries the Englishman enthusiastically, “and I’ll stand a
cask of wine when we reach Sandvliet.”

Thus adjured the men bend to their oars, while the cockswain of the barge
gets into quite friendly chat with Chester, telling him that this place they are
going to is a beautiful summer chateau used sometimes by Alva himself, but
mostly by his daughter, to enjoy the fresh sea breezes blowing up the
Schelde estuary during the hot months of summer.

“We came down very early this year,” he says, “the weather was so
pleasant. Fortunately I was in Antwerp last night, otherwise I would have
been done to death with poor Antonio and the rest by those murdering
Beggars of the Sea.”

The conversation of this man whiles away the time, and in three hours, the
wind aiding them a little, they are off the Fort of Lillo.

Here four guard boats are on duty, one of them stopping their barge. As the
Costa Guarda comes alongside, her commander recognizing a state barge
of Alva, and Guy giving him the new words of the night, which have
apparently been sent hurriedly down to Lillo, the captain of the boat wishes
Chester God-speed, remarking: “Take care of yourself. It is reported that the
First of the English is somewhere down below. Two galleys, the Santa Cruz
and the Holy Trinity, go down to see if they can capture this pirate to-
morrow morning.”

“Thank you for the information,” replies Guy, as his boat dashes on its way.

At the last dyke left standing by the flood below Fort [109]Lillo, Guy sees
three lanterns displayed in line and knows his boat is awaiting him. He
suddenly says: “I’ve piloted you through the worst of the journey. You are
now within a mile of the country place. What is it named?”

“Bella Vista,” replies the cockswain.

“Very well, take the galley to Bella Vista and perform the errand you are
charged with. Here’s two doubloons for the wine I promised you and the
crew. Land me upon the dyke. A boat is awaiting me there. I am going duck
shooting on the Drowned Lands; if my men row fast enough I shall get
there for the morning flight. I have arquebuses and a cross bow in my
skiff.”

The two doubloons making the men very happy, they quickly land Guy
upon the dyke and depart on their way.

A few minutes after the Englishman, getting to the three lanterns, waves
them.

Continuing this some little time, the splash of oars is heard, and a boat
comes very cautiously through the darkness, feeling its way up to the land,
apparently fearing ambuscade.

“Ahoy!” shouts Guy.

Then he hears Martin Corker cry: “Give way, lads! That’s the captain’s
voice,” and with three or four sturdy strokes the boat glides up to the dyke.

A moment after Chester, pulled by English arms, is driving as fast as oars
can take him towards the Dover Lass. The little ship is difficult to discover,
as she has no lights out; but the boat, giving flash signals, the vessel hangs
up a lantern to show them where to find her.

Upon his deck Chester receives report from his first officer:

“I’m glad you’re here,” says Dalton. “We would have been attacked to-
morrow, I think. I am sure a patrol boat came down the river to see if they
could discover us.”

“We’ll not be attacked to-morrow,” laughs Guy, and taking speaking
trumpet, he gives orders to break ground with the anchor and to hoist the

head sails.

“You’re not going to fight the Spaniards?”

“No, run away to England. I have such an important [110]communication for
my Queen it would be treason if I risked losing it.”

Then, his vessel being handy, and his crew numerous, the Dover Lass is
very quickly under way, driving down the Schelde for the open ocean.

And in the cabin is Guy Stanhope Chester, securing under lock and key the
spoils of this strange trip to Antwerp.

These are: a package of letters in cipher touching the assassination of
Elizabeth of England, and the key by which to read them; a ruby ring that
tells him he has won the love of the Viceroy’s daughter, and two letters in
her handwriting.

“Egad, I’ve done pretty well,” thinks Guy. Then he looks at the miniature he
has carried with him for over three years and mutters: “Marvelous that I at
last should find and win her. Who says romance died with the troubadours?
Egad, I feel like a troubadour myself. Ta-la-la!”—and taking troubadour
step, he suddenly mutters: “Gadzooks! I have also something else,” for the
heavy belt about his waist reminds him of the last thing Doña de Alva has
sent to him.

Inspecting it he finds it is really a strong leather bag, made to buckle on
securely.

Opening it he growls: “Pish!” for it is laden with golden doubloons, but a
moment after pounces on a little packet that he has swept out with the coin.
Then he suddenly laughs: “Egad! She didn’t know I had one of her before,”
for another miniature of his fair Castilian sweetheart greets his devouring
eyes. A little note is folded up with the portrait. It reads:

“Dearest:

“I have taken the liberty of sending you my face to help you remember it. It is not the
living image for you to carry with you; God knows I wish it were. But some day when
Major Guido Amati de Medina becomes a General, I’ll make it the real one—oh God! what
happiness!

“I have taken the liberty of enclosing with this a hundred golden doubloons. The officers in
the Middelburg garrison have not been paid for over a year, and I would wish a gentleman
who is one day to wed the daughter of Alva to live in suitable style, appointment and
equipage. If you hesitate to accept this I shall not think you love me as I want you to. It is
but a little first payment in advance on the dower of

“Your future spouse,
“Hermoine de Alva.”

[111]

“My future spouse she shall be,” cries Guy. Then in that wildness passion
brings to young hearts he puts the two miniatures of the exquisite beauty
who has just signed herself his future wife before him, and chuckles:
“Behold my old love—the unfindable that I have found! See my new
sweetheart, the ungainable, that, by heaven! I will win and wear as my wife,
though she be the daughter of Alva, mine enemy.” [112]

BOOK II.

Twixt Love and War.

[Contents]

CHAPTER IX.

“NO PROVISIONS, NO WATER, BUT PLENTY
OF POWDER!”
On the morning of the second day after this, Chester lands at Sandwich, and
by relays of horses travels as fast as is in man and beast to London.

Arriving at the capital, he learns that his sovereign and her court are at
Hampton, and to his joy discovers from popular tongue that the Queen is
enjoying the best of health. He is in time to prevent any attempt at Borgia
business with the hope of the realm.

For at that time all true Englishmen, Catholics or Protestants, feared that by
some underhand, insidious Italian plot, Elizabeth of England was in some
way to be done to death and the kingdom given to her legitimate successor
to the throne, Mary Queen of Scots, who was a prisoner in Elizabeth’s
hands; one ambitious noble of Catholic faith, the Duke of Norfolk, being
not only anxious to liberate the beautiful Mary and put her on the throne of
England, but also to marry her and reign as Prince Consort. This would
have placed Britain thoroughly under the influence of Philip II., of Spain,
and have opened the way for his pet scheme, the establishing of the
Inquisition in England, with all its horrors of burnings, flayings, and
torturings as practiced in the Netherlands under similar circumstances by
Alva, his Viceroy and lieutenant.

Better Englishman than bigot, Guy Chester, though a moderate Catholic, is
exceedingly anxious for the safety of his Protestant Queen. [113]

All this makes Guy in desperate haste to give her warning of her danger at
the hands of Ridolfi, Alva’s agent in London.

So, taking horse again, though thoroughly tired by his long ride from
Sandwich, the young Englishman finds himself in the early evening at the
palace of Hampton Court. There getting quick audience with Cecil, Lord
Burleigh, he gives him the cipher letters from Vitelli to Ridolfi, and also the
key furnished by Oliver.

Upon Guy’s hastily mentioning the purport of these letters, his lordship,
with a very serious face, says: “You have done a great service to the State.
But I imagine you have been riding all day. I will see that you have supper
and refreshment,” and summoning a lackey, gives order to this effect. “By
the time you have finished making yourself comfortable, I and my under-
secretary will have translated and transcribed these letters for the Queen’s
private eye. These you shall present in person to your sovereign, as is your
right.”

This arrangement is very satisfactory to the young man, who has been in the
saddle twelve hours and has partaken of but hasty refreshment on the road.

So an hour afterward Guy, his body made comfortable with food and his
spirits heightened by wine, accompanies Lord Burleigh, who now holds
England in his grasp, having the favor and confidence of his sovereign, to
Queen Elizabeth’s waiting room, where they are received in rather off-hand
style by Her Majesty of England, who is in great fashion of jeweled
stomacher, above which her white shoulders glitter with necklace of pearls
and diamonds. Very vain, as she has a right to be, as daughter of Anne
Boleyn, the beauty of her father’s court, she stands in kirtle and long train
covered with aglets inlaid with precious stones and high-heeled Spanish
shoes, making a great show of vanity, sprightliness, dignity and domination.
In short, she is good Queen Bess, at her best and bravest—at thirty-five—at
her zenith—before age gets the better of her beauty and her temper.

“My good Burleigh,” she says, “what a hasty man you are. I have but just
received your communication [114]saying time was important, and have
omitted five courses of my supper and sent my tiring women where their

prying ears will not catch private conference. And you, Master Chester, my
robber of the sea, have you discovered another eight hundred thousand
crowns of Alva’s money within my jurisdiction and government?”

“No,” answers Burleigh, as the two bow before her, “Master Chester has
simply discovered a plot of my Lord of Alva against your life. These letters
from Vitelli, his maréchal de camp and confidant to Ridolfi, the Italian
banker of London, prove it.”

“Oho! in cipher,” says the Queen, looking at them.

“Yes, but thanks to Master Chester’s being willing to risk his life for Your
Majesty again, he has obtained the cipher in Antwerp. These letters are now
transcribed into English.”

“Quick—let me see!” And Elizabeth, sitting down and hastily glancing
them through, cries out: “So they would poison me, and put that traitor
Norfolk on the throne as consort to the lady whom I hold in my hand. That
settles Norfolk! He was yesterday condemned for high treason by the Lords.
These letters, my Burleigh, are his death warrant. With the lady I’ll reckon
afterwards, and as for Ridolfi—”

“Orders have already been given to have Ridolfi seized, Your Majesty,”
interjects Burleigh.

“Very well,” replies Elizabeth, “then there is nothing more to do for the
present, though I shall change my cook; except”—here Her Majesty’s eyes
light up—“except to reward this young gentleman whom we have outlawed
for matters of State policy: but then, we love pirates! There is our Francis
Drake, who thinks no more of despoiling a Spaniard and turning in ten per
cent. of his booty than he does of eating and drinking. There’s old John
Hawkins, who’ll steal blackamoors on the coast of Africa to sell them to the
Dons and cut their throats while trading with them—all for the glory of
England! In fact, I think, Burleigh, pirates are my best subjects. But since I

have dismissed my own mummers this evening on your account Master
Chester, I ought to have some compensation. Tell me the tale of your
adventures in the Netherlands.” [115]

This Guy doing, Her Majesty listens with open ears and one or two little
chuckles and slaps with her fan upon Burleigh, though at the mention of
Doña de Alva they give earnest attention, especially at that portion of
Chester’s story which refers to his various interviews with that young lady.
And Guy, getting warmed up to his subject, his eyes brighten once or twice
in mentioning the beauty of the girl.

“Odds bodkins!” cries Elizabeth, as he closes. “This is a story as romantic
as the troubadours tell of Amadis de Gaul saving maidens from giants, as
you did Miss Minx of Alva from the Sea Beggars. Egad, I’m afraid she has
disturbed his loyalty, my Burleigh. When speaking of his Spanish wench,
Master Chester looks at his sovereign of England in a manner that the Lords
might condemn as high treason.”

“Ah, Your Gracious Majesty,” replies Guy, who is courtier as well as pirate,
“if love is high treason, then every young man who gazes upon his
sovereign of England is a traitor.”

His ardent glance emphasizes his speech, which is easy, as Elizabeth is in
the zenith of her beauty—a beauty that is hardly understood now, most of
her portraits having been taken when she was fifty and upward. But as
Chester looks at her she is only thirty-five.

“And I will punish this audacious gallant,” she says, laughing, “though he is
no traitor. Give me your sword, Guy Chester.”

The young man is about to unbuckle the weapon.

“No, naked, as you use it on my enemies!”

Drawing it from the scabbard and sinking on one knee, Guy, a sudden hope
of unexpected glory coming to him, hands it to his sovereign.

“He is of good birth, Burleigh, I hear?”

“Your Majesty,” says Cecil, bowing, “on his mother’s side he has the blood
of Lord Stanhope of Harrington. His father is cousin to the Stanleys and
High Sheriff of Cheshire. His grandfather was belted knight.”

“Then,” says the Queen of England, “he shall be knight also!” And
administers with dainty hand the accolade, saying: “Rise up, Sir Guy
Chester!”

But Sir Guy does not rise before he does homage to [116]the fair hand that
has knighted him so gallantly that Her Majesty gets red in the face, and
cries out: “What new science in hand kissing has this Spanish girl taught
him?”

Next the young man standing before her she tenders him his sword, holding
it by the naked blade, the handle toward his hand, saying: “May you as
belted knight use this as you have before to the terror of the enemies of
England; especially he of Alva—do not spare him for his daughter’s sake.”

“No,” returns Guy, “for every blow I strike against the father brings me
nearer to the daughter.”

“Odd stale fish!” jeers Her Majesty, “what does this new made popinjay of
Chester think to do with the daughter of a prince?”

“To marry her, by God’s will and Your Majesty’s most gracious
permission,” cries Guy, and retires with Lord Burleigh, leaving the Queen
of England in very good humor with her new knight.

But notwithstanding Chester’s information has, perchance, saved the life of
his Queen, Elizabeth, great sovereign as she is, has a strange parsimony in

affairs of State, and though Guy petitions for money to refit his vessel and
pay his crew, it does not come. So, being desperately anxious to get to the
Netherlands again, he uses the hundred doubloons, the present from his
sweetheart, to fit up his vessel against her father, devoting half of them to
the embellishment and ornament of the cabins of the Dover Lass, making
her staterooms so fine in woodwork and appointments that Harry Dalton,
his first lieutenant, ejaculates: “By saucy Poll of Plymouth, one would think
he meant this for a wedding cruise!”

But despite the hundred doubloons Chester soon finds himself without
money sufficient to provision and make his vessel thoroughly effective, and
goes up to London from Sandwich to make a final appeal to his
parsimonious sovereign.

Expecting to do this through Burleigh, who possesses more than any one
the royal ear, and who has always stood his friend, Chester is shown into his
Lordship’s private cabinet one afternoon late in March, to find that
nobleman in a brown study. [117]

“You’re just the man I wish to see, Sir Guy,” he remarks. “Tell me all about
the Gueux, these Sea Beggars of the Netherlands.”

“That, my lord, I can do in very few words,” replies Chester. “They are men
of all classes from Brabant, Flanders, Friesland, Holland—everywhere that
Alva rules, driven by cruelty and persecution to take to the sea, for to live
on the land means execution by fire, with torture additional. They have been
outlawed on account of their resistance to Spanish tyranny. In it are men
high in the councils of the Prince of Orange, who has attempted to regulate
them by granting commissions, one of which I have the honor to hold, and
the medal accompanying it I wear,” and he exhibits his badge of the Gueux
to Lord Burleigh. “In it are all those driven from land to ship, from the
Chevalier Van Tresslong and William de la Mark, the Lord of Lumey to
Dirk Duyvel, whose name proclaims him a free and easy pirate. But why do
you ask me about the Gueux?”

“For this reason. Twenty-five vessels manned by them are now in the
harbor of Dover. They appeal to us for protection, provisions, water. Van
Tresslong, and their admiral, De la Mark, are in London to ask assistance.
We are nominally at peace with Spain and Alva, but I don’t like to refuse
them hospitality.”

“Twenty-five sail—’tis a fleet! You must refuse them hospitality,” returns
Guy.

“Why?”

“Please let me explain this to the Queen. Take me to her; I must have
money for my ship.”

“Which I’m afraid Her Majesty will not grant very readily. She’s had a
dozen new dresses this month—millinery bills in the female mind have the
preference over naval equipment,” laughs Cecil; but orders his carriage.

So the two proceed to Westminster, where the Queen has summoned
Burleigh, to obtain his advice before receiving the envoys of the Gueux.

“Zounds!” cries Her Majesty, “My Lord of Burleigh, I see you have brought
another Gueux with you. Is he their ambassador also?” With this she looks
at Guy frowningly, for the Gueux have bothered Queen Elizabeth’s mind for
the last day or two. They are hungry [118]people, and she does not care
particularly about feeding them; they are thirsty people, and she does not
desire to diminish her exchequer to buy drink for them; but they are
enemies of Alva, and she would like to succor them.

“No, Your Majesty,” replies Guy with sudden inspiration, “I do not appeal
for succor for the Gueux. Don’t give them any!”

“Why not?” asks Queen Elizabeth, who is unaccustomed to being advised
so freely outside of her Privy Council.

“For these reasons: If you give them provisions and drink, they will stay
here, and be your guests and pensioners as long as your hospitality holds
out.”

“Out on the lazy rascals they would eat me out of castle and kingdom,”
grumbles Her Majesty.

“Twenty-five vessels are a fleet. They have left the Netherlands, that leaves
Alva’s hands so much more free to deal with you.”

“Then you would refuse them food?”

“Yes,” replies Guy. “Not a barrel of provisions.”

“But they have no water.”

“Not a barrel of water. Provision them and water their ships, and, though
they be ordered from England, they will not go back to the Netherlands.
The Spanish Main, where booty is thick for bold hands like theirs, will
perchance be more to their liking than Alva’s hard knocks. Give them
nothing but powder and ball. Then they must sail to near-by port. They dare
not go to France, they must go back straight at Alva’s throat, and twenty-
five vessels of them are a power that may change the whole course of
military events. They have been weak before because they were never
banded together. Now there is unity. Give them powder, Your Majesty, give
them powder and ball for him of Alva!”

“Ho! ho! Make ’em fight for their dinners! Gadzooks!” cries Her Majesty.
“My Sir Guy Chester, uses not only his sword, but his head. What say you,
Burleigh?”

“Say?” replies the English statesman, who is great enough and generous
enough to admit the wisdom of [119]another, “I say he has given you the
wisest advice you have ever received. You make the Spanish ambassador
happy by telling him you will refuse admission or succor to the Gueux, and

by doing so you send a thunderbolt straight at Alva and Spain, stronger than
you could unless you waged open war with England’s powers at land and
sea, for which we are not ready—”

“But it will come in good time, my lord,” remarks Elizabeth. Then
summoning a page, she says: “Give order for the two envoys of the Gueux
to enter.”

