 Chapter 10 of Leatherface, A Tale of Old Flanders When she woke, Mark was sitting, as he was so fond of doing, on a low stool, close to the hearth, with one long leg stretched out to the blaze, his elbow resting on his knee, his face overshadowed by his hand. Lenora, even as she first opened her eyes, saw that he was looking at her. A quick blush rose to her cheeks. Is it time to go? she asked quickly. Not yet, he replied. She was a little startled, and looked around her puzzled and anxious. The room had looked so light and cheerful when she had entered it. Too large bow windows gave on the grand place, and the weather had remained clear and bright. But now it seemed so dark, almost as if twilight was fading fast. What hour is it? she questioned, and looked about her anxiously for a clock. I do not know, he replied, eerily, but your horse, still at the ferriers, he was busy, and could not shoe her at once. But I am sure it must be getting late, she said, with a sudden note of anxiety in her voice. Very late, I am afraid, he said lightly. Then should we not be starting for Brussels? We cannot, I have no horse. You can hire one surely, not in this town. But I must be in Brussels by nightfall, she urged. I am afraid that this is impossible in any case. The powers that reign supreme in this town would not, if you remember, allow us into it, and now they will not allow us out. But that is impossible, she exclaimed. Monstrous, as you say, Madonna, he rejoined with a smile. But do you feel equal to scaling the city walls? Oh, I fear me that it would be the only thing to do, if indeed you desire to be in Brussels this night, and even then I doubt that they would bring us back. Then, Missour, she asked, trying to appear as calm, as detached, as he seemed to be, do you mean to tell me that we must spend the night here? It is a pretty city, he suggested, that we cannot now start for Brussels. It is impossible. The shout of Dendermonde hath refused to allow us out of this city, until we have proved to his satisfaction that we are neither spies of the Prince of Orange, nor emissaries of the Queen of England. You should have seen to it, Missour, she said, haughtily, that all our papers were in order. This is an exceedingly mortifying and unpleasant contra-tum. I do not know the French word for it, Madonna, he rejoined with exasperating good humor, but I know that it must be somewhat unpleasant for you. She tried to meet his glance, without that tail-tail blush spreading immediately over her cheeks, and she could have cried with vexation when she saw that the merry twinkle was more apparent in his gray eyes than it had been since their wedding day. I believe, she said slowly, that you, Missour, have devised this scheme from beginning to end. You neglected your papers purposely. Purposely you quarreled with the provost at the gate. Purposely you have caused me to be detained in this miserable city. A pretty city, Madonna, he interposed impaterpably. The church was built three hundred years ago, the cloth hall, and now you are impertinent, she declared haughtily, impertinent. He said quietly, even though the merry, gently mocking glance still lingered in his eyes, impertinent, because I declined to look on the present situation as a tragedy. How can I do that, Madonna, since it gives me the opportunity of spending an evening alone with you? You might have done that yesterday and saved me much humiliation, she retorted. Yesterday I was a fool, Madonna, he said, today I have become a wise man. What hath changed you ten minutes of your company in the dining hall last night? She made no reply, glad enough that at this moment twilight was already fading into dusk. In the Ingle Nook where they sat, there was hardly any light now, save the glow of the fire. And on the Buxom sad-eyed hostess came in carrying a lamp, which she placed on one of the tables in the tapirage. She seemed to know by that subtle instinct, which pertains to every woman's heart, that the signeur and his noble lady did not wish to be disturbed. This was not the busy hour at the hostel. In about an hour's time, the soldiers off duty would be coming in and the shopkeepers from their shops after their day's work. But just now there was no one, so the kindly old soul having so placed the lamp that a beneficent shadow still enveloped the Ingle Nook quietly tiptoed out of the room. Several minutes went by before Lenora was able to shake off the curious torpor which had fallen over her senses, nor could she in any way account for this sweet feeling of well-being which accompanied it. She had made no reply to Mark's last words, nor did she make any now. She lay back in her chair with eyes half closed, feeling knowing that he was looking at her unceasingly with that intent searching gaze of his which she had encountered once or twice before. She felt as if he were trying to reach her very soul. He, the careless Nerduel, the disillute frequenter of taverns, what did he care for a woman's soul? And yet it seemed impossible for Lenora at this moment to disguise from that searching gaze all those terrible conflicts which had literally been tearing her heart as thunder in the past few hours. Nay, more it seemed as if the very letter which lay inside the folds of her kerchief addressed to her father must be lying open before her husband's eyes and that he was reading it even now. The feeling became akin to a sweet obsession, and gradually she allowed her senses to yield themselves to its soothing influence. After all, had she not been sure that sooner or later God would make his will manifest to her? Had she not prayed for guidance? Had she not hoped all the morning that something would prevent her journey to Brussels, content to leave everything in God's hands, she had yet hoped that God would point the way to which her own heart was tending? And now circumstances had suddenly occurred which did impede the journey. The horse had cast a shoe. The provost at the gate had proved officious. The hour had slipped by and no horse was forthcoming. Given the absolute simplicity of the girl's religious thoughts, her upbringing, the superstition which underlay all beliefs in the old tenets of the church during this period of stress and struggle through which she was groping her way through darkness into light. Given Lenora's pure nature and the proud humility which accepted unquestioningly all the commands of those whom she had been taught to reverence, was it to be wondered at that while she was quite ready to do her duty? She should nevertheless hope and think that she had at last received a distinct supernatural sign that her journey to Brussels was not one of those decrees of God before which everything on earth must bow and every obstacle be removed. But even then, in spite of her wishes and her hopes, she fought on to the last and refused to yield to the sweet insistent call of peace and of sentiment. What she took to be a sign from God might easily be an insidious machination of the devil. There was a quaint look of gentle amusement in Mark's eyes which was certainly disquieting and it was just possible that it was he who had wittingly or unwittingly assumed the role of a guiding providence in the matter. Therefore, she steeled her heart against those subtle whisperings which seemed to lure her on every side to give up the fight to allow herself to drift on this soothing wave which even now was carrying her to a haven where all was peace and quietude and where there was neither strife nor intrigue. Miss Orr, she said abruptly and as repellently as she could, I pray you enlighten my ignorance how many cowardly deeds of this sort stand to your discredit. He smiled quite unperturbed. You think me an adept? He asked quietly. You are not ashamed? She retorted. Not in the least. What have I done? Insulted me at every turn, she said very calmly. What is this detention here alone with you in this strange town away even from the protection of my own serving wench? What is it but an insult? You have shown me plainly enough by every means in your power that you had no liking for me. Even last night she paused because tears of humiliation which she would have given worlds not to shed would come to her eyes and her voice shook in spite of every effort which she made at self-control. Madonna he entreated and suddenly he was quite close to her with one knee almost touching the ground. As you are beautiful so will you not be merciful to a miserable wretch who have been sorely perplexed by all the disdain which you have so generously lavished upon him. Disdain, Missour, surely he broke in gently. You have every right to despise a worthless fellow whom an evil chance hath given you for husband. But have I not been punished enough for daring to accept what the kind goddess did offer me? I had no thought of punishing you, Missour, she said earnestly. When I stood beside you at the altar, I was a broken-hearted woman to whom fate in the person of a miserable assassin had dealt a cruel blow. I loved my cousin, Missour. Oh, I know she broke in quietly. I ought not to speak of this. It is unseemly and perhaps unkind. But I did love him, and he was murdered foully, abominably, wickedly murdered. Not killed in a fair fight, not openly, but in a dark passage, waylaid by a brigand, killed he, the only man who had ever spoken tenderly to me, and killed by one of your own people, a friend of the Prince of Orange, a man whom popular talk hath nicknamed Leatherface. Oh, I know, she added hastily, seeing that instinctively he had drawn away from her and was now staring straight into the fire with a hard expression on his face which she could not fathom. I know that you have no hand in these conspiracies from that indifference rather than loyalty. I believe you have never taken up the cause of rebellion against our sovereign Lord. But tell me, Missour, could I, a young, inexperienced girl, could I dissociate you and yours in my mind from that faction who had sent my kinsman to his death? Could I come to you with a whole heart and a soul freed from all thoughts of hatred and revenge? I meant to do my duty by you, and had you but helped me, I might have succeeded, instead of which your coldness repelled me. I am of the South, Missour. I am not one of your cold, unemotional Netherlanders who can go through life without one thrill of the heart brought on by a tender word or a caress. I was in your house but a few hours, and already my soul was starving, my heart craved for that which you were not able to give. God forgive me, Madonna, he murmured, for a blind insensate fool, but he did not look at her as he said this, and there was a curious dreary tone in his voice so unlike his usual light-hearted gaiety. How you must hate us all, he added with a sigh. I would not hate you, Missour, she said so softly that he scarcely could hear. Your brother Lawrence hath been kind to me, and I know that you take no part in those miserable plots that have treachery and assassination for their ultimate goal. As for the Prince of Orange and his friends, yes I do hate them as I do all pestilential creatures that turn on the hand that feeds them. Madonna, he exclaimed hotly, and suddenly he was quite close to her once again, both her little hands held tightly in his own. His eyes had lost all their merriment, they were full of a glowing ardour which seemed to penetrate into her very soul. Madonna, he continued, may God forgive you, for indeed you know not what you say. Child, child, will you think a moment? Are we not human creatures like yourself? Do we not live and breathe and eat and love just like you do in Spain? Have we no hearts to feel, no eyes to see the misery which our people suffer through the presence of a stranger in our land? Would you see a tutan place his iron heel on Spain and on her people? Would you see the emperor enforce his laws, his faith, his ideals upon your kith and kin? Would you stand by whilst foreign sojoury swaggered about your cities, outraged your women, and plundered your homes? Would you rest content if the faith which God hath given you was made akin to treachery and to rebellion? The hand that feeds the Netherlands, Madonna, he added whilst a bitter, mirthless laugh escaped his lips. Nay, the hand against which the valiant Prince of Orange hath raised his in vengeance is the hand that hath devastated our land, pillaged our cities, and sent our people naked and starving out into the world. Gradually, while he spoke, she had drawn herself away from him, and she would have disengaged her hands too, only that he held them so tightly imprisoned. But Ramon was murdered, Missour, she said slowly, can you expect me to forget that? And even now I would dare swear there are men who would murder the Duke of Alva if they could, or my father. He made no answer to that. Perhaps had she not mentioned her father, he might have tried to tell her that killing was not always murder, but at times the work of a justiciary. Ramon, like the noisome brute that he was, deserved death as no mere ordinary criminal ever had deserved it. But how could he tell her that when in her heart she had evidently kept a picture of the man so totally unlike the vile and execrable reality? So now he only sighed and remained silent. The time had not yet come when this exquisite tender-hearted girl must see the riddles of life solved before her one by one, when she would realize that there is a wider horizon in this world than that which she perceived above a convent wall. She had been brought up with ideals, thoughts, and aspirations that had nothing to do with the great and bitter truths which were proclaimed in every corner of this downtrodden land. Her ideas of king and country, of duty, of loyalty must all be shattered by the crude realities of life ere upon their ruins she built for herself a pure, holier edifice of faith and hope and infinite charity. A tender pity for her innocence and her ignorance filled Mark's heart and soul. A maddening desire seized him to fold her in his arms and carry her away somewhere into a dream world far away where there were no intrigues and no cruelties, no oppression and misery. And yet again he would have loved to go with her there where sorrow and poverty were keenest for he knew that her soul, unbeknown even to herself, was full of that gentle compassion which knows how to alleviate pain just by a look from tear-dammed eyes or a touch from a gentle hand. All that and more his look conveyed to her although he remained silent and she, by a curious intuition, knew just what was in his mind. The impassioned appeal which he had made to her just now told her that he was not the indifferent ne'er-do-well that everyone supposed he felt deeply and keenly, more deeply and keenly may have than those men who plotted murders at dead of night. He was not a blind follower of the Lieutenant Governor or of her father. He saw the misery under which his people groaned and his careless, detached air obviously hid intense bitterness and resentment. But strangely enough she did not blame him for this. Suddenly she seemed to see the whole aspect of this strange country under a new light. The cause of the Netherlanders had in one instant appeared to her from a wholly different point of view. Because Mark was their defender and their champion, she felt that they could not be wholly vile. This may have was not logic, but it was something more potent, more real than logic. The soft insinuating voice of sentiment which whispered, would he champion that cause if it were base? Would that fiery ardor fill his soul for a cause that was unworthy? And Lenora suddenly felt an overwhelming desire to confide in this one man, to place before him all the perplexities which were tearing her soul. Somehow she felt that he would help her out of that tangled labyrinth wherein she had been groping all night and all day. But shyness held her back. She did not know how to broach the subject, how to tell him all about her oath, her obedience to her father, what she had done last night, what she thought it her duty to do in the future. It was all very difficult and Lenora sighed wearily. There is so much in what you said just now, Missour. She began timidly, that I would like to understand more clearly. I am so ignorant. My life has been so restricted. I know so little of the world. Will you let me give you a few lessons? He queried softly. There are so many mazes in life through which it is only possible to find the way by going hand in hand, hand in hand. She sighed, I am a stranger in this strange land, Missour. All that I know of it hath been taught me by those who have no love for it. You are a stranger in this whole world, dear heart, he said with a smile. This little bit of Netherlands is but a tiny corner of it. Its sorrows, its joys, its pain and happiness are but the sorrows and happiness of the rest of the world. One day, perhaps, you will let me take your little hand in mine, and then we would go and explore the whole of this strange world together. I wonder what we would find, she mused. We would find that despite intrigues and cruelty and hatred, there is much in it that is still beautiful and pure. If we went hand in hand, you and I, we would not wander with eyes downcast and seeking in the mud for the noxious things which foul God's creation by their presence. We would look upwards sweet and see the soft blue of our northern skies veiled as it so often is with silvery mess that hold the entire gamut of exquisite colors in their fairy bosoms. We would see the green leaves of the trees turn to russet and gold in the autumn. We would see the linets nesting in the bay trees in the spring. There are many beautiful things in this dreary world of ours, dear heart, but they can only be seen if two pairs of eyes look on them at one and the same time and two pairs of lips whisper together in thankfulness to God. How strange it was to hear him talking like this, Mark Van Rijk, the haunter of taverns and careless profligate. Lenora's eyes, dark, luminous inquiring, were fixed upon him, and gradually, as he spoke, his arms stole closer and closer round her shoulders as it had done two nights ago in Ghent when she had so wantonly turned on him in hatred. Now she felt as if she could go on listening to him for hours and hours, thus alone in this semi-darkness with the glow of dying embers upon his face showing the strong outline of cheek and jaw and the fine sweep of the forehead with the straight brows above those kind gray eyes. She could have listened because she loved the sound of his voice and the quaint foreign intonation wherewith he spoke the Spanish tongue. No, of a truth she did not dislike him. Certainly she had no cause for hatred against him for what had he to do with traitors or with assassins, he who spoke so gently of birds and skies and trees. If you will still let me hold this little hand, dear heart, he whispered now, speaking so low that in order to hear she had to lower her head until his lips were quite close to her ear. We could learn one lesson together which God only teaches to his elect. And what lesson is that? She asked, feigning not to understand, though she knew quite well what the answer would be. That which the nightingale teaches its mate when in May the Hawthorne is in bloom and the west wind whispers among its leaves the lesson of love. Love, she said, with a strange tremor in her voice, the world no longer contains love for me. The world perhaps not, dear sweet, he said more gaily, but there is a heart beating close to yours now, which holds, I swear, an infinity of love for you. And once more, as he spoke, the same magic spell of a while ago descended upon Lenora. It seemed as if for the moment life, the dreary, wretched life of the past few days, had ceased, and a kind of dream existence had begun. And in this dream existence she, Lenora, was all alone with this stranger, this man whom but a few days ago she had not even seen, who had had no part in her life in the peaceful past when she knew nothing of the world beyond the old convent walls at Segovia. Yet now in the dream existence she was alone with him and she was content. Ramon was not there, he had become the past. All the future for her seemed suddenly to be bound up with Mark and she was content. He had spoken of beauty, of skies, of birds, and of the gifts of God, and he still held her hand, and his arm now was right round her, so that she could feel him, drawing her closer and closer to him. The while the magic spell worked upon her senses, and she felt a delicious linger pervading her entire being. Give me your lips, sweetheart, he whispered in her ear, and I'll give you your first lesson, even now. And verily I do believe that Lenora would have yielded here and now content to leave the great solution of her life's riddle in the omnipotent hands of love, forgetting