Then Van Tresslong and De la Mark enter to receive what they think is their
despair, but in time will be their glory.

Her Majesty of England, standing upon a dais, receives very haughtily the
two adventurers, whose doublets are shabby with hard usage, but whose
swords are long, and whose gaunt faces give evidence of poverty and half
rations.

“You are here, gentlemen,” she says, “to petition me—for what?”

“Provisions to keep us from starving,” answers the admiral.

“No provisions!”

“Good heavens! In the name of charity. We had supposed you enemy of
Alva.”

“I am the friend of Alva. No provisions! What else?”

“And water—we have only three days’ water in our vessels. Permit us at
least that which humanity never refused to thirsty sailor—water!”

“No water! Dare to land to take water from running stream or lake and I
make war upon you!”

“And this is a Christian country?”

“Yes, Christian enough to keep its obligations and faith with Spain, a
friendly power. If within twenty-four hours you have not sailed from our
port of Dover our batteries and castle open upon you with bombard and
culverin.”

“And drive us away without water, without food, upon the open ocean?”

“YES!”

“Then, Your Majesty,” says Van Tresslong, “God [120]forgive your
inhumanity. We have given up for our religion, which is yours; for our
country that you have professed to love, everything we have on earth—save
our lives. When the time comes we will give up them also. It must now be
our lives. We must go back to death grip with Alva!”

“Heaven help us,” sighs the admiral. “We have not even powder to fight
with!” and the two, bowing together, retire in despair from the presence of
England’s sovereign.

She makes one step as if to stay them, then cries harshly: “God forgive me!
I shall be called an inhuman woman. I shall dream of these poor, starving
Gueux to-night. But they shall not go back without ball and powder!” With
this she says to Chester: “Has your vessel sailed?”

“No, Your Majesty.”

“Then you shall go also. Here are orders for you to have all the powder,
arms, ball and ammunition you can carry. Take them. Sail from the port of
Sandwich to-night. Meet the Gueux fleet off Dover. Arm them; ammunition
them, give them plenty to fight with.”

“But, Your Majesty,” replies Guy, who now knows he will win what he
wants, “I have no money to pay my crew.”

“Here is an order on my treasury for twenty thousand crowns.” And
Elizabeth, sitting down to write, says suddenly: “But your crew is only one
hundred and twenty-five men. Fifteen thousand crowns will keep your surly
dogs from growling,” and signs order to that effect, next almost tears it up,
muttering: “I think ten thousand will be sufficient.”

“No, Your Majesty, it will not, and the expedition will be cheap at fifteen
thousand crowns, for by it you will set a band of cut-throats on Alva, who,
while they may curse your inhumanity, will fight far better than your belted
knights, for they will be fighting, not for country now, not for religion now,
but for that thing that dominates all men’s souls—existence! Besides, they
do it free of charge!”

“Egad, we have an orator here, Cecil,” laughs Her [121]Majesty. “A regular
sea lawyer. Some day, perchance, he may be—under-secretary of state, eh,
Lord Burleigh?”

“Perchance, Your Majesty. You have had many of them with less brains.”

“And less jabber,” replies Elizabeth, who cannot forget that she has fifteen
thousand crowns less in her treasury. “He talked me out of the money, he
took advantage of my weakness, Lord Burleigh. Take him away from here
before I take the treasury order back. But go after those two poor Gueux
nobles, have them to dinner with you. Show them you have a heart if your
Queen has not.” Then the two go out from the presence of Elizabeth of
England, Guy stepping quite rapidly. He fears Her Majesty may rescind the
draft on her exchequer.

Burleigh accompanies him to the treasury, apparently nervous himself about
this matter. But the money being paid over, he says to Guy: “Her Majesty
said to see these Gueux well armed and well ammunitioned. Will your
vessel carry enough?”

“For a campaign?—No!”

“Then,” says Burleigh, “here is my order, Sir Guy Chester. Take with you
four ships, fill them up with powder, arms and munitions of war, for which I
will give you royal warrant on the Queen’s arsenal at Sandwich, Harwich,
or any other to which you may apply. This is not merely an engagement for
which we send these men, but a war, long and continued, against Alva; for
it is now his head or those of the starving Beggars of the Sea. Here is also
warrant permitting you if satisfactory charter cannot be obtained, to take the
vessels you need for our purpose. But of course all this is private and
privileged between us. England is at peace with Spain. So, God speed you.”

So Guy, going upon his errand with all the expedition he can command,
obtains possession of four large caravals in the port of Sandwich, and loads
them to the gunwale with all the arms and munitions of war he can obtain,
powder enough for many a battle and many a siege, and taking these with
him sails on the morning of the next day through the Downs and lies off and
[122]on between the Goodwin Sands and Coast of France. Here the Gueux,
coming out of Dover, can’t very well miss him, and he is very shortly
overhauled and apparently captured by these desperate gentry of the sea.

“Elizabeth of England would not give you provisions, but here are arms and
ammunition with which to take them from Alva,” Chester laughs, as
Tresslong’s vessel ranges alongside of the Dover Lass.

And understanding this very well, the Gueux loot the four captured vessels
in great style, leaving him of the Dover Lass hardly enough powder to
defend her with, which causes Guy to put very hastily into Dover for
ammunition for himself.

Word of this being brought to Queen Elizabeth she cries out very savagely
to her counsellor, Lord Burleigh: “Gadzooks, man, you have ruined my
kingdom. You’ve robbed my arsenal at Sandwich of munitions sufficient to
defend the realm of England. Thou art a vile traitor!”

“Under favor, my liege,” remarks Cecil, “you said to munition and arm the
Gueux well and thoroughly. I have done so. The more powder I give them,
the more ball I give them, the harder it will be for your friend of Alva.”

“Very well,” answers Her Majesty, “this I forgive you if you gave a good
wholesome dinner and plenty of strong wine to those poor famishing
officers of the Gueux, Van Tresslong and Lord de la Mark.”

“Your Majesty’s orders in that respect were obeyed also,” replies Burleigh.
“They had every delicacy of the season and wine of finest vintage. Oho! I
can see them eat now. No such assault was ever made on provender and
wassail since the time of giant Glutton himself. Your Majesty will know
how they ate by the bill that is already with your treasurer.”

“The bill with my treasurer!” screams Elizabeth. “Out upon you for a
miserable, thieving knave! Burleigh, you’re robbing me; robbing your
sovereign, you vile caitiff traitor—and my gear women and millinery scores
still due and unpaid. Look to your weazened head if the Gueux win not
victory over Alva!”

And with these words the Queen of England strides from the room in anger
and dismay. [123]

[Contents]

CHAPTER X.

THE SECRET OF THE STATUE.
This matter of ammunition delays Guy in England several days. But the
fleet little Dover Lass soon makes the trip to the Netherlands, carrying
every inch of canvas she can show, and early in April Chester finds himself
once more off the mouth of the Schelde, and sighting the town of Flushing
is astounded but delighted to see the yellow, white and blue flag of Orange
floating over the place.

“Zounds!” he cries to his first lieutenant, “the Gueux have landed and taken
Flushing! There are two vessels sailing in with the flag of Orange at their
peaks. Overhaul them and get me the news, Dalton.”

In the course of half an hour the Dover Lass comes alongside the vessels
that are commanded by Captain De Ryk of Amsterdam. From him he learns
that the Gueux have not only taken Flushing, but have taken Briel, a
strongly fortified town upon the island of Voorne, where the Rhine estuary
reaches the German ocean. Their success has been the spark to illuminate
the patriotism of Holland and the Netherlands. Town after town is declaring
for the Prince of Orange as the Staatholder of Philip Second, and against
Alva, for curiously enough, such was the respect with which royalty was
regarded at that time that Orange still announced himself as the vassal of
the Spanish crown, though fighting against its sovereign with all his might
of arm and strength of brain.

Curiously enough also the two vessels of De Ryk, having left England
somewhat later than the rest of the Gueux, have on board five hundred stout
English volunteers, who greet Guy with shouts of Saxon welcome. For
Burleigh, pondering upon Elizabeth’s remarks, is anxious for his weazened
head, and is now giving every aid in his power to this raid of the Beggars of
the Sea.

So the Dover Lass and the two Gueux ships are wafted by light breezes
toward Flushing quay. Just as they make landing there, a great commotion
arises in the town. Some quarter of an hour before this they have noted a
small pinnace with single mast and lateen [124]sail headed from the south,
Antwerp-way, pass to the dock before them. From this three gentlemen in
very fine clothes and with Spanish appearance have landed laughingly, and
strolled up into the town.

Even as De Ryk and Chester step upon the quay, these three come running
hurriedly from out the center of the place toward the dock, pursued by such
a motley mob as quiet Flushing never saw before. It is as if two hundred
priests and nuns, drunk with blood, were after them, for all these monks and
nuns are brawny pirates, some having hassocks and cowls upon them,
others wearing the robes of nuns. Their leader, fierce Dirk Duyvel himself,
is habited as lady abbess, and all are armed to the teeth with pistol and pike
or sword and arquebus.

“Down with the murderous Spanish!” cry some. “Hang them up on high,
quick!” yell others. “Into the sea with Alva’s butchers!” is the shout of the
rest, all this larded with fearful imprecations and terrible Dutch oaths.

Seeing their retreat to their boat cut off by De Ryk’s men, the leader of
these three Spaniards comes speeding ahead of his foremost pursuers, and
bowing before De Ryk takes off from his finger a gaudy signet ring, and
presenting it to the Gueux captain, pants: “I—I surrender to you. I—I did
not know this town was in possession of the—the rebels. By this ring guard
me from sudden death. I am noble. I can pay a large ransom. I am Alva’s
engineer.” He says this anxiously and breathlessly, for the crowd are upon
him.

Guy now recognizes him with astonishment, as Paciotto, Alva’s great
military engineer, whom he had seen at the Captain General’s side in
Antwerp.

“You know me?” Paciotto gasps.

“Too well!” cries the throng, who now have hands on him.

“Too well!” mutters De Ryk, “But I’ll save you from immediate
damnation,” and he and Guy and one or two of his officers with drawn
swords protect these three men, who in another minute would have been
hacked to pieces by the Beggars of the Sea. For these sea rovers, having
drunk victory at the Briel, are now drunk with blood also, having requited
in kind upon the [125]Spaniard some of the butcheries of the last five years
—one or two of the most ferocious eating Castilian heart with gusto and
drinking Italian blood con amore. Every one of them has some butchered
brother or murdered father or outraged wife to make him as inhuman as his
foes. What chance has any officer of Alva’s with such a mob? Guy soon
finds Paciotto has not even choice of his manner of death.

While De Ryk and he save the Italian from immediate violence a number of
the Gueux have boarded the little Spanish sloop in which he came and
butchered the hapless crew with wild shouts of joy and triumph.

A moment after the Italian is dragged to the Raadhuis where Van Tresslong,
who commands, is in consultation with the Burgomaster, “Schout” and
other officials of the town; most of his captains being with him.

“By our martyrs,” cries the Dutch vice-admiral, “this day is fortunate. Here
is one of Alva’s very pets right in our hands—a court-martial for the Italian
gentleman!”

“I beg for law of war, William de Blois, Lord of Tresslong,” says Paciotto,
quite haughtily, though hope has left his face.

“The same law of war that Alva gave to my murdered brother, when he
executed him with seventeen other nobles in the Brussels horse market,”
answers the Fleming.

“Yes, justice and mercy,” jeers one of his captains. “The same justice that
Alva gave to my father when he cried for quarter at Jemmingen. The same
mercy that De Bossu, but two days since, gave at Rotterdam.”

“With such judges I am condemned beforehand,” sighs the Italian, as Van
Tresslong and his officers take seats about a drum head.

Then as the court is being sworn the Dutch Vice-Admiral, who has a long
head, remarks: “We must make the Burgomaster one of our court. That will
nail him to our cause. He will hold Flushing, as he values his own head,
against Alva.”

So the Burgomaster, nolens volens, is made a member of the court, and
Paciotto is put upon trial for his life.

“Of what do you accuse me?” asks the unfortunate [126]officer. “Of being a
loyal subject of your king, Philip of Spain? Of that I plead guilty.”

“Bah!” replies Van Tresslong, “you’re the pet and confidant of Alva, who
butchers us. That’s why we’ll have your life. Also, with your Italian
engineering art you built for him his stronghold, the citadel of Antwerp.”

“If that deserves death, then execute me,” murmurs the Italian, “but I pray
you with the sword.”

“Hold!” cries Guy, who has English sympathy with the under animal in the
fight, “As your military counsel I will defend you in this court.”

“Do not waste your words for me, señor,” says the Italian sadly. “These
Flemish dogs are licking their chops already for my blood.”

But Guy, unheeding this, goes to pleading for this unfortunate officer of
Spain, using at times, in his impulsive way, a vehement eloquence that is so
uncomplimentary to Paciotto’s accusers that did the Englishman not wear
the Gueux medal himself, and, above all, were he not the man who had

given to their hands the four ships loaded with powder and ammunition, Sir
Guy Chester himself might not have come scathless from out this council of
the Beggars of the Sea.

In spite of Chester’s imprecations and implorings the Gueux officers make
very short work of the affair, and in less than five minutes by the ticking
Dutch clock that stands facing them in the hall, they condemn the Italian
engineer not to death with the sword, but to the dog’s death—by the noose.

And sentence being given, the Italian cries suddenly: “How long is it since
Flushing has been in danger of falling into your hands?”

“About three days,” says a Gueux captain. “But what does that matter to
you, who are to die in three minutes?”

At this Paciotto, smiting his hands together and his eyes flashing with anger
even above their despair, utters these astounding words:

“My God! Sacrificed. Holy Virgin! Killed for my secret!” And suddenly
whispers to Guy: “You are the First of the English?”

“Yes.” [127]

“Ask the Dutch officers that I may have ten minutes in which to make my
peace with God, alone with you, who, from the rosary you wear upon your
neck, must be of my faith.”

This appeal is answered by Van Tresslong with a surly “Yes!”

Whereupon Paciotto, his hands even now bound with the ligatures of
execution, is thrust into a little adjoining room from which there is no
escape, and into which, moved by the Italian’s pleading eyes, and,
perchance, prompted by some latent curiosity, Chester follows him.

“Close the door,” the Italian whispers. Then he bursts out still under his
breath: “You are the only one who has been my friend in this my last hour
on earth. Behold my reward! I can give you a fighting chance to become
one of the magnates of this earth.”

“How?”

But the Italian scarcely answers this, muttering: “Sacrificed! The shadow of
death is over me—put there by him of Alva, who never spares what it is his
interest to destroy. This town threatened—for three days! He knew of this
outbreak of the Gueux—that Flushing would be a place of extreme danger,
and sent me here ostensibly to complete the fortifications, but really that his
secret should pass away—with my life. For I am the only man in the
Netherlands who knows it.” Then he breaks out suddenly, whispering
hoarsely: “You, I am told, are one who cares as nothing for his life. Would
you, for enormous wealth, avenge me of my enemy, though at a desperate
risk?”

“For enormous wealth I would risk my life—nay, almost my soul,” gasps
Guy, whose great thought, since he has won the love of Viceroy’s daughter,
has been to gain station, power and gold enough to give her Viceroy’s state
and pomp.

“Then, First of the English, you are the man fitted for my post-mortem
reckoning with Alva. The man who dared to visit Antwerp; I remember you
there—looking straight in the Viceroy’s face—his proclamation for your
head posted on the wall above you. You are the man to give me vengeance.
Listen to the secret of Alva’s statue.” [128]

“Alva’s statue!” cries Guy, recollection of Oliver’s words coming to him.

“Hush! Don’t interrupt me. My time is very short. This great statue the
Duke has erected to his honor is partly for another purpose! To protect the

treasure he has gathered from his tenth penny tax, that he means to transport
to Spain for his own use, honor and profit. The pedestal—”

“Ah, I remember. The pedestal of unusual size—it contains the booty of the
Netherlands,” whispers Chester.

“Bah! No, Alva is too astute for that. The statue and its pedestal contain
nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“And yet,” says the Italian, “the statue is the guardian of Alva’s treasure.”

“How?”

“Hearken. While altering and rebuilding the Citadel of Antwerp, I, as chief
engineer, discovered an old vaulted way made for purposes of sally. It ran
from the great Bastion of the Duke under the moat to a place of egress in
the city itself, a house just beyond the Esplanade. Under secret instructions
from the Captain-General, I excavated at the Citadel end of this passage in
the solid rock thirty feet under ground a chamber. This chamber holds the
treasures of Alva. The earth and solid masonry of the great bastion of the
Duke are heaped upon it. It would take weeks of labor to dig down from the
Citadel to obtain it, and explosives enough to blow up the bastion.
Therefore it cannot be reached from the Citadel. But from the town it is
accessible, though impossible to one not knowing its secret, for it has been
guarded by every art the mechanism of Giovanni Alfriedo, an ingenious
Italian imported from Venice, could give to its defense. Yet it is easy and
quick of access to those who have the secret, and I am the only man save
Alva that knows it now—Giovanni himself being slain by pirates on his
return voyage to Venice, perchance by order and design.”

“Thy time is up!” shouts Van Tresslong, thundering on the door.

“Ten minutes more for the soul of a dying man,” murmurs Paciotto. [129]

“Yes, time that he may die in his church,” cries Guy, desperate now for
Alva’s secret.

So a few minutes more are given to them, not for mercy, but to find a
hangman. For the town executioner is absent at Middelburg and word of
this being now brought to Van Tresslong he raises his voice in the crowd in
front of the town hall, proclaiming largess for a hangman.

But none wish to undertake this degrading office—save one man, who
being told Paciotto is a Spaniard, cries: “I’ll do the job, I’ll hang the
Spanish forever! Only I must have liberty to attack and kill anyone who
scorns me for having been a Spaniard’s hangman,” and makes his
preparations with noose and ladder.

While they are finding executioner for him, Paciotto rapidly whispers in
Guy’s ear: “The entrance to the passage is from a house now occupied by
an old deaf and dumb woman, Señora Sebastian. She knows nothing about
it, the place having been rented to her at little stipend after the work had
been completed. You take up four stones in the center of the cellar and it
shows you the passageway. But this vaulted gallery at two places before
you come to the moat, and one right under the fosse itself, is guarded by
iron doors of strength sufficient to resist anything but barrels of gunpowder.
Each of these doors is opened by ingenious locks. According to the device
of this skilled mechanic, each of these locks requires three peculiar keys
that must be used in a certain varying order. Employed outside of this
rotation the locks will yield no vantage to the keys. Any attempt to blow
down the iron gates with powder would destroy the passageway itself, and
let the Schelde in upon and drown you.”

“But what has the statue to do with this?” whispers Guy.

“Ah! that is Alva’s cunning joke upon his turbulent soldiery. By the Captain
General’s mystery in regard to it half the mercenaries of his Antwerp
garrison swear that the statue itself is the storehouse of Alva’s gold. This is

by his design. He does not fear the citizens taking his treasure, but that his
own soldiers, unpaid for years, may break into open mutiny. The first thing
they would seize would be the booty of their commander. [130]Therefore the
first thing they would break into for his gold would be the pedestal of his
statue. That done, the vaulted passageway from the town would be
impassable to anything save fish, for the statue is so contrived that if
disturbed on its base a sluice gate is opened and the waters of the moat
flood the only path to Alva’s treasure. After that, even if they discovered the
true hiding place of his gold, it would be a month before the mercenaries
could obtain it by mining and blowing up the Bastion of the Duke. Within
that month the mutiny would certainly be put down and the treasure saved.”

“But the keys?” whispers Guy impatiently, for the rising murmurs of the
crowd outside shows him time is precious.

“I have here—open my doublet and cut away the lining,” whispers Paciotto,
“for my hands are bound—drafts of each key with its number, from which
you can have them made, besides an account of how they should be used;
also a drawing of the excavation leading to the treasure of the Duke. Give
me vengeance on him—you mean to try, I can see it in your face—if you
succeed, a rare surprise for him of Alva. How he will rave when in his
empty treasure house he finds no plunder. All his tenth penny tax gone; the
thing for which he has imperilled his favor with the king, the thing for
which he has crushed these Netherlands to the earth. No gold for Alva—no
gold—ho! ho!—ha! ha!—he! he!” and bursts into hideous despairing
chuckle—his last laugh on earth.

Even as Guy takes from him a small package carefully sealed up in
parchment cover, the door is thrown open, and Tresslong, De Ryk, and the
Gueux officers enter.

“It is time the gallows should bear its fruit!” cries the admiral.

“And you have no mercy?” says the Italian.

“None to the confidant of Alva. We give you your master’s mercy!”

Then they seize him and drag him out, he desperately crying: “Give me the
death of a gentleman—not the gallows, but the sword. I am as noble as
Egmont and [131]Horn—I will have death by the sword, the noble’s death.”

But this mention of Egmont and Horn, the two murdered chiefs of the
Netherland nobility, produces rage not consideration, and Paciotto is forced
out on to the square facing the town hall. Here he looks up at the ladder
standing against the gallows, upon which already the two officers who had
accompanied him dangle; then putting despairing eyes on Chester,
murmurs: “Remember, avenge me!”

So, in the midst of all that laughing, jeering gang of Beggars of the Sea,
some gazing at him from the crowded square, others for better view
climbing the riggings of their ships, that are but half a hundred yards away,
most of them habited as monks and nuns, in fantastic garments, the spoil of
the nunnery at Briel, Pedro Paciotto, engineer and man of science, gallant
and man of war, steps up the ladder, a crucifix upon his lips, and though he
is hung like a dog, dies like a gentleman and a Catholic.

But Guy scarce sees the convulsed limbs and dying agony. His eyes have
before them only the heaping gold of Alva, the taxes of the Netherlands, the
mighty treasures of the father that he will make his daughter’s wedding
dower.

[Contents]

CHAPTER XI.

MAJOR GUIDO AMATI HAS A SPREE.
Chester is not the man to long for Alva’s treasure without desperate and
immediate efforts to get them. He is soon on board the Dover Lass, and,
locking himself in his cabin, makes examination of the packet he has taken
from the doublet of Paciotto, who is now hanging, food for the crows, in the
market-place of Flushing.

On carefully opening the parchment wrapping he discovers [132]drawings of
three large keys to their exact size and dimensions, numbered, respectively,
one, two and three. Beneath directions for their use:

“For first door use in succession keys numbers one, two and three.

“For second door, keys numbered three, two and one.

“For third door, key number two, then number one, then number three.

“Use exactly in the order noted. Any change in this rotation may injure locks.”

Besides this there is a sketch showing the direction and length of the
passage under the Citadel, also where the sluice gate connected with the
statue of Alva opens into the vaulted passage, and how that can be made
immovable so that even if the statue is destroyed the waters of the Schelde
will not enter the passageway to drown those at work upon the doors.

These drawings and directions are upon the finest and lightest Italian paper,
so as to be of very small bulk and easy of concealment.

Of these he makes an exact and careful copy, this he deposits in his strong
box in the cabin of the Dover Lass. The original he carefully secures upon
his person.

Then the Englishman goes to meditating. To gain this treasure it is evident
that he must not only go to Antwerp for a sufficient time to have the keys
manufactured by some skilled locksmith, but also have with him a vessel
and crew, capable of conveying away the booty after he has obtained it. To
visit Antwerp alone is an achievement of the greatest danger. To take with
him any portion of his crew with a vessel and lie off the docks seems to him
impossible.

But finally, after turning over the enterprise in his mind again and again (for
he will not even trust the secret to Dalton, his first officer, who he knows is
true as steel), the following simple yet ingenious plan comes to him: He
will take the Dover Lass and with her capture Spanish merchantmen until
he finds one the captain of which has never been in Antwerp, though
consigned to merchants in that place. Having taken possession of this vessel
he will dispose of the captain and crew so that they will never come to light
again. He himself will assume, under disguise, the name and [133]post of the
captain of the vessel. He will take, carefully selected from his crew, such
men as most resemble Spanish and Flemish tars, and sail the vessel
deliberately up to Antwerp, using his papers and clearings from the Spanish
port, and deliver his cargo to the consignee of the vessel as if he were the
very captain whose place he has assumed. While discharging his cargo he
can probably (with the assistance of Antony Oliver, if he can but find him in
the place) obtain possession of the treasure of the Duke, load his vessel with
it, taking cargo in the meantime as regular trader for any port to which he
may be consigned or chartered by Antwerp merchants.

Then, when once more on the open sea, he will sail to England and land his
treasure with the same impunity that Drake and Hawkins and other English
freebooters carry in their captured ingots from the Spanish main. In fact, he
will assert Alva’s gold came from a captured galleon and pay Elizabeth her
ten per cent. upon the same, the usual impost on such plunder.

One hour after making these resolutions the Dover Lass is under way for
the open ocean, and in the next few days his fleet little vessel overhauls and
captures two or three vessels consigned to Antwerp. But none of these are
exactly fitted for his purpose. Their captains he finds by close questioning
and overhauling their logs have been in Antwerp before and are known
there, or some of their crew have relatives or friends about the place, or
there is something in their charters that make them unsuitable.

Therefore he sends these in and sells them for what they will bring, cargoes
and ships, in the town of Flushing, which is now safe in the hands of the
Prince of Orange, whose banner many more towns and cities in the
Netherlands are hoisting at this time, some to their undoing and the
butchery of their inhabitants—men, women and children.

The money received for these forced sales of stolen goods is hardly a tenth
of their value, for coin is very scarce in the Netherlands under Alva’s tenth
penny tax, though it gives Chester a sufficiency to do what he wishes in
Antwerp.

All this business takes time, and it is nearly a month [134]after he has
possessed himself of Paciotto’s secret that Guy Chester overhauls and
captures the caravel Esperanza, commanded by one Andrea Blanco, whose
log shows she has never been in Antwerp, having been employed chiefly in
the West Indies. This Captain Blanco he finds by deft questionings, fearful
threats, and a guess at his patois, comes from Hispaniola—in fact, the
whole crew have never been in Flemish waters before.

The vessel is the one for his purpose, being a strong barque of something
over three hundred tons, and Guy notes rather a fast sailor, though not to be
compared with the Dover Lass, and is armed, having seven demi-culverins
on each broadside. In fact, she has made some little show of resistance to
the Dover Lass, which in these desperate times would generally have
insured the butchery of the crew, especially as it is now to their captors’

interests to put them where they will never tell any tales upon the Antwerp
docks.

Against his judgment, Chester cannot bring himself to in cold blood destroy
them.

Therefore, summoning Dalton to him, he says curtly to his chief officer: “It
is necessary that I in person take our prize, the Esperanza, act as her
captain, and with thirty of my men sail her to Antwerp.”

“Going to Antwerp!” growls his lieutenant bluntly. “Going to the devil! And
who’ll go with you into Alva’s very jaws?”

“You would, if I asked you, Dalton,” answers his commander. “Call up the
crew.”

And these coming aft to the mainmast, Chester looks over his hundred and
twenty-five “Dover Lasses,” devil-may-care’s, from cook and cabin boy up,
and says to them without palaver: “Now, my men, I’ve got the best job on
hand we ever had—more plunder in it. To do it I must take thirty of you and
sail our prize to Antwerp. If we don’t succeed you know what Alva will do
with us. It’ll be fire, not water. If I win, it’ll be twenty doubloons to every
man of the crew of the Dover Lass, and two hundred to you, Dalton, and the
other officers in proportion. But every man of the Esperanza’s crew gets
twenty doubloons extra for his risk, and it is a desperate one—therefore I
ask for volunteers. [135]All willing to go with me to the devil step onto the
quarter-deck.”

Then every man jack of his crew with a rush is around him on the quarter-
deck, Dalton crying: “For God’s sake, take me with you, captain. I won’t let
you go alone.”

But Chester says: “It is necessary that you take charge of the Dover Lass,”
and selects those to go with him very carefully, picking out such men as

will appear most like sailors of a trading ship, and being fortunate in finding
twenty-seven of them who speak Spanish, having picked up more or less of
the language about the West Indies and Mediterranean.

Therefore he only takes twenty-seven, headed by Martin Corker, who
growls that he has cut enough Spanish throats to have picked up the lingo.

The preparations being finished, Chester takes his first lieutenant into his
cabin and speaks very seriously: “These are my orders. Iron every man of
the Spanish crew who are in the hold of the Dover Lass with double
manacles, leg and wrist. Take no chance of their escaping. Make your trip
with all despatch, and land them upon the west coast of Ireland.”

“What! among those murdering barbarians? I’ll have to be careful that we
don’t get our own throats cut,” says Dalton. For at that time the west coast
of Ireland was an Ultima Thule regarded with horror by all Jack tars, no
wrecked sailor ever returning from it.

“Rendezvous,” he adds to Dalton, “at Flushing as soon as you have done
your errand. Wait for me there.”

“But if you don’t return?”

“Then you’ll be captain of the Dover Lass. I shall come back, though. But
don’t as you value my life, and the lives of those poor devils with me, let
any of this Spanish crew, the captain least of all, get out of your hands, until
you have consigned them to the O’Brien’s, O’Toole’s, or some wild
murdering Irish chief, who’ll enslave them, and from whose savage
clutches there will be as little hope of escape as blackamoors stolen from
Africa have in the Indies!”

“Trust me for that. No garlic-eating Don of them ever sees his mother
again. If there’s a chance of a [136]Spanish man-of-war catching me—over
they go,” says Dalton, his gesture is very suggestive.

Then the Dover Lass shapes her course for the Hebrides, taking the northern
route to Ireland to avoid any chance of encountering Spanish armed vessels.

While Sir Guy Chester, disguised as Captain Andrea Blanco, with his
twenty-seven volunteers, all made as unlike English sailors as possible,
upon the good ship Esperanza, and floating the flag of Spain, with Martin
Corker at the helm, sails for the Schelde estuary.

Arriving there in early morning, he gets past Flushing by the narrowest
squeak, being desperately pursued by some of his brother Beggars of the
Sea, and early in the afternoon makes the Fort of Lillo. Here he finds three
Spanish war galleys and great activity, and being boarded by a Spanish
patrol boat he shows his charter papers and consignment to the firm of
Jacobszoon & Olins, who do business on Wool street just off the English
quay, Antwerp.

These being satisfactory, taking advantage of the tide, late on a bright May
day, the setting sun gilding the beautiful tower of the church of Our Dear
Lady, Chester drops anchor off the city front, and again passing
satisfactorily the custom officials, takes his consignment papers and charter
to the house of Jacobszoon & Olins.

“Hoezee! You escaped those plundering Gueux, my worthy Captain
Blanco,” cries the senior partner Jacobszoon, a florid, paunchy individual.

Jan Olins, a man of clean cut face and precise manner, remarks: “You must
have handled your vessel very well. If the government doesn’t put down
these Dutch freebooters, good bye to the commerce of Antwerp.”

Then the two invite their successful captain to supper. “Come with us,” says
Jacobszoon, “it will be my night away from home. We’ll have a friendly
bottle at the Painted Inn.”

But Guy is not anxious to visit the Painted Inn, being exceedingly eager to
put eyes upon Antony Oliver, and excuses himself on the plea that he must
return to his vessel.

“Ah, you’ll sleep on board?” says the junior partner. [137]

“Probably,” replies the captain, “until I have my vessel alongside the quay.”

“Well, the Tower of the Angels is a very good inn not far from here,”
suggests Jacobszoon. “It will also be convenient to your ship.”

“Thank you, I’ll remember it,” and getting away from the two gentlemen
who seem to be greatly delighted at the arrival of their ship and are inclined
to be effusive in their hospitality, Chester in the course of a few minutes’
stroll up Wool street, finds himself before the painted pole of the barber
surgeon.

The night is dark, there is no lamp in the hall, and he is not recognized by
the little blood-letter, who lets him in. So going up the three flights of stairs,
he finds with unexpected joy that Antony Oliver opens the door in answer
to his knock.

To his further delight Guy is himself unrecognized even by the painter’s
sharp eyes. Antony has been working at his altar piece. The setting sun
comes in upon and halos the glorious face and divine eyes of Hermoine de
Alva. With lover’s rapture the Englishman strides toward the canvas. To
Oliver’s quick and anxious remark: “What is your business?” he answers
nothing, being rapt in contemplation of his sweetheart!

“Your business, señor?”

“Oh—ah! yes! Have you had any pigeon pie lately?” whispers Chester,
waking up.

“Morbleu!” ejaculates the Flemish artist. “Captain—no Major Guido
Amati!”

“Not this trip,” says the other shortly, closing the door, “but one Andrea
Blanco, captain of the Spanish galleon Esperanza, with hides, tallow and
Spanish wine, consigned to Jacobszoon & Olins, and discharging her cargo
at the English quay.”

“But still, my Guido,” whispers the painter, and the impulsive Franco-
Fleming throws his arms round Guy’s neck and imprints two tender kisses,
one on each cheek.

“Is your infernal boy here?” mutters the Englishman savagely, who does not
care for this kind of salute.

“Oh, I’ve dismissed Achille for the day. He is down stairs with his family,”
says Oliver. “But what brings you here? Mademoiselle Hermoine?” [138]

“She is here—in Antwerp?” cries Guy excitedly, his heart beating wildly
and a lover’s joy in his eye.

“No, fortunately she is in Brussels.”

“Fortunately?”

“Yes, because I can see you would take desperate chances to have an
interview with her, and with five thousand crowns on your head.”

“Five thousand?”

“Yes—you’ve gone up in the market lately. Alva has heard how you sent
the Gueux against him laden with powder and ball to fight for their
breakfasts. No provisions, no water, but plenty of powder, eh? That was a
glorious stroke. But Queen Elizabeth has disowned you once more, and
Alva has proclaimed that your caput is worth five thousand crowns.

Parbleu! how he hates you now. If he only knew”—and the painter bursts
into laughter, then says very seriously: “What makes you take this awful
risk again, my Guido?”

“Bar the door and listen,” whispers the English captain. This being done, he
says under his voice: “On my last visit here I won the love of Alva’s
daughter. On this visit I shall win all Alva’s tenth penny gold.”

“Diable! you’re crazy!”

“Harken to my story and see if I am,” and sitting down Chester tells his
strange tale of Paciotto’s revelation and post-mortem vengeance upon the
dictator of the Netherlands.

This wondrous story is listened to with exclamations of astonishment. As he
closes Guy exhibits the drawings of the keys and tracings of the
subterranean passage under the bastion, saying: “Now, do you believe?”

“Yes,” replies the painter slowly, “I do! Alva has made the troops think the
pedestal of his statue is his treasure house. Alva did know that Flushing
would be captured three days before it fell. Therefore he must have sent
Paciotto there with design. I believe you.”

“Then,” says Guy, “take a third of Alva’s gold and help me get it.”

“With all my soul!” answers Oliver enthusiastically. “My share shall be
devoted not to myself, but to my country. I’ll make war upon Alva with his
own tenth penny tax. But you’re hungry.”

“No, I dined on board ship.” [139]

“Oho! a lover’s appetite.”

“Yes. How is she? You have been in Brussels—how is she?”

“Yes, I returned from there but two days ago,” replies the painter, sighing.
“I wanted to have a last go at my altar piece before I ran away to the war.”

“You’re going to fight?”

“I must. With all the Netherlands rising up in arms, could I keep from the
field? Besides, the hand is getting closer to me. Soon I shall have to fly.
Nom de Dieu! that last was a narrow squeak,” continues Oliver, “the day the
news came of the taking of Briel by the Sea Beggars.”

“How? Were you in danger?”

“Judge for yourself. You know this tax is crushing everybody. The bakers
will not bake, the butchers will not slaughter, the people will not trade. Now
this did not please His Highness of Alva, so he sent for the hangman and
told him to make eighteen nooses and some twelve foot ladders and take his
orders from Don Frederico to hang in front of his own door each of the
eighteen principal bakers of Brussels, as a warning to their fellows to go to
baking at once. That very night the news of the taking of Briel came and
saved them, for the capital got excited over it and Alva having other matters
to attend to forgot the bakers. In the morning I was sent for suddenly.
‘Oliver,’ says His Highness, ‘Find me the fellow who manufactured that.’
And he poked under my nose a caricature of himself looking eagerly about
for his spectacles, and written underneath:

“ ‘On April Fools’ Day,
Duke Alva’s Briel was stolen away.’

“Briel you know is the Flemish for spectacles. ‘This horrible and audacious
caricature’ went on His Highness ‘was found placarded near my palace.
Find me the villain painter of it.’ ‘How can I, your Highness?’ I gasped.
‘You can better than any man. You’re an artist’ snarled the Duke. ‘Hang me
if the fellow’s style of drawing isn’t something like yours. He must have
studied under the same master. Find me the seditious dauber!’ So I went

away, but my [140]knees shook—for I was the painter! But I can’t stand this
dangling over boiling oil any longer, and I’m going to fight—and die
perchance; but like a man with a sword in my hand, not like a criminal on
the rack.”

“And Doña Hermoine,” interjects Guy, “how did it affect her?”

“What affect her?”

“The news of the taking of Briel.”

“I don’t believe she thought of it at all. Routs and fêtes occupy that young
lady’s time,” replies the artist “not politics. Besides, she has an ardent
admirer in General Noircarmes—”

“’S’death!—has she forgotten me?” mutters the Englishman.

“No I think it is because she remembers you.”

“How?”

“Well, for the first two weeks after you went away she was joy itself; no
face so radiant, no eyes as brilliant, no wit as flashing, in the whole of
Alva’s court, and there are many beautiful women in Brussels. And then—”

“Well, what then?”

“Then she grew sad, and for a month or so had a very hard time of it.”

“What caused her grief? Do you know?”

“Yes, I can guess.”

“What?”

“You!”

“I!”

“Yes. Word came from Middelburg that you had been behaving very badly,
my boy,” says Oliver, with a little chuckle.

“I—badly?”

“Very badly!” guffaws Oliver. “The report was that on receipt of his
commission Major Guido Amati went on a most prolonged and excessively
hilarious debauch of joy.”

“Good heavens! The infernal villain!”

“He is,” assents Oliver. “It is said Major Guido Amati has the very
handsomest mistress in Middelburg.”

“Oh, God of heaven—a mistress!” shudders Guy. [141]

“Parbleu! How moral you seem to have got,” jeers Antony.

“He’ll—he’ll ruin me! What an ingrate villain she’ll think me! Damnation!
to have my reputation hang upon this drinking debauchee,” falters Guy.
Then he cries out: “What shall I do? Advise me, Oliver. I must go to
Middelburg and meet him hand to hand; I must kill this fellow before he
ruins my every hope of happiness on earth.”

“Don’t,” chuckles Oliver, “for if you kill Major Guido Amati, Hermoine de
Alva will go in to mourning.”

“Mourning for him?”

“No, for you. If I am not mistaken she loves you very deeply. But your
conduct, my dear boy, has given her great unhappiness.” Then in spite of
himself the painter bursts into a laugh and jeers: “Diable, I see you doing

penance for Major Guido Amati’s sins at the feet of your lady love! But
come to supper.”

“I can’t eat. Don’t laugh at me.”

“Oh yes you can. If fair Hermoine didn’t have spasms of rage and despair
each time she thinks Major Guido Amati is a very wild, reckless fellow,
then it would be time to lose your appetite. When Doña Hermoine de Alva
ceases to care for what Major Guido Amati does, then let Guy Chester
despair.”

“On this view of the case I’ll go to supper with you,” answers Guy heartily.

And the two go off, not to one of the great inns of Antwerp this time, but to
the near-by Tower of the Angels, where they get a fearful meal, though
Chester seems to have an appetite now—even for its unsavory cuisine and
sour wine.

Coming back from this they fall to discussing the immediate business of
Guy’s visit to this city of his enemies, and decide upon the following plan:
Chester is to go to work unloading his vessel in sailor style. Oliver, from his
knowledge of the town, is to make the necessary investigations and have the
keys manufactured.

“It wouldn’t be safe,” he says, “to have them all made by one locksmith. I’ll
make a copy of this drawing, placing the draft for each key on a separate
piece [142]of paper. You keep the originals. I’ll leave a draft of key number
one with a mechanic that I know, the drawing of number two with a
locksmith in another part of the city. In fact, I’d better have the other two
keys made in other towns, as their guilds bring workmen together and word
might get about of our orders, for these keys are very curious in their
design, and will cost a good deal of money.”

“As to that,” says Guy, “I’ve got plenty for the business.”

So it is finally settled that one key is to be made at Antwerp, one at the near-
by town of Malines, and the other in the capital itself. Antony is also to
investigate the house near the Esplanade and see if it is as described and
kept by the old deaf and dumb Spanish woman. “I must go at once to
Brussels to have the key made, leaving one on the route at Malines,” says
Oliver.

“Let me take the journey,” suggests Guy very eagerly. “You have work to
do here.”

“And haven’t you—unloading your ship. Besides,” replies Antony, “it isn’t
to have the key made that you want to go to Brussels. It is to get word with
Hermoine de Alva.” Then he goes on, sternly, “No matter what she may do,
no matter what she may think, keep away from her for God’s sake, until this
business is settled. Suspicion upon you now would ruin everything. Forget
you are Major Guido Amati de Medina, a dashing soldier and lover of the
Viceroy’s daughter; remember you are only Andrea Blanco, a common
merchant captain, who cares but for grog and charter money; get to
unloading your vessel to-morrow morning.”

“Very well,” mutters Guy, the painter’s advice being sound but unpalatable.
“I’ll get on board at once.”

“You can’t. You’ve got to stay with me to-night. The gates are closed and
you have no young lady to give you the word of the night or offer you a
government barge to take you safely out of Antwerp!” laughs Oliver, then
continues more seriously: “Tête Dieu! that was a narrow squeeze. They had
report you were here. Nothing on earth but Alva’s daughter could have
saved you. Remember that Hermoine de [143]Alva that night kept you and
perhaps me from the faggot or the cord. And now five thousand crowns on
your head,” the artist sighs.

Notwithstanding this gloomy suggestion, these two young men, so
accustomed to danger, have a very pleasant night over a bottle of wine in

the painter’s studio, discussing Antony’s altar piece, which is quite near
completion, the beautiful eyes of Hermoine de Alva gazing from the canvas
upon her English sweetheart, as if welcoming him once more, not to the city
of his enemies—but to the city of his love.

[Contents]

CHAPTER XII.

“GET YOUR DAUGHTER OUT OF ANTWERP.”
The next morning each sets about the business he has given himself.

Chester goes down to the quay very early, fearing, perhaps, some
indiscretion of his seamen, who are not much accustomed to mercantile
ways, and warping his vessel up to the dock, begins to unload his cargo
with a speed that pleases his consignees very greatly.

Jan Olins comes down personally to inspect the discharging of the vessel,
and pats Guy upon the shoulder, saying: “You’re doing well,” then goes
down into the hold and himself carefully inspects all its contents, rather to
Chester’s surprise, but he, not being a merchant captain, puts it out of his
mind, supposing it is the custom for traders to look thus carefully after their
cargoes.

That afternoon Chester, still continuing his labor, suddenly bolts into his
cabin and locks himself in. For he has seen the junior partner, Olins,
approaching the vessel in company with Niklaas Bodé Volcker, and fears
recognition by the father of the fair Mina, whose hospitality he has once
enjoyed.

Fortunately they do not come on board, only inspecting the vessel from the
gang plank, and very soon they go away. [144]

Shortly after this Chester goes up to the town to meet Oliver.

This gentleman reports as follows:

“There is a house as described and located by Paciotto, a tumble-down,
ramshackle old affair, in by no means a good neighborhood. It is kept by an
old deaf and dumb Spanish woman who goes under the name of Señora

Sebastian, but is commonly known by the sailors she takes as boarders (this
house being near the docks) as ‘Mother Dumb Devil,’ referring probably to
her temper.”

“That’s the place. I’ll put some of my men to lodge there at once,” says
Guy.

“Not yet, not until we get the keys. Use your men in discharging your vessel
as rapidly as possible. Key number one I have already ordered made from
its draft. Number three I will take to-morrow to Brussels, leaving number
two en route at Malines. Get your cargo out of your vessel as fast as you
can.”

“How long will you be in Brussels?”

“Until the key is made, probably five days,” replies Oliver.

“So long? You know speed is vital. I shall have my ship unloaded by that
time.”

“It can’t be done sooner. The locksmith says it will take him at least four
days to finish the one ordered here. Consequently it must be five days
before I return from Brussels with the keys. Besides,” says the painter, “I
have had a carrier pigeon from Louis of Nassau to-day, which makes it
necessary that I go to the capital to obtain a little information. Every town
save Amsterdam is up in Holland, and—now an attack in the rear. I’ve had
word they are ready to rise. It would be a shame that all the Netherlands
were up in arms and Mons, my native place, still fly the flag of Alva.”

“Then you think Antwerp will rise?”

“No, neither Antwerp nor Brussels, their Spanish garrisons are too strong,
but they are weakening them day by day. By the by, I saw our little friend
De Busaco march out this afternoon with his company for the north.”

“Then some day Antwerp may have a chance.” [145]

“Pish! Antwerp thinks of nothing but trade. Trade destroys patriotism. All
the burghers want is to be let alone with their commerce. But take my word
for it, this place will suffer more than any other town in the Netherlands.
Antwerp will be the man on the fence, and the man on the fence is always
shot at from both sides. But I must go to Bodé Volcker’s.”

“Ah! The fair Wilhelmina!” laughs Guy. “I would go with you, but the
debonnaire officer Guido Amati appearing as Andrea Blanco, captain of
trading vessel, would make old Niklaas open his eyes. But you are anxious
to visit him. So good night and—good bye.”

“Yes, I must have word with Mina. God knows what may happen to me in
Brussels.” Then the painter adds suddenly: “But I must also take care of
you. Promise me, Guido,” his tone is very anxious, “if you cannot sleep
here, that you will at least come every night and every morning and see if
carrier pigeon has brought message from me. I shall take six birds with me.
You know how the little bell rings as they enter the cote. They may be of
infinite importance to your safety—to your life, for God knows when
Alva’s suspicion may fall upon me.”

So these two men wring hands together.

The next morning the painter leaves for Brussels, taking Achille with him,
carrying six pigeons, and Guy goes to unloading his vessel as rapidly as
possible.

This he does for three days, taking every precaution. No man leaves his ship
at night. No liquor is drunk, for the men know their lives depend upon
circumspection, and the hardiest of them shudders as he thinks of Alva’s
death. Even Corker himself, tough old mariner that he is, tells his captain
that he is nervous and cannot sleep nights.

“It seems,” says the old salt, “so much like havin’ a grip on your windpipe.
Sometimes I feels as if I was chokin’, an’ Bill Chucksin scared us last night
screechin’: ‘For God’s sake, don’t burn me alive!’ It’s had a bad effect on
the men.”

“No, a good effect,” remarks Guy. “I’ve noticed they’ve been very careful
all day.”

Then he turns to the boatswain and says: “Tell the [146]men from me that
every Jack tar of them, if this is a success, shall own Portsmouth for three
days, and shall make the Jews rich by each man buying two watches, one
for each fob pocket. How are you getting on with the unloading, José?”

“Pretty well, Señor Capitan Blanco,” replies the tar with a wink. “The fore
hold is empty and by to-morrow morning we’ll have cleaned out the aft and
main holds and swept decks. But the consignee’s coming on board, Señor
Capitan Blanco,” and with a few muttered Spanish words the boatswain
strides forward, for he doesn’t like to encounter visitors.

Guy watches with cloudy brow his consignee come up the gang plank. It is
the fourth day—he has not heard from Oliver, and he is very anxious.

“Do you generally sleep on board?” remarks Jan Olins, after the usual
greeting to his captain.

“No, on shore. Sometimes at the inn you recommended, and sometimes
with a friend of mine, an artist.”

“Well, to-night it will be a great favor to me if you will remain on the
vessel. You can’t leave the town after the gates are closed at nightfall.”

“Certainly. What do you wish me to do?”

“Step into your cabin with me, and I’ll tell you,” replies the Fleming. And
the two getting behind closed doors, Olins whispers. “Under the false

flooring of this cabin, you know, you have twelve cases of goods that are
not in the manifest.”

This Guy does not know, but he immediately assents to the same.

“These cases must be got out late to-night and not delivered at our
warehouse, but where I shall personally show you.”

“To-night, after dark?”

“Yes, late at night. The moon goes down at ten. Eleven will do for the hour.
Tell your men it is two guilders apiece for each of them, and for yourself,
Captain, the usual tariff.”

“What is the usual tariff for smuggling in the port of Antwerp?” asks Guy.

“Hush! we don’t call it that, we simply call it avoiding the tenth penny,”
mutters the merchant. “You’ll [147]receive one hundred guilders for your
share of the business.”

“Then give me your hand on the hundred guilders, my hearty,” replies
Chester, knowing that to refuse to smuggle would simply be to
acknowledge himself not up to mark as merchant captain.

“Very well, we can consider the matter arranged,” whispers Olins, gripping
Guy’s outstretched fingers, and goes on shore.

Alone by himself, Chester laughs: “I think I’ll see what I’m smuggling,”
and being a man of action, quickly has some of the false floor of his cabin
up, and getting down among the cases opens one.

After examining its contents and refastening its cover very securely, the
Englishman comes up again whistling softly, but with a great respect for
Mr. Jan Olins in his heart.

Then he takes his way up to Oliver’s studio, and getting in unnoticed, for
the painter has left him his keys, draws the curtain away from Antony’s
altar piece and gazes upon the fair face that he longs to see. But even as he
looks upon the beautiful eyes of Madonna Hermoine, the sound of wings
above reminds him of his errand.

He goes hastily up, and examining the dove cote, is astounded to see all six
pigeons in it and no letter upon any of them.

Coming away he ponders upon this matter very earnestly, finally
concluding that by some accident the birds must have escaped from
confinement and returned to their home.

Then Guy goes on board his ship and that night by the aid of Corker and
some of his crew, under the personal direction of Mr. Jan Olins, conveys the
twelve cases of goods upon which no duty is paid, very quietly and secretly
to a large warehouse some distance nearer the main quay of the city.

In this they are entirely unmolested, but in leaving the warehouse, chancing
to look up, Chester sees by the lantern Olins carries to guide their path, the
name of Niklaas Bodé Volcker in large letters over the archway, and is
further impressed by observing that gentleman’s young son, the snickering
Jakob, who has been [148]apparently waiting for the goods, have word of
mouth with Burgher Jan Olins.

“Aha!” thinks the Englishman. “If I wanted a hold upon Bodé Volcker I’ve
got one, though I don’t see how he could help me at present.”

Then they return cautiously to the Esperanza unnoticed and unmolested,
though the guard boats are doing their duty outside the line of shipping,
which is very dense, and in the shadow of which their boat glides very
quietly, Olins himself going back with them and remaining on board the
vessel, as he cannot enter the town until after daybreak.

This he does, leaving Chester asleep in his bunk, though somewhat
disturbed in his early morning nap by the noise of his men holystoning and
washing down the decks.

Five minutes after Sir Guy Chester wakes up to discover that he has need of
somebody’s aid in this city of Antwerp, immediate, imperative, to save his
life.

“There’s a boy come on board, Captain. He says he’s got a letter to you
particular,” whispers his boatswain in his ear, “so I made bold to wake you
up.”

“Humph!”

“He says it’s instanta.”

“What kind of a boy?”

“A Frenchy.”

“Achille!” And Chester, thoroughly awake, springing up from his bunk,
orders: “Send him down at once!”

It is Achille with a note from Oliver.

“You’re Captain Andrea Blanco?” asks the messenger.

“Yes.”

“Then you’re to read this at once,” says the boy, handing his missive, which
bears evidence of being written in great haste and agitation.

It has no address, but is in Oliver’s hand, and reads:

“Fly! Fly quickly—for God’s sake—for your life, and if possible save the boy who brings
this. He has been my servant—they’ll torture him for evidence. The hand is descending

upon me. I have only time to say God bless you. Good bye.”

“How came you to bring this?” asks Guy, his lips trembling a little and his
face growing pale. [149]

“He told me—”

“He!—who?”

“Monsieur Oliver; he told me to get a pigeon,” says the boy, “and I went to
the coop and somehow—for he cried to me to hurry—I let the door open
and they all got out and flew away. Then I went to him and told him.”

“And he?”

“I think he must be sick. He screamed ‘Mon Dieu! what have you done?’
Then he said to me, ‘You’ve let the pigeons go, you must take a letter—
Misericorde! my friend!’ Then he gave me money to get a horse and told
me to ride as fast as I could and to get here last night in time to get through
the town before the gates closed and give this to Captain Andrea Blanco on
the ship Esperanza. And then to do what he told me.”

“Then why were you not here last night?” demands Guy, in awful tones.

“The stableman cheated me in the horse, curse him—the beast was lame
and I didn’t get to the Emperor’s Gate until just as it was closing, so I had to
stay at home all night, but I brought it here as soon as the gates were open.
But you’re not Captain Andrea Blanco, you’re Captain Guido Amati,” adds
Achille, who has kept curious eyes on Guy ever since he came into the
cabin.

“Both.”

“That’s funny.”

“Don’t trouble yourself about thinking whether it’s funny or not,” says
Chester in a quarter-deck tone that astonishes the French boy. “Sit down!”

“I’d—I’d like to go home for breakfast,” mutters Achille nervously.

“Stay here, have breakfast with me, and do as I tell you. That’s what your
master bids you do.”

Thus commanded, and a very savory breakfast making its appearance,
Achille sits down and eats, though Guy does not join him, for he is thinking
with all his soul what he shall do.

He can, perhaps, find safety himself in flight, but leave his men to be
butchered or executed he will not. Every instinct of manhood compels him
to stay with those whose lives he has put into such desperate jeopardy.
[150]Besides this poor French boy who has unwittingly risked his life to save
him. But one thing can save them all! That is to get them out on the open
sea on the Esperanza. He has lost last night’s chance of preparation by the
failure of Achille’s horse. But he guesses that suspicion will not fall upon
him for the next few hours. Brussels is thirty miles away, and even after
word arrives it will take some time for the Spanish spies to discover that
Andrea Blanco has dined with Oliver the traitor twice and breakfasted once
at the Tower of the Angels.

Altogether he thinks he is sure of six hours. So ordering the last few bales
of cargo and hides to be discharged as quickly as possible, and bidding
Achille to keep himself close in the cabin, he goes out hurriedly to the
office of his consignees, which is just opening for the day’s business.

Here getting word in the private office with the senior partner, he says: “I
have discharged my cargo. Can’t you give me consignment in ballast to
some place?”

“Absurd!” answers the florid Jacobszoon. “Why should we send you with
ballast when we can get charter money for you? Wait here until cargo is
obtained.”

“You must give me a consignment in ballast.”

“Why?”

“Because the custom house officers are loitering about my vessel.”

“Verdomd! you been smuggling!” cries the senior partner. “If you’ve been
getting us into trouble by your infamous sailor notions on that point,
Captain Blanco, you can stay here and face it. I won’t help you.”

This answer is discouraging. It shows Chester that Jacobszoon knows
nothing of his junior’s operations with the twelve cases of goods.

Guy goes out and loiters about the entrance of the office, determined to see
Olins.

That gentleman is an early office bird, notwithstanding his vigil of the night
before, and he encounters him coming down Wool street.

“I must have a word with you, Mijn Heer Olins,” he says. [151]

“Yes, come to the office.”

“No, in private, and not at your office.”

“Very well, this wine room,” answers Olins, looking hard at Guy, and leads
the way to a place of refreshment with which apparently he is familiar, as
the two get a private room together.

“Now,” he says, “is it the money for that smuggling business, Capitan
Blanco? I’ll have it for you in a few minutes, if your crew is impatient.”

“No, it’s to demand that you give me an immediate consignment in ballast
from this port.”

“Impossible!” cries Olins shortly; then whispers: “Why do you want it?”

“Because I’m suspected of smuggling.”

“What, that lace last night?” mutters the Fleming, his face growing set.

“No lace,” says Chester shortly.

“A—ah! You must leave Antwerp on the tide,” whispers Olins, a bead of
perspiration on the center of his forehead. “But where can I send you?”

“Get me papers to Amsterdam.” This is the first place that comes into Guy’s
head.

“Very well, they shall be obtained. But,” adds the merchant nervously,
“without a charter it would look very suspicious!”

“I’ll get you the charter,” cries Guy, a sudden idea flashing through his
brain.

“From whom?”

“From your fellow patriot, Bodé Volcker.” This is in his ear.

“Good God! You know—”

“Yes, arquebuses, packed in lace, that is not a fine—but death,” whispers
Guy. “Fill out an order for charter to Amsterdam.”

And the merchant, sitting down to write this, Chester admires him—for
patriot Jan Olins’ handwriting is as firm and regular as commercial copper-
plate.

“Get the papers through the custom house at once,” whispers Guy.

Then hurrying to his ship once more he dives into his cabin to reappear a
few moments after, rearrayed not as Andrea Blanco, merchant mariner, but
as Guido Amati, the dashing soldier of Spain, for [152]he judges this the best
guise in which to have his interview with ex-Burgomaster Bodé Volcker.

At the merchant’s warehouse he is disappointed to find that Niklaas is still
at his home upon the Meir. Making his way there a sudden idea comes to
him, that he can do this business better as debauchee spendthrift than in any
other guise. He will come apparently as spy for bribe; he will demand gold,
but get charter papers.

Willing to play ignoble role for such result, he tosses about his hair,
disheveling it, slouching his hat over his eyes and assuming the gait of
partial drunkenness, he continues his way to the Bodé Volcker mansion and
enters the business portion of the house.

A number of clerks are there, the general routine of the office is going on
quite briskly. Here he is received most obsequiously by bowing clerk, who
asks almost tremblingly his name and desires—for these Spanish soldiers of
fortune were quick with blow of hand or knife to Flemish townsmen.
Demanding word with Bodé Volcker, he is shortly shown into that
gentleman’s private office next his counting room.

Here, with well-assumed drunken leer and one or two suggestive hiccoughs,
he closes and locks the door, the merchant gazing at him in astonishment,
perhaps alarm, for Guy’s appearance, with matted, tossed about hair, and
rolling eyes, a strange excitement in them, brought about by his desperate
situation, gives him the look of having just risen from a late and prolonged
debauch.

“Yer know me—y’know me—I’m—I’m Major Guido A—Amati, o —er—
Romero’s foot,” hiccoughs the pseudo Spanish roisterer.

“Yes, I—I had the honor of seeing you at my house once, Captain Amati.”

“Major—Major Amati de Medina—don’t you forget th’ De Medina. Sit—
sit down and—hic—sign this!” And Guy presses the merchant into his chair
from which he has half risen, and slaps in front of him the charter paper.

“What—what is this?” stammers Bodé Volcker.

“It’s an article ’f charter—firm of Jacobszoon & Olins, for Cap’n Andrea
Blanco—you know Cap’n [153]Andrea—Andrea Blanco?” he winks
cunningly, “of—er ship Esperanza.”

“A charter in ballast?” cries Niklaas, commercial instinct rising in him.
“What drunken nonsense is this? There’s no money in charter in ballast.”

“Not er charter in ballast, but charter to—convey twelve cases of goods—
landed las’ night at yer warehouse—’bout twelve ’clock. See the pint, Bodé
Vol—Volcker?” And this being emphasized with drunken leer and wink,
Bodé Volcker sees the point with an awful gulp of terror, then gasps: “You
—you’re accusing me of smuggling; that—that’s only a fine!”

“Yesh—fine of your head!”

“Smuggling lace—the fine of my head—you’re drunk!” replies the
merchant, plucking up courage.

“Smuggling arquebuses—packed in lace—time of war—is torture as well.”

“Good God!” cries Niklaas, “arquebuses! I have been imposed upon—that
villain Olins—arquebuses!” And Guy knows that Bodé Volcker is not a
patriot, but only a smuggler.

“Jush th’ same—cost your—hic—your head,” hiccoughs Guy. Then he
suggests, with drunken leer: “I couldn’t bear to have my future banker—th’

man who’s going to give me all—hic—the gambling money I want, pass
out of the world. See the pint, Bodé Volcker!”

“How much money do you demand? I’m—I’m a poor man!”

“You’ll be a poorer man soon! See the pint, Bodé Volcker!” and avarice
grins at fear.

“How much money do you want?” pleads the man of commerce.

“Lotsch; but we’ll talk ’bout that afterwards,” hiccoughs Chester. “Sign this
charter—get vessel ’way first, then we’ll have bottle or two together, and
I’ll draw a ducish big draft on you.”

“You’ll not betray me—you’re sure they’re arquebuses?”

“Call in custom house officers—open ’em and see!” cries Guy.

But this is too horrible for contemplation. Bodé Volcker signs with a palsied
hand the charter paper of [154]the Esperanza to leave Antwerp forthwith for
Amsterdam and other ports on general trade.

“As you love yourself, Bodé Volcker—my dear banker, Bodé Volcker,—get
those goods on board at once,” whispers Guy, pocketing the charter paper,
“and—and bring me a bottle of wine.”

“Yes, I’ll give orders instantly,” gasps the merchant.

But even as he rises to do this there is a whirr of wheels, a clack of whip
outside, and a clatter of horses’ hoofs as a post chaise, apparently at
desperate speed, dashes into the courtyard.

A moment afterwards all thought of drunkenness leaves with one flash the
mind of the Englishman. A voice imperative but sweet; a voice that sets
Guy’s heart beating more than the danger of detection, more even than the

terror of death, says outside the door: “Announce to your master Hermoine
de Alva!”

“Good heavens! Alva’s daughter!” mutters the burgomaster. “She must not
see you. Leave by the back door!”

But Chester would not leave now for death itself.

“Oho! gay Bodé Volcker! ladies,” hiccoughs Guy in a feeble attempt to
keep up his character. “I never desert ladies.”

“Quick!” whispers the old gentleman. “You must remain until this business
is settled and I give you orders for the goods,” and hastily pushes Chester
into a little waiting room just out of his private office, muttering: “The
drunken fool—in the hands of a miserable, gambling debauchee. My God!
poor Bodé Volcker!”

Then Guy’s heart commences to throb. The place he has been put into by
Niklaas has a little lattice door, through it all sound in the sanctum of the
merchant can be easily heard. It has apparently been constructed and used
for this very purpose, to further chances of gain and vantage over his
customers by the commercial Fleming himself.

Almost as Guy enters he starts astonished. For these strange words come to
him in impressive but charming voice: “Señor Bodé Volcker, I have driven
from Brussels post haste to bid you, as you love her, get your daughter out
of Antwerp—instantly!” [155]

[Contents]

CHAPTER XIII.

“GOOD HEAVENS! WHAT AN
INTRODUCTION!”
“This is a curious errand, Doña de Alva,” returns the old man, bowing to the
earth. “Why do you wish my daughter out of Antwerp?”

“Because the order is even now speeding from Brussels to seize upon and
confine your daughter in the Spin-House.”

“The Spin-House! Lieve Hemel! An honorable confinement there might do
the minx good,” says the old man severely. “She has been headstrong and
willful lately. Has she made some careless breach of city regulation.
Perchance she has worn train longer than burghers’ daughters are permitted.
We sometimes, Doña de Alva, send our headstrong daughters and even the
wives of our bosom to the wholesome silence of the Spin-House in
Antwerp.”

“Not the part of the Spin-House I mean.”

“Great heavens, you don’t mean—the place for abandoned women—the
harlots of the town?” gasps Bodé Volcker.

“Yes.”

“Merciful God! With the fearful scourging of welcome and farewell they
give to those poor creatures?”

“Yes.”

“My Mina!” shrieks the old man. “My Mina!” wringing his hands in
despair. Then he cries: “For what crime?—for what crime do they send my
daughter to be disgraced and tortured—what crime?”

“She is the affianced bride of Antony Oliver, the traitor.”

“Oliver, your father’s under-secretary?”

“Yes. It is thought she must have known his sedition. Oliver fled from
Brussels yesterday. Get your daughter out of Antwerp. I won’t have a
woman, innocent or guilty, so degraded and debased,” goes on Hermoine,
almost desperately herself, for the old man is sobbing and wringing his
hands, and seems incapable of action.

But this stings the Flemish father into rage. His tears vanish. His eyes blaze.
He rises before the [156]beautiful daughter of the man who would degrade
his child and mutters: “But your father who does this thing, Alva, the tyrant,
the coward, the oppressor—”

“You forget, burgher, you are speaking of the Viceroy to the Viceroy’s
daughter.” The tone is commanding but sad. “I pardon your treason, for you
know not what you say. But do not dare to criticise my father’s policy of
State. In that even I do not interfere, though I am sick—sick of the blood,
sick of the butcheries each day’s report brings from the army or the
execution shambles in the Horse Market. Each day I pray to the Virgin to
make my father’s heart more merciful. Each night I pray ‘No more blood.’
God knows I have importuned him to spare, but he will not. He says it is the
policy of the government, that he is as merciful as God, the church and his
King will permit him to be, and goes on executing. Every time I see a
woman in black I fear it is my father’s doings. I am here to save your
daughter. Get her away! If you cannot, I will.”

Seeing the old man appears so overcome that he can hardly walk, she cries
out eagerly, “Get a boat—a ship, quick! It’s the only chance. Get her to
some town or country where my father does not rule. Do you suppose he’ll
forgive any one connected by love or by blood with this Oliver, who had his
private ear, who ate the bread of his household, and who betrayed him?
Quick, get your daughter out of Antwerp! Stay, it is better that I do it. I

shall be safe, you might be punished for saving your own child. Bring your
daughter here. What your trembling limbs refuse to do I’ll do for you.”

Here sudden inspiration seems to come into the old merchant. He sobs:
“God bless you! Though you are your father’s daughter—God bless you! I
know a man that can do it. There is a ship even now waiting for him.”

“Whom?”

“A debauchee, gambler, blackleg—who’s in the next room. If he’s not too
drunk he can get my daughter out of Antwerp. Speak to him, command him,
he’ll obey the daughter of Alva. He’s one of your father’s officers—Major
Guido Amati.” [157]

“Good heavens, what an introduction!” shudders Guy, his hair rising up as
he mutters curses with white lips. If Bodé Volcker wishes revenge upon the
spy who has caused his heart to flutter with fear of loss of life and loss of
money, could he see the debauchee Guido Amati, he’d know he had it now.

Then the clanging of the door closing shows Niklaas has gone to his
daughter.

A moment after there is a sigh, faint on the air, tender, almost despairing,
and the rustle of soft silks and laces, as if a woman in agony had sank down
bowed by mighty sorrow.

Blessing God for these sounds of agony and love, Guy Chester opens the
door and looks into the office of Bodé Volcker. She is there, her head in her
white, slender hands, suffering because she thinks him worthless. It is a
sight of pleasure, not of pain. Did she not care for him would her beautiful
form be convulsed with anguish at his debauchery? Did she not love him
would she grieve if Guido Amati were roué and libertine?

With this thought Guy, with light steps, crosses the room and locks the door.
He will have five minutes for explanation—for love!

Crushed by grief, the girl hears him not, but at the sound of clicking lock
starts to her feet, and drawing her fair body up, puts haughty nose into air
and remarks in cutting voice, though her white hands tremble and clench
themselves: “Finishing the two months’ carouse with which you christened
your new commission, Major Guido Amati de Medina?” then jeers in
sneering tone: “Probably you’ll not grace your commission long. Desertion
from your post at Middelburg in the face of the enemy, by which it is now
attacked, without leave of absence—”

“Without leave of absence,” interjects Chester, “why do you think that?”

“I know it! I’ve had word from the Lord de Beauvois, Governor of
Middelburg, that no leave of absence shall be granted to Major Guido
Amati.”

“Then it’s to your influence,” mutters Guy, “the influence of the woman I
once thought loved me, that Beauvois has constantly kept me within
garrison and [158]prevented me from coming where my heart called me. You
feared my presence by your side in Brussels.”

“Only after word was brought to me that you had forgotten me.”

“It was a lie.”

“A lie?”

“Yes, a lie; the same as all the other reports circulated about me, the same as
that base one told you two minutes ago—that I was a drunken debauchee,
too drunk to do anything you asked me. Do I look drunk now?”

She gazes at him. His handsome face bears no signs of dissipation. His eyes
blazing, indignant, fiery but loving, gaze at her. He stands haughty and
erect, and she cries: “No, no, you are fit to do any woman’s bidding.”

“Then if I’m sober now, when he said I was drunk, I was sober in
Middelburg when they told you I was a dissipated roué. It was a lie, a lie
furnished by some rival. Who is my rival? Is it Noircarmes?” and he strides
up to her. “Tell me, have you had word of love with him, with my ring on
your finger?” Then looking down, he starts and sighs: “Good God! it is not
there!” next bursts out at her: “By this sign I am truer than you!”

And Guy, holding the blazing ruby up before her, she droops her eyes but
looks so infinitely lovely that he could crush her to his breast. These orbs
that sink before his, yet gaze on him, are not the eyes of the picture of the
Madonna he has gazed upon, or of the miniature by which he has tried to
assuage his hungry heart these many months, but passionate dazzling, real
eyes—the eyes of Hermoine de Alva.

It is not her placid form upon the canvas he is gazing on, but the live
loveliness of real flesh and blood and vivacious womanhood.

“I am the judge now, not you!” he cries. “Answer!” for she is blushing and
paling and fluttering like a guilty one: “Forgive me!”

But knight of jealous heart answers “No!”

And princess of love and grace cries: “You shall!”

“And why?”

“For this.” Her tones are pleading now and very [159]sad. “I believed—I
admit it now, my Guido, falsely believed that you were unworthy of me.
When I, the Viceroy’s daughter—”

“Penalty!” cries Guy, almost from force of habit, and in a rush the pride of
Viceroy’s daughter and the wounded heart of Hermoine de Alva, go down
together before the decree of love. He has her lips again, the lips that he has
longed for, her soft arms cling to him—the arms he prayed for. And at this
moment Guy Chester, surrounded by his enemies, feels that he will win,

and no more dreads the hatred of the father, for he has the love of the
daughter.

“Pish,” cries the girl, struggling from him, “what logic is in you! You call
me faithless, and you will not let me open my mouth to defend myself.”

“What’s logic to your true eyes,” whispers Guy, “I want kisses from those
lips, not words.”

“Not another kiss until I have explained.”

“Why not?”

“Because, though you kiss me as if—as if you loved me,” answers the girl,
blushing very red, “still there’s jealousy in your eyes, and I’ll have no
jealousy, my Guido, for you have cause for none. You went away bearing
my heart with you. You had my present, my picture. Within one week after
reaching Brussels it was rumored about the town so that it could not fail to
reach my ears that instead of living so as to gain the rank that would make
me thine, you had forgotten I—I had given my heart to you, and lived—not
as—as a gentleman, but a spendthrift, as worse than that, as one who cared
not for my love. What everybody said—I had only known you two days—
made me doubt. Then I—as well as a young lady could about a young
gentleman she was not supposed to know much of—caused inquiries to be
made, and it was the same tale—“You were brave, you were reckless—your
life was an insult to my love.” The eyes are blazing now, but very sad.
“Then I, by my influence, got word to the Governor of Middelburg no leave
of absence for Major Guido Amati, that he might not come to Brussels to
again win me over and make me forgive—as you have done now! Holy
Virgin, Guido! if you have deceived me; then.…” [160]

“May I never win you,” cries Guy. “But I am true to you, have been true to
you. Great heavens! do you think that I could forget such loveliness as this

within a week, within a month, within a year—within my life? You are the
daughter of a Viceroy—”

“Penalty!” laughs the girl, but blushes and almost runs away from him.

“Oh, I’ll pay it, ten times over.” He has her in his arms again.

Here suddenly she says to him, her cheeks growing pale: “You’re without
leave of absence once more.”

“Yes, thanks to you!” He says carelessly, but starts as he sees the stab he has
given.

She murmurs with white lips: “Desertion from the army, with Middelburg
surrounded by enemies—it will mean not the loss of your rank—but the
loss of your head. My father is a disciplinarian.”

“What did I care for that,” answers Chester, “was it not my only hope of
seeing you?”

This tortures her cruelly, but shows how much she loves him, for she grows
pale and falters. “For my sake you have risked your life. Promise me you
will never risk it thus again. Promise me to return to your post to-day,” then
adds, “I have a commission for you. While seeking safety yourself, give
safety to this poor merchant’s daughter. He tells me there is a ship which is
at your service.”

“As I am also at your service with my life!” answers Chester. “Leave this
matter in my hands. Without your request I would have saved from
degradation the sweetheart of my friend.”

He cuts himself short at this, not wishing to discuss Oliver, but Hermoine,
taking up his word, says: “Yes, this traitor was your friend!” then asks with
anxious lips: “How was it you were so intimate with one untrue to Spain?”

“Your father trusted him, why shouldn’t I follow Alva’s lead,” returns the
Englishman with ready tongue; but adds sadly: “I am sorry that after this
my duty will compel me to run this Oliver through the body.”

Then with lie on his lips Guy turns suddenly away, for the Burgomaster’s
rap is heard on the door. Opening [161]he speaks hurriedly to Bodé Volcker
in a tone so sober that the old man stares at him in wonder and surprise.

“At the request of Doña de Alva I have taken your daughter’s safety into my
hands. Send order for your twelve cases of goods to be put on board the
Esperanza instantly.”

“It is already done,” mutters Bodé Volcker, gazing with astonished eyes on
Chester; then he falters: “You’re—you’re quite sure you’re sober enough
for this business?”

“Diablo! sober enough to bleed you,” mutters Guy, remembering his rôle of
spendthrift and blackmailer. “Send down sufficiency of money with your
daughter to the ship to pay her expenses—and mine too!”

And this bringing to the merchant’s mind the character of this Spanish
officer, Amati, his reputation as a roisterer and libertine, Niklaas clasps his
hands together and murmurs piteously: “I’m putting her in your charge. She
is the daughter of my heart. For God’s sake remember you have my money,
my life, if you want to denounce me, but spare her. Were it not for my
desperate strait do you think I’d place my lamb in your wolf’s charge?”

At this complimentary remark Guy grinds his teeth and assuming the
hauteur of hidalgo, claps his hand upon his sword and mutters: “Maldito!
Have I not sworn to her, the daughter of the Viceroy, to deliver your wench
in safety wherever you wish her sent? At what town declared for Orange
and occupied by Dutch garrison do you want your daughter delivered?
Name the place, and it is done.”

“Haarlem!” mutters the old man, “I have friends in Haarlem,” and in after
months could have cut his tongue out for these words.

“It is done,” remarks Guy. “Bring your daughter to me at once.”

“I will. Mina is packing.”

“Packing, idiot! Do you suppose she’ll need fine raiment if they have her in
the Spin-House? Fly, and save your daughter’s white back from the scourge.
Quick!”

In terror at this picture the Burgomaster runs away, while Guy, chewing his
mustache, knows he has [162]shortened an interview he would prolong
though life and death are on its very brevity. He turns and takes a look at
Hermoine de Alva.

She has her back to him, and in graceful pose and with twistings of lithe
limbs is striving, without the loosening of bodice or stomacher, to clutch
something that eludes her—some article she must treasure as it lies close to
her beating heart.

As Guy closes the door she gives a little cry of success, and a moment after
is in his arms again, murmuring: “That poor Bodé Volcker will be here in a
moment, then you must go. Ay de mi! the time is very short. But I have this,
now, upon my hand by which to remember you.” With rapture Guy sees
again his brilliant upon the delicate finger of his love.

“Whatever they tell you,” he whispers, “swear to remember me by it as thy
true knight.”

“Yes,” says the girl, “if it is whispered to me that you are untrue, I shall
whisper to myself, ‘It is a lie.’ If they say you are a drunkard, as that old
idiot Bodé Volcker told me,” she flashes indignant eyes against the door
where the Burgomaster has made his exit, “I shall say, ‘My Guido proved it
a lie once, it is a lie again.’ But,” her tone is piteous now, “you’ll come back

to me. I know you must go to your command. There is but one place when
war is raging against the flag of Spain for the affianced of Alva’s daughter,
and that is where the battle flags are waving! There you may win rank high
enough and glory great enough to claim my hand.”

“Don’t doubt me, I’ll be where the fighting is,” mutters Chester grimly,
“and it’ll be you I fight for, though perhaps Alva will not appreciate my
efforts.”

“My father always rewards bravery and conduct, remember that, Major
Guido Amati de Medina—bravery and conduct. You may have the courage
of a Paladin, but it will not give you promotion without brains. You have
plenty of both, I think,” she laughs, smoothing away the curls from Guy’s
determined forehead, then cries excitedly: “Why, you have the head of a
chess player!”

“Yes, the game in which the knight takes the queen,” whispers Guy. [163]

“Then he must be very gallant and tender and discreet to the captured lady,”
cries the girl, blushing, though there is languor in her drooping eyes. For the
knight at his word has taken possession of the queen of his soul in a mad,
delirious kind of way, as into his mind for one brief second has come the
thought of carrying her off instanter by some wild coup.

A moment’s consideration shows Guy that now he has no time to press his
suit or make arrangements to that effect, or even to persuade Hermoine, for
he would not take her unwillingly or bring discredit on the name of her he
honors most upon this earth, and the Burgomaster is now rapping at the
door.

“Remember—”

They both speak this same word at once, and each one’s lips prevent the
other’s uttering more. It is their last lingering, torturing, farewell embrace.

Then, with the decision of the man of war and the man of affairs, Chester
throws open the door and Niklaas enters, followed by Juffrouw Wilhelmina,
who is in piteous plight and dressed hastily as daughter of a middle-class
burgher, with none of her old-time finery about her.

There are traces of tears upon her cheeks that have grown very pale, but her
eyes flash with nervous terror and excitement that give a strange, pathetic
beauty to her face.

“Hurry! there’s a carriage at the door for you,” mutters the Burgomaster.
“I’ve sent what little luggage could be gathered up in haste to the vessel. A
maid servant goes with you.”

But this is broken in upon by Mina. She strides up to Hermoine de Alva,
who is gazing at her sadly, and mutters brokenly: “Tell me of him!”

“Him—whom?”

“My Oliver. Is he safe?”

“For the present, yes.”

“Thank God!”

“Yes, the traitor Oliver fled from Brussels late last night. This morning
word was brought us that with eight men he had captured Mons.”

“Eight men! Ah! That was a gallant deed. Eight men capture a garrison. But
Louis of Nassau is [164]doubtless hurrying in his men-at-arms from France
into the city. Your hero is safe now, little Mina!” cries Guy, forgetting his
rôle of Spanish officer, in enthusiasm for his friend’s valor and glory.

“Yes, he’s safe, for the present,” murmurs Hermoine. “He is a gallant man
and a great painter. I will look after his altar piece. But, oh misericordia!”
she puts her eyes up to heaven and says piteously: “I pray God my father

may never capture him alive.” Then turning to Mina she says very
solemnly: “If you ever have word with your lover again, pray him as he
fears the pangs of Hades, not to be captured alive! It is a pity so gallant a
spirit ate my father’s bread and yet betrayed him. Still, Major Guido Amati,
I charge you, by your word of honor as a gentleman, to save this poor girl
from my father’s wrath.”

“Quick, put her in the carriage,” mutters Guy to Bodé Volcker.

And the Burgomaster, taking his daughter out, Hermoine de Alva whispers:
“See, I have faith in you. How little I believe that you are libertine and roué.
This girl is beautiful. I have placed her in your hands, for I believe in you as
maiden did in knight of old.”

“By Saint George and the Dragon! you may trust me.” Then Chester,
bending his knee, puts his lips upon the lips held up to him, for he hears
Bodé Volcker’s crying: “Haste!”

Passing out, the last look that Chester receives from the beautiful eyes of
the lady of his heart is one of ineffable trust, and he knows that through
good report and evil report Hermoine de Alva will believe in Major Guido
Amati de Medina, of Romero’s foot, as her knight and champion.

At the carriage door the Burgomaster presses the Englishman’s hand and
whispers: “Every arrangement has been made, drive straight to the ship,”
then falters, “You have her in your hands. As you do by my Mina may God
do by you. Quick! the tide is now just on the first ebb.”

Driving hastily to the Esperanza Guy, boarding the vessel, finds Olins ready
with the clearance papers of the ship. Then exhibiting his charter to a
custom house officer in waiting, and it being approved, the vessel [165]casts
off hastily from the dock and spreading every sail to the breeze, for time is
very precious now, the ebb tide bears them down the Schelde.

About an hour and a half after this the Esperanza has put the Fort of Lillo
behind her and is making for the open ocean, upon which the sailors of
Holland claim dominion over the mercenaries of Alva.

As he gazes over his quarter at the grinning bombards and culverins of the
Spaniard, Chester draws a long breath of relief. He has escaped again from
Antwerp; the treasure of the Duke is yet unscathed—though he has gained a
hundred kisses—for every one of which he would have risked his life a
hundred times. But his men have had no kisses, and guessing they have also
gained no treasure, are disposed to grumble.

Soon after this to Chester comes the daughter of the merchant, and
whispers: “God bless you, for saving me from degradation and the
scourge.”

“You have perfect confidence in me, I hope?” murmurs the Englishman,
looking at the beautiful girl, the fresh sea breeze having brought the roses
back to Mina’s cheek.

“Yes! You are the friend of Oliver; you would not betray him. You are”—
here Miss Wilhelmina stammers, but smiles—“the—the sweetheart of one
to whom no one could be untrue.”

“Par Dios! who is she?” says Guy, biting his lip.

“Doña Hermoine de Alva. Dost remember the bargains I gave to her
duenna, Major Guido Amati de Medina?” And the girl laughs quite merrily,
though not being accustomed to the sea, laughing is just now becoming a
hard matter to her.

[Contents]

CHAPTER XIV.

THE PROVIDENCE OF GOD.
A few hours after this Chester is at Flushing, now held very strongly by ’t
Zeraerts for the Prince of Orange.

Finding that the Dover Lass has not returned from Ireland, after some little
trouble with the authorities, [166]who would make a prize of the Esperanza,
did not Chester prove himself “The First of the English” and a brother
Gueux, he very shortly leaves this port.

Anxious to acquit himself of his promise to Doña Hermoine and deliver his
charge at Haarlem, Guy, hoisting the flag of Orange, anchors in the course
of the next day at Zandvoort. Landing by boat upon the beach near that little
Dutch fishing village, Chester, accompanied by ten of his tars as escort,
makes a pleasant journey of five miles through the wooded dunes to the
river Spaarne, upon which stream lies the pretty city of Haarlem, basking in
the sunshine, its streets filled with bustling burghers, the bells of its great
church pealing triumphantly Protestant devotion, the women laughing, the
children playing about its neat Dutch homes and gaily colored pentices.

Coming in to the place by St. Jan’s Gate, which is held strongly by burgher
guard armed with arquebuses and cross bows, Chester is conducted to
Captain Wybout Ripperda, commander of the city, and giving his name and
business, he finds that the “First of the English” is very well known by
reputation in this city of Holland as a friend of the cause. So very shortly
thereafter Guy is permitted to conduct Juffrouw Bodé Volcker to her
relatives, the family of her uncle, one Pieter Kies, who has made a fortune
by his bleaching fields.

After spending the evening with the prosperous and hospitable Hollander,
he leaves the fair Mina happy and contented, though very solicitous about

the man she loves.

“If word comes to you of Oliver, you’ll try to let me know,” she pleads,
then says, a tremble in her voice: “God bless you for taking care of the
helpless. Oliver will thank you for it himself if he lives to meet you,” next
smiles: “You are not what you seem to be. You are not the Spanish captain,
you are a patriot, like my bachelor, and still,” here her eyes open, “you are
the bachelor of Alva’s daughter!” Then seeing consternation on Guy’s face,
she adds impulsively: “Trust me, I’ll keep your secret, for I know every kiss
of Doña Hermoine is at risk of your life.”

Not altogether satisfied that another has his secret, Chester makes his way
to the pretty little inn of the [167]Swan. There he spends a very comfortable
night between clean sheets (for the Holland hostelries were very much
better than those of Antwerp) mine host being a young, resolute looking
Fleming named Hasselaer. He and his mother, a widow of about forty, keep
the Swan in very good order.

The next morning, after a pleasant meal, the Englishman repairs to Captain
Ripperda and demands passport for himself and his ten followers.

“Certainly,” replies the stout Dutch commander, “I am only happy to be of
assistance to one who is such a friend to our cause. May you return to us in
a happier day.”

“What could be happier than this?” answers Guy, looking at the pretty scene
of bustling trade and thrifty commerce about him.

“Drommelsch! it is pleasant enough now,” says the Dutchman, “but God
knows what may come of this war. We are quiet at present, but it is the quiet
before the storm. Every town in Holland save Amsterdam is up in arms
against Alva, and with this attack in his rear by Oliver at Mons, the news of
which has just been brought to us, and with assistance from French

Huguenots, as Condé and Coligny promise us, perchance when the cloud
breaks it will not contain so much thunder and lightning—but God knows!”

And God does know what Ripperda does not, for had that stout Dutchman
guessed what was coming to him and his, how they shall soon be eating the
grass in the streets to try to keep their souls in their bodies, and then only
saving themselves ultimately for Alva’s torturers and executioners, he and
every man, woman and child that throng the streets of happy Haarlem
would fly from it, leaving behind their household goods and their beloved
homes as if they were accursed by God.

But everything is very bright and pleasant now, as Chester makes his exit
through the St. Jan’s Gate and returns to Zandvoort, where, signaling his
vessel, a boat is sent to him and he is soon on board the Esperanza again,
and returning to Flushing there meets the Dover Lass.

“You left every Spaniard of them safe in Ireland?” Guy says to Dalton. [168]

“Yes, every mother’s Don of them is safe with the O’Toole. They can speak
Irish by this time,” answers his first officer.

Chester is greeted with three ringing cheers by the Dover Lasses—cheers of
joy and delight, for their commander has come back with his life—
doubtless he has come back with the gold.

“Now for the treasure!” cries Dalton, heartily, but his weather-beaten face
grows gloomy as Guy exclaims: “No treasure for the present!”

Likewise the men are disappointed also, for each of them, when he saw his
captain alive, expected instantly the twenty promised doubloons in hand.

Failure makes trouble for Guy, who is compelled to sail to England to
obtain money to pay his crew and to have the keys made.

In London, though he gets the keys of the Viceroy’s treasure house
manufactured by three very cunning locksmiths and has them carefully put
away in his strong box on the Dover Lass, the treasure house of his country
does not seem to open to him.

He cannot negotiate a loan with bankers and silver-smiths, for he will give
no hint of where he expects to find the booty he speaks of, and most of
them guess it is the West Indies—a long cruise with great risk of shipwreck
and capture.

He cannot get aid from Queen Elizabeth, who claps her hands angrily on
her pocket as he petitions for money, and says: “Sir Guy Chester, it is luck
that I leave you with your head! Who robbed my arsenals of powder? Who
but you and that weazen Burleigh? If those Hollanders were not making it
unpleasant for my friend of Alva methinks it would have been high
treason.”

So Guy, not daring to tell his story of the Duke’s treasure, finds himself in
sorry plight, some of his crew leaving him for other captains who can pay
them advance money. Finally growing desperate, he comes one day to Lord
Burleigh and says to him: “You like money as much as any man.”

“You’re right,” replies Burleigh, rubbing his hands.

“I can’t tell you where I’m going to get this money, but there is a treasure
box to be unlocked by a man [169]willing to risk his life. I am willing to risk
mine. I know where the treasure is.”

“Where?”

“That I shall never tell. But you have had my word before about certain
matters and you have found my word was truth. In fact, I’ve made your
name as statesman.”

“You have made my name as statesman?”

“Yes, by my advice about the Gueux, you are now called the astute, the
wise, far-seeing old fox Burleigh.”

“Yes, at the risk of my weazen head,” replies his lordship, glumly.
“Nevertheless you want to talk to me about—money?”

“Yes! Advance me six thousand crowns and if I come back alive I’ll pay
you sixty thousand—ten for one. You’d better make it ten thousand crowns,
then you’ll have a hundred thousand. It is like dicing. I risk my life, you
risk your money.”

“I value my ten thousand crowns more than you do your life,” chuckles his
lordship, and sends him away.

But about this time Francis Drake, happening to come back from the
Spanish Main, his vessel heavily laden with silver ingots from some
captured galleon, and Guy having set report afloat that his treasure is also in
the West Indies, his lordship, in the course of a few days, sends after
Chester and tells him that he cannot advance the money himself, but for a
commission he can get certain London merchants to advance ten thousand
crowns at the terms of payment Guy has offered.

With a jump the young man accepts, and this sum of money being turned
over to him, refits his vessel, fills up his crew to fighting strength, which is
easy as most of his best men, headed by Dalton and Croker, have never left
him, and sets sail for the Netherlands, notwithstanding it is wintry weather
now, to arrive in Flushing early in December. Here he has hardly dropped
anchor when surprises come upon him.

A boat boards him from the shore and Achille, who now acts as cabin boy,
comes screaming down the hatch-way: “Monsieur Oliver! My master, the
painter Oliver!”

In a jump, and with a shout of joy, Chester is on [170]deck, and Englishman
as he is, permits himself to be embraced and kissed, even in sight of his
grinning crew for it is Oliver, and he is as one returned from the dead, as
Alva has recaptured Mons and gibbeted most of its defenders.

“Come in the cabin and tell me your news. You’re no artist now, you’re
only a fighting man,” mutters Guy with a mighty grip of the hand and
watery look in his eye, as he gazes on Antony.

“Tell me your news—what of the woman I love?” cries the painter.

“Safe.”

“Thank God!”

“Come in, I’ll tell you.”

In the cabin, each gives to the other revelation that astounds him. Oliver
tells of his capture of Mons, how he himself slew the gatekeeper on guard at
daybreak as his eight men, concealed in vegetables, and drawn in market
carts, passed into the town; how Louis of Nassau, who was in waiting in the
wood outside with five hundred horsemen, each with a footman mounted
behind, got in, Oliver and his eight heroes holding the gate against the
Spanish garrison until they passed the drawbridge. Then the details of
Alva’s siege against them; how they hoped for success, having been
promised succor from France; next the news of the fête of Catharine de
Medici, the awful massacre of St. Bartholomew, when all the best blood of
the Huguenots flooded the streets of Paris, and no aid of the dead Coligny
could come to them; how Orange was beaten in his attempt to relieve them;
how finally he, Oliver, Louis of Nassau, and some others escaped from
Alva’s clutches, who, now having no fear of France, with every Huguenot
chief struck down, is gathering together a great army of Spanish
mercenaries to make the conquest of Holland, intending to use Amsterdam
as his center, it being the only town in his hands.

“By the by,” says Guy, “speaking of Spaniards, have you heard anything of
our friend, Major Guido Amati?”

“Colonel Guido Amati.”

“The deuce you say—promoted?” [171]

“Yes. You’re a step nearer the Viceroy’s daughter,” laughs Antony. “Haven’t
you heard? When Mondragon a month ago raised the siege of Tergoes,
Major Guido Amati, heading the Spanish infantry, marched at night across
the flooded Drowned Lands of South Beveland, where one step from the
path meant drowning, where one hour’s delay in making that four hours’
crossing meant death by the rising tide, and so came in the darkness to rise
in front of ’t Zeraert’s soldiers as if by magic in the morning, crossing a
place we thought passable by only fishes or birds. For that march
Mondragon reported Major Guido Amati for promotion. It was immediately
granted; it generally takes a year. So you see you have been doing very
well. Probably Doña de Alva is very proud of you now.”

“Thank God,” laughs Guy, “my villain namesake has got to fighting again,
and I’ll probably behave myself,” then says: “Have you heard of her?”

“No, except she is still as beautiful as ever, but more haughtily cold. Even
Noircarmes, it is rumored, scowls and twists his mustachios when Doña de
Alva’s name is mentioned. Now tell me of my love.”

On this, Guy, giving an account of his curious morning in Antwerp and how
he had taken, by Doña de Alva’s command, Mina Bodé Volcker from
torture and disgrace, Oliver, with tears in his eyes, cries out: “God bless her
and curse her father. How can so tender a heart have Alva for a father?”

A moment after he adds, somewhat anxiously: “Where did you take my
Mina?”

“To Haarlem.”

“Haarlem!” This is a wailing shriek. “Good God, man, why did you do
that?”

“Her father sent her there to her relative, Pieter Kies.”

“Haarlem!” The painter is transfixed with horror. “It is almost now
surrounded!” he groans. “Haarlem! it is the town Alva has sworn to let no
living man, woman nor child escape from. Haarlem! Haarlem! My God! Is
she still there?”

“I don’t know. I left her there, safe and happy waiting for you—her last
words were of you.”

“Haarlem! we must get there. We must try to save [172]her. It is especially
decreed that all refugees there shall have the torture as well as death. My
Mina is a refugee. Help me, Englishman—you put my love into the fire—
help me draw her forth!” moans Oliver, in almost unreasoning anguish.

“Don’t reproach me,” mutters Guy. “I did the best I could for her. But I’ll
help you get her out—with my life I’ll help you get her out.”

“God bless you,” cries Oliver. “And your crew?”

“They follow me.”

“God bless them!”

Then forgetting his treasure and turning once more his back upon his love
he hungers for, Guy departs with his painter friend, who has now become a
warrior, upon their errand of rescue that to succeed must be immediate.

Dalton remarks to Guy as he receives orders to hoist the anchor and sail for
the North: “This is hardly fair to those who assisted you with money,
Captain Chester.”

“Friendship before commerce—my friend’s happiness before the fortune of
English bankers and usurers!” answers his commander. “Dalton, you have a
sweetheart in England; what would you do to save her from Alva’s troops?”

“Fight ’till I died.”

“Then, man, my friend has his betrothed in Haarlem!”

“Then I’ll fight for his sweetheart, too,” cries the rough lieutenant; and this
story passing about the Dover Lass, the men sharpen their cutlasses and
battle axes and give three cheers, singing in their cheery British way:

“We’re going to fight for Portsmouth Poll.”

The next day they make Delft, and find there is no chance of getting to
Haarlem by way of Leyden. Here also they learn of the awful massacre at
Naarden, five hundred burghers killed in the church, the rest of the
inhabitants butchered by one means or another. The details are not
complete, the affrighted peasants dare not visit the place from which comes
up the wail of women and children heard three miles away. It is the
[173]Dutch town in the hands of Spanish soldiery, given up to loot and spoil,
murder and ravage; it is the same tale as Mechlen, as Zutphen, the same tale
wherever Alva’s veterans conquer.

This makes Oliver desperate. He shudders at what he hears, but whispers
with pale lips to Guy: “Our only chance is to get into the Zuyder Zee and by
it into the Y and above Haarlem. That way is yet open.”

“Perhaps!” returns Guy, doubtfully, “But it’s taking desperate chances. Both
going and returning we’ve got to sneak past Amsterdam, where Alva is with
all his army and probably war ships besides.”

“Mon Dieu! You’re not going to desert her?” cries the Franco-Fleming
pathetically.

“No, but I must be sure she is in Haarlem before I risk the lives of my men
in such desperate service. It is December, the ice will shortly be forming.”

Making inquiries, Chester soon discovers the last man who has come in
from Haarlem, a wild-eyed wretch, half dazed with fear, for he has just
escaped several patrols of Spanish, who hang up or slaughter in some cruel
way all they meet.

To their questioning he answers: “Yes, I was in Haarlem—but I’ve escaped
with my life—you see—with my life. I saw the smoke of Naarden burning,
I heard the wail—”

“But Haarlem!” cuts in Guy. “Answer my questions quick and I will give
you money.” For the poor wretch is destitute and dependent upon public
alms. “Do you know one Pieter Kies?”

“Of course, one of the town council.”

“Is he there?”

“Yes.”

“Is there staying with him a fair-haired girl, with bright blue eyes?”

“Oh, you mean the sweetheart of the patriot painter, the one they honor in
the name of Oliver of Mons.”

This settles the matter. Oliver goes to screaming in his French way: “Nom
de Dieu! there’ll be no mercy for her, Mina will be tortured because I love
her,” then whispers hoarsely to Guy: “Save her, Englishman! If you call
yourself my friend, save her.”

“I’ll do everything man can.” [174]

“Then quick! Hoist anchor and get under way for the Zuyder Zee! Speed is
her safety.”

“For this affair I must make preparation,” answers Chester, who greatly
doubts the wisdom of this move.

“Preparation? Have we not arms and powder! Hurry, as I love her! hurry!”
begs Antony.

Spurred by his friend’s despairing words, Chester makes quick but accurate
provision for this trip. He first looks about for pilot knowing the inland
waters in which he is to sail his ship, and quickly engages a harum-scarum
Friesland freebooter called ’t Hoen (Anglice the Chicken). This man at once
orders the Dover Lass to be lightened as much as possible.

“Six inches draught of water, more or less, may mean our lives over the
Zuydergat,” says ’t Hoen, who, with all his wildness, is a calculating
seaman.

So the Dover Lass is made flying light; provisions, water, ammunition, is
all she carries.

Then, though the sailors jeer, ’t Hoen calls out: “How many of you skate?”

“Oho! this is a (winter) garden party with dames and wenches and lighted
fires upon the ice,” jeers the boatswain.

Without giving answer to this ’t Hoen goes off and buys for every man that
can perform upon them a pair of long, sharp Friesland skates. Bringing
these on board the ship he says, “Captain Chester, we’ll run away with these
if the worst comes to the worst,” which gives Corker a glum face, he not
liking the idea of deserting ship even to save his life.

These preparations are made with such energy by Chester and his men that
they are delayed at Delft scarce four hours.

Crowding sail upon the Dover Lass they the next day enter that ocean lake
of Holland called the Zuyder Zee, and passing Enkhuyzen, get news that
Alva is preparing to cut off Haarlem from succor and provisions.

That evening, getting off Amsterdam, they lie off and on, ready to sneak
past the place in the darkness into the Y, and by the next morning would
reach Haarlem before Alva and save the girl from the danger of the siege.

But that night the providence of God in numbing, [175]freezing weather and
chilling breath just from the Arctic, is upon them. The placid water becomes
ice. The breeze is not strong enough to give them headway to crush through
it.

The next morning all about them is a vast sheet of deep blue ice, and
imprisoned within it is their vessel and three others of the Gueux,
fortunately all near together, perhaps bound upon a similar errand. They are
now helpless, they cannot retreat, they cannot go forward.

The city of Amsterdam, filled with Alva’s army, is looking at them, only
four miles away.

[Contents]

CHAPTER XV.

THE BATTLE ON SKATES.
Oliver comes down excitedly from the masthead and whispers: “I can see
the spire of the great church at Haarlem. We’re only twenty miles away
from—the woman I love—hurry.”

“If the ice holds,” mutters Guy, “we’ll get to the next world before Haarlem.
We can only stay here and die on our vessels. The Spaniards will come over
the ice to attack us. We shall be overwhelmed by numbers.”

“We must have counsel with our brother Gueux,” says ’t Hoen. “Come with
me. You can skate, First of the English?”

“Very well,” answers Guy. “Will the ice hold?”

“Yes, infantry now, by night accursed Spanish cannon.”

So buckling on sharp iron Friesland skates, the two fly over the smooth
frozen Zuyder Zee, and in a few seconds are at the vessels of the Gueux.
Here holding quick consultation, the captains decide to fight it out to the
death together, no matter what force is brought against them; surrender
would be suicide.

A few minutes more and they make up their minds just how to do this
fighting, and electing Guy commander-in-chief, he takes action very
quickly. In five [176]minutes not only the crew of the Dover Lass are on the
ice, but the crews of the other Gueux vessels, amounting in all to about five
hundred men, and are working for their lives with ice picks, crowbars, ice
saws and any and every implement they can use, cutting a passage around
the three Gueux vessels and a water lane from the Dover Lass to bring her
up to them.

By almost superhuman exertions, in something like three hours they have
not only got the Dover Lass in company with the other Gueux vessels, but
have cut out the ice immediately surrounding them, making the vessels float
as in a little inland lake, though surrounded by an impenetrable floe.

Next getting the four vessels in the form of a parallelogram, they lash them
stem and stern all round—making the broadside of each ship one side of a
floating citadel. Then putting out grappling irons and small anchors set in
the ice, to which are attached cables they moor their ships strongly to
prevent drifting against the ice and giving chance for boarding.

“Pardieu!” exclaims Oliver. “This is a new idea. They can’t get at us.”

“Not a man of them can board our ships if our cables hold so as to prevent
drift and we can keep the ice broken,” answers Guy.

At this work they all set themselves, toiling watch and watch and finding it
tremendous labor, for the cold still continues, and the ice grows thicker and
more resisting.

So they are all happy when the lookout from his chilly post at the masthead
cries: “They’re coming!” and gazing over the frozen field they see some
fifteen hundred picked Spanish and Walloon infantry tramping their
slippery path to give them death.

This seems an easy task to the attacking party—vessels imprisoned in the
ice—they look for a cool, comfortable butchery of their crews. And they
come on in that confident manner with which Spanish infantry always met
the Dutch, until after ten years of hard fighting the Hollanders had made
themselves as good troops on land as any infantry in Europe.

But on the sea the Dutch are at home; so with their [177]guns—demi-
culverins, falcons and falconettes—loaded to their nozzles with arquebus
bullets and nails and scraps of iron; with pikes and battle axes ready to

hand, they look quite confidently and eagerly from their wooden citadel
floating upon this ice-bound lake.

This moat of ice cold water will give Alva’s veterans more difficulty in
escalade than the deepest fosse of any walled town they have stormed
within the Netherlands. But not guessing what is before them, and the
weather being bracing, the Spanish arquebusiers come on with a cheer, their
commander apparently giving order for quick time.

“Thank God, these fellows are not going to keep us waiting long,” laughs
Guy, beating his mailed hands together, “a steel bodice and metal hose are
not over comfortable this December weather.”

This is Sir Guy Chester’s first fight since he has been dubbed Knight, and
he is in full panoply, helmet, plumes and visor, breast-plate and back piece,
even to golden spurs, the badge of his order. This ice slippery deck is not as
convenient for displaying his Italian armor as the back of dashing war-horse
on a tented field, but the age of chivalry has not quite passed away—
knighthood still means military nobility—the gilded spurs still indicate blue
blood and ‘daring do’—what youth could resist wearing its insignia—not
Guy Chester. His crew cheer his gallant appearance, knowing well that
underneath his Milan mail is a leader they can trust and follow.

“Oho!” screams Oliver, with sudden mercurial laugh. “See! The Spanish
dogs are tumbling over each other. This will be a slippery affair.”

“Yes, and a bloody one—for them,” mutters Dawson savagely, sword in
hand.

And it is!

The little fleet, not firing a gun, let their opponents come close to them. But
as the Spanish infantry charge their front rank suddenly discovers that it is

fighting in water instead of on the ice. Every man of them has to drop his
arms to swim for his life, which is rather freezing work this December day.

“We’ll warm them up,” cries Guy, as the guns of the Dover Lass’s starboard
battery open on the mass of [178]struggling, drowning men. So also the
Dutch ships.

But Alva’s Spanish infantry on land or sea are not to be defeated in a
moment. The officer in command deploys a number of his men as
skirmishers, and they, with their arquebuses, open on the ships. Soon balls
are whistling over the bulwarks and through the rigging of the Dover Lass
in stinging volleys, as well as scattering shots.

Others of the Spaniards crawling upon the ice try to get at the cables
holding the vessels to cut them from their moorings, so they will drift to one
side or the other of the lake and become accessible to escalade and
boarding. Then Guy, going forward to the forecastle to direct his men to use
their arquebuses defending their cables from attack, finds it is well that he is
in knightly armor. Were it not for his steel breastplate some Spanish
sharpshooters had done for him. Two bullets flatten against his armor and
one sweeps the plume from his helmet.

But the cables are kept taut, and those who venture against them in this
desperate service are all shot down and the broadside of the Dover Lass still
thunders, scourging the ice with bullets.

All does not go so well upon the other side of the floating fortress; by great
exertions and much loss of men the Spaniards at last succeed in cutting one
Gueux cable; unable to withstand the additional strain another anchor pulls
out of the ice, and the wooden citadel drifts against the solid floe.

Now is the Spaniards chance; in a moment they have their boarding ladders
planted against the ship whose deck the Dover Lass’s bow overlooks, for
she is a smaller craft.

As the Spaniards swarm up the ladders to fight their way upon the
Dutchman’s deck—Guy calls his boarders and they spring to the assistance
of their assaulted comrades—the other Gueux vessels sending detachments
also to the deck of this vessel, which now becomes the focus of the fight.

Once by very force of numbers the Spaniards gain the quarter-deck of the
Dutch ship, and shouting with triumph, think the day is theirs; but the
murdering-pieces on the vessel’s own forecastle and two from the [179]bow
of the Dover Lass drown this cry with their reports as they cut lanes in the
cheering mass. Then with a rush from the other vessels—the deck is
regained, but only partially—as Alva’s veterans fight as if they were never
to be beaten—their leader bearing a charmed life.

Twice he and Guy have crossed swords, but have been swept away from
each other by the surging tide of battle—which is again turning to numbers,
and the Spaniards. The cannon of the boarded ship are now of little use, and
the guns of the other vessels will not bear upon this side of the fight—the
day is looking badly for the Beggars of the Sea.

But as Guy fights he thinks, and suddenly returning to his own ship, cries
out: “Load up two demi-culverins with solid shot and get them on our
forecastle.”

This being done by Corker and some men, Chester directs these cannon not
at the Spaniards, but at the ice upon which the Spanish boarding ladders
rest.

The first discharge puts fifty men and their ladders in the water. “We’ll
drown them quicker than we’ll kill them!” yell the English sailors—and a
few more rounds settle the affair—the ice is destroyed under the very feet
of the Spaniards, and floundering in the water’s chilling grasp, a hundred
veterans sink.

The others give back. This icy citadel is too hard a nut for them to crack.

Looking on the matter as a bad job that he can only make worse by
continuing, the Spanish commander, apparently unwounded, gives the order
to retire, and his veterans drawing off slowly and taking their slightly
wounded with them, turn their faces toward Amsterdam.

Noting in their slippery path many of his enemies fall even as they trudge
along the ice, ’t Hoen, who is laughing at them, suddenly shouts: “We
mustn’t let a man of them escape. After them, on skates! After them on
skates!” he cries to the Dutch captains of the other vessels.

This idea seeming to strike the Hollanders to a man, the English who are
capable of executing manœuvers on the ice join with them, and in less than
five minutes Guy puts on the glassy field by his boats a party of seventy-
five from the Dover Lass, each man armed with [180]arquebus and sword or
pike and battle axe, and each with Friesland skates upon his feet.

Even Oliver, who can hardly keep his head off the ice, accompanies them.
The Dutch captains bring yet larger parties, all their men being proficient in
this national pastime of Holland.

The Spaniards, totally unexpecting pursuit, are making their way slowly to
the city, not even looking back, for the sight behind them of dead men
drowned or butchered, and wounded comrades who are crawling, slipping
and freezing on the ice, is not pleasant.

“These maimed cannot escape us,” cries Maarten Merens, one of the Dutch
captains, “we’ll finish the wounded at our leisure. On for those who are not
hurt,” and the Gueux speed on like swallows in their flight.

So it comes to pass that the Spanish commander hears behind him suddenly
a whirring sound as the irons cut the ice, and looking backward, skimming
like birds, come four hundred Dutch and English, not half the number he is
bringing back.

Turning his men he would form them to receive attack, but they are not
quick enough. The rapid skates bear the Dutch and English upon them like
charge of cavalry, the slippery ice impedes them, and in a minute the
Spanish formation is dashed to pieces, the ice becoming the scene of
hundreds of individual combats, the Hollanders and the English having the
best of it, attacking whom they like, retreating when they please.

It is a funny affair, though blood flows like water, and men die shaking with
merriment—the guffaws mingling with death shrieks. Guy himself, as he
cuts down a man, laughs at the fellow’s headless corpse turning a
somersault upon the slippery ice. One Spaniard running, pursued by a
Dutch skater, throws himself desperately upon the ice, and the Dutchman
goes headlong over him, but being quick with his feet, gives his antagonist
a lucky jab in the eye with his sharp Friesland skate, and the Spaniard is
dead before the Dutchman recovers his feet.

After the first rush, Guy’s eye is on the leader of the [181]Spanish troops,
and the leader of the Spanish troops has his eye on him.

Till now the Castilian has fought very silently and very deadly; though not
accustomed to the ice, his skill at fence is so great that two or three
Dutchmen have gone down before him wounded, and one English sailor
will never see his mother again, by force of his Toledo blade.

The Spaniard now cries: “Come on, I know you. You are the First of the
English. Come on, and though you have wings, I’ll clip them!”

This kind of a challenge is not to be ignored by English knight. It is a kind
that prevailed in the days of chivalry, not quite faded out of England, and
Chester accepts it.

Then the two come together, the Englishman’s heavy sword giving play
against the more subtle and delicate point of the Toledo, and were not Guy
armored in steel this day would be the last of him.

The Spaniard has a wrist of steel and his sword’s play is of the finest Italian
school; but Guy makes his heels save his head. This angers the Spaniard,
and he grinds his teeth—while Chester deftly “grinds the bar,” a skater’s
trick that enables him to circle round the Castilian, giving him two cuts that
even his skill of fence can hardly parry.

The next shoot round his enemy Guy gets his blade on his man, wounding
him slightly. But carried forward in making a cut, one of Sir Guy Chester’s
knightly spurs catches in his skates and he were lost did he not by quick
action drop sitting down on both skates and glide from his antagonist.

He is half a hundred yards away before he turns to find himself face to face
with poor little Ensign de Busaco, who is having a hard time of it, being
slightly wounded; his heavy Jack boots impeding his progress on the ice.

Chester is just in time to recognize the little Spanish ensign and save his
life, as two or three Beggars of the Sea are almost upon him, and in another
minute De Busaco would sleep with his fathers.

The instinct of comradeship born in Antwerp is in [182]Guy’s heart, and his
right arm knocks up two pikes that lunge at the little ensign, he crying to
him: “Surrender to me; surrender to me, fool!” For the little Spaniard, with
drawn sword, is striving to do his best for himself.

But just at this moment, taking lounge en tierce, the poor little fellow’s legs
fly under him and his head goes down with a tremendous crack upon the ice
that would stun him were it not for his steel head-piece.

“He’s mine!” says Guy, beating back the swords; “He is my prisoner.
Surrender, you idiot Busaco!”

“I yield,” says De Busaco, sullenly. Then he suddenly smiles and cries:
“Mon Dieu! Captain Guido Amati! Yes, I surrender to you. What ransom
shall I pay to save my life? You’re not going to kill me, are you?”

“No, Busaco, you are safe. Twice you saved my life, and didn’t know it.
Now I save yours.”

“Yes,” says the other; “that was curious, wasn’t it? Captain Guido Amati!
From the flag flying at your masthead you are now called the First of the
English?”

It is a foolish speech and nearly costs him dear, for the Englishman knows
that this recognition, if reported at Spanish headquarters, means no more
chance of Guido Amati’s interviews with Alva’s daughter. He says: “Yes,
the First of the English, but no ransom from you.”

“No ransom,” mutters De Busaco, “I suppose you are going to kill me
because I know your secret?”

“No! Swear to me by everything upon this earth you will never recognize
me as the First of the English, were I to stand in Alva’s own hall before you.
There’s five thousand crowns upon my head; but swear you’ll never know
me as First of the English, only as Guido Amati.”

“I swear it by this cross my mother gave me,” says the little Ensign, putting
crucifix to his lips. Then he laughs and adds: “The oath wasn’t necessary. I
had known this before.”

“When—how long!”

“Ever since three weeks ago I met the real Colonel Guido Amati. You’ve
been promoted, you know.”

“And you never mentioned this, even to Amati himself?”

“No—to no living soul!” [183]

“Why not?”

“Santos! it involved the secret of a lady.”

“God bless you,” says Guy, hugging his prisoner to his heart. “It did,
perchance, involve the good name, but not the honor, of a lady.”

“Oh, every one knows that Doña de Alva is a saint. Funny, she should love
you. Curious—”

But they have no time to discuss it further. Chester seizes the young man by
the hand, drags him over the ice, and to ensure his safety goes with him
almost to Amsterdam. In this, Guy almost endangers his own life, for
Spanish troops come out to meet them; so he leaves his charge with a
squeeze of the hand and a “God bless you. Remember!”

“Don’t doubt me. I’ve seen her look at you. I know she loves you, and no
one would injure her heart—but look out, my men are coming!” cries De
Busaco.

Turning back on his skates Chester makes for his ship, near which he finds
Antony and two or three others bending over the body of the Spanish
officer Guy had left so suddenly.

“They killed him after you went on,” remarks Oliver. “I have kept them
away from his body because of you. He was a very gallant gentleman.”

“Because of me?” cries Guy. “Do you think I will gloat over a fallen hero.
Still if accident had not come to me I should have finished him myself, I
think, though he had a rare sword’s play in his arm.”

“That would have been horrible,” says the painter.

“Why?”

“You would have committed suicide.”

“Suicide! What do you mean?”

“I mean that there will be weeping soon from eyes you love, when your
death is reported to her.”

“Buffoon! What do you mean?”

“I mean that this is Colonel Guido Amati, the man Hermoine de Alva thinks
you are!”

“Good heavens!” says Chester, bending over the dead man.

“I’ve searched his person and taken his valuables; not for myself, but for
transmission to his family,” adds the painter; “but this letter concerns you.”

Hastily looking at the document by the light of [184]the Northern sun that is
sinking in the west, Chester gives a sudden start. It is in the handwriting he
knows and loves, and has seen so little of, but does not forget, and reads:

“God bless you, gallant one; you have become a Colonel. That promotion was quick,
wasn’t it? That was my doing. A word of advice to you, my hero. Capture or slay the First
of the English, and you are sure to be a general; that will bring you to the church door,
where Hermoine awaits you.”

“Good God! This is horrible,” mutters Guy. “Sent by the woman I love to
kill me. And now she will weep for him.”

“Yes, and the more she weeps for him the dearer she loves you. You’re not
dead yet. Oh, wonderful transformation scene. Fancy Hermoine’s eyes
when she sees the dead alive. Oh God! if I could look upon the eyes of my
love who is over there,” Oliver points toward Haarlem. “Guy, help me to
save her.”

A moment after Antony suddenly cries: “Mon Dieu! what’s the matter with
you?” for the Englishman is leaning heavily on him, and is muttering: “A—
a bullet must have got through my breast-plate!”

Tearing off the steel the painter finds it has, though the wound is not a deep
one.

Continued loss of blood through all his violent exertions makes him faint
and weak, and Chester is carried upon his ship.

The Dutch captains yet look very solemn; if this cold continues, the ice will
still enclose their vessels and they must be attacked by the great army at
Amsterdam, who will never forgive them now they have slain four hundred
of the best Spanish troops.

“It will take miracles to save us now!” remarks ’t Hoen. “The tide must rise
—the wind must come—the ice must melt all at one time. It has happened,
but no man has ever seen it, so I suppose old Jan Veeder, our dominé, would
call it a miracle—Jan Veeder, who will preach my funeral sermon next
week!”

But that very night the providence of God that sent the cold, gives them one
chance of escape, the last of that winter, for the miracle does happen. The
strong wind and high tide and mild thawing weather come together and the
tide is high enough for them to pass [185]over the Pampus. The wind blows
the sea about smashing the rotten ice and bellies out their sails as the four
ships, setting every rag they can carry, beat their way to the north, and the
next morning are safe in their harbor of Enkhuyzen.

But Chester knows very little about this. He is raving with the fever of his
wound.

[Contents]

CHAPTER XVI.

THE BERSERKER OATH.
In the course of time Chester recovers from Spanish bullet wound, though
not very rapidly, the surgery of that day being crude, unscientific and quite
often deadly. When he regains his strength he finds the Dover Lass frozen
in at the harbor of Enkhuyzen.

Guy perceives they have made a terrible mistake in sailing to the northward.
Had they remained at Delft they would probably by this time have got the
girl out of Haarlem over the frozen lake.

Now, between them and the hapless city stands the great dyke along the Y,
patrolled by Alva’s soldiers, protected by Alva’s forts, cutting off North
Holland effectually from giving succor to the besieged.

His vessel will be useless for several months on account of the ice, and
besought by Oliver, who has divided his time between nursing his wounded
comrade and making desperate attempts to elude the vigilance of Alva’s
troops and get to Haarlem, Chester finally makes his way across Waterland
to Egmont. Here Diederick Sonoy, who holds North Holland for the Prince
of Orange, is getting together an expedition to attack the Diemerdyk at
some vulnerable point and fortify it, cutting off Amsterdam and the
Spaniards from supplies, as they have been cutting off Haarlem.

“Pardieu!” remarks Oliver, as they make the journey over frozen lakes and
by villages half buried in snow, “if I had had my altar piece with me I could
have finished it between skirmishes. I’ve done nothing [186]for my art,
nothing—even for my love.” He wrings his hands desperately.

“What have I done for mine?” mutters Guy.

“Diable!” says the painter, who guesses what is in his companion’s mind.
Alva’s treasure will be undisturbed until the Duke leaves the Low
Countries. Not even riot of unpaid troops will make him disgorge it. It is
salted down for the winter.

“You are sure the Duke has no hint of your having the keys made?”
interjects Guy uneasily.

“Certainly not—for I never had them manufactured—I felt I was suspected
even when I reached Malines—so I gave no order about the keys, and
before I fled from Brussels destroyed the drafts,” answers Oliver. A moment
after he adds, with a smile: “As for Alva’s daughter, she is probably
mourning for Colonel Guido Amati de Medina.”

This idea of her grieving for his death makes Guy desperate, and he is crazy
to get within glance of Hermoine’s bright eyes. This is almost impossible
until the ice leaves his vessel free.

To kill time he takes to killing Spaniards, joining the expedition Sonoy on
the very first indication of spring gets together for the assault on the
Diemerdyk.

This consists of a number of galleys and flat-bottomed boats filled with
eight hundred soldiers, which moves soon after the frost of winter passes
away and the inland waters become navigable.

The point of attack has been carefully selected where the dyke is narrowest
and most susceptible of defense against troops coming from Amsterdam.
On one side of the little narrow causeway are the waters of the Y, on the
other is the Diemer Lake, cutting off Amsterdam from Muyden, and
provisions and supplies coming from Utrecht and the South.

The attack is sudden and unexpected. The Spanish patrols, taken by
surprise, are easily driven off, and Sonoy, cutting the dyke, strongly

entrenches himself upon the narrow causeway, thinks the deed is done, and
goes off smilingly to Edam for reinforcements.

As for Oliver, joy is in his soul. He can see the spire of the Haarlem Groote
Kerk not twenty miles away, and thinks he and his love will soon press lips
again. [187]

But this cutting off of his supplies makes the Spanish governor at
Amsterdam desperate. He forthwith despatches a great force of
arquebusiers and pikemen together with two hand-drawn cannon along the
causeway, and the Seigneur de Billy, a tried veteran of many campaigns,
commander at Muyden, sends four hundred Walloon infantry to attack upon
the other side.

These, together with a force of Spanish armed galleys and bateaux,
unfortunately make the assault during Sonoy’s absence. His troops, though
brave, are without supreme commander. They are composed chiefly of the
crews of the Gueux vessels, the commander of each one wishing to
dominate the others. Thus disputing among themselves, they resist the
attack without discipline and mutual support.

The consequence is that when the cannon open upon them they are not
charged and captured as they must be, and soon solid shot smash the hastily
thrown up defenses of the Dutch. Already some of the Gueux have
abandoned the dyke and taken to their bateaux and flat-bottomed boats to
defend them against the Spanish galleys, as well as to be ready to escape.

“We must charge the guns,” cries Chester. And he and Oliver, followed by
some fifty desperate men, make the effort. Getting over their breastwork
they plunge into the Spanish spearmen, and with push of pike cut their way
to one gun, and, were they supported, would be, perchance, successful,
though every step costs a life. But they are not reinforced, and are finally
driven back, losing a man at every foot of dyke, the Spaniards butchering
the wounded.

From this melée Guy Chester drags out, stricken unto death, his friend the
painter. Struggling to the entrenchment, he finds it deserted; all the men
who should defend it having fled to near-by boats—save one, John Haring,
from the town of Horn. Hero-like, he has planted himself in the narrowest
part of the causeway before the coming foe and holds the place armed only
with sword and shield, against a thousand veterans of Alva’s army.
Fortunately these can only get at him one or two at a time, as the dyke is
very narrow and the deep water of the Diemer Lake is on [188]one side of it,
and the rapid waters of the Y flow on the other.

Haring’s defense gives Guy breathing time.

Bending over his friend, he mutters between clenched teeth: “Don’t fear!
These dogs of Spaniards shan’t get you alive.” Then he brushes the death
sweat from his comrade’s brow, and with great sighs looks upon the face he
loves growing ashen and its lips becoming blue.

These open now in gasping, broken speech: “Save yourself.”

“And you, too!”

“Save yourself!” Oliver’s eyes have an agony in them that is not all the
agony of death. “Save yourself to save my love. Swear to me, Guido, my
friend, to save her!”

“That was done already,” whispers Guy hurriedly; “What else?”

“Only—but you are—not an—artist. Ehu! I would have liked—to have
finished my—altar piece. I see—real—angels—now—”

The last word is breathed upon the air in dying sigh, as Antony Oliver turns
his blue eyes to heaven and his patriot soul goes where there are real angels
and the true Madonna.

Then Chester raises his bloodshot eyes to find his strait almost as desperate
as the dead man’s. The Spaniards are charging them both front and rear. The
Dutch bateaux have all been driven half a mile away; on the Y side Spanish
vessels intervene and cut off all retreat.

Guy gives one quick glance seeking chance of life, and finds it on the
Diemer Lake. Some fifty yards from shore is a small shallop that, belonging
to the Spanish patrol surprised at the place, has been cut from its moorings
during the fight; it is the only boat on the Diemer side.

With the instinct of emergency he springs beside Haring, crying: “There’s
our only chance!”

Together they make one quick, dashing onslaught on the Spaniards to gain
time for the plunge, then spring into the Diemer. As they disappear a shout
of rage goes up from Alva’s mercenaries, and Spanish arquebus balls splash
the water all about them. But [189]rising from their dive side by side and
stroke by stroke, they make the boat, and assisting each other, clamber in,
and taking oars, are soon out of shot.

Then chancing to gaze at the dyke Guy shudders and turns away his head.

“They’re cutting his head off,” whispers Haring. “It’s worth two thousand
caroli at Alva’s tent.”

Guy knows whose head the Dutch sailor means, and his soul grows very
hard and cruel to the Spaniards. But this only adds to his resolve to keep his
vow to his dead comrade, even at the cost of life.

“It was a Berserker oath,” he mutters, “but I’ll keep it.” And gazes at his
foes who have done his friend to death with something of that noble
madness that burned in the Berserker’s veins, that rage to slay his enemies
without thought of life, that exultation to kill, no matter whether he goes
down or no, so long as he has his fill of slaughter and revenge.

But the Dutch sailor’s voice brings fighting from the romantic to the matter
of fact basis. He says: “Captain Chester, we’re in a bad way. We’re on the
wrong side of the Diemerdyk. Without weapons we’re in a bad way. We
can’t recross it to our friends, for the whole causeway is now lined by those
infernal Spanish troops. But, we’ve sent a few of them ahead of us to-day,
and will do for a few more before they do for us, though we’ve only got
teeth and nails to do it with,” the two having been compelled to throw away
their arms to gain the boat.

“We’re not on the wrong side of the Diemerdyk,” Guy returns stoutly. “At
least, I am not.”

“Why?” asks Haring, opening his eyes.

“Because I go to Haarlem, and you’re the man to take me there. You know
all this country?”

“Every drop of water, every grain of sand in it. That’s why I fight for it.”

“Then you, perhaps, know some way by which we can get from here to the
Haarlem Lake.”

“Without arms?” says the Dutchman. “It’ll be difficult; we can’t fight, and I
—I hate to run from Spaniards!”

“Fly now, sneak next, fight afterwards,” mutters Guy, “and we’ve got to be
quick about it.” For the Spaniards are attempting to get a boat across [190]the
causeway to pursue them. Fortunately there are two pairs of oars in their
boat, which is a light one, and bending to these Haring and Chester take
course toward the southwest end of the little Diemer pond, scarce two miles
in length.

They are now safe from immediate pursuit, as the Spaniards, seeing them
row away, have desisted in their efforts to get a boat over the dyke; so the
two go into hasty consultation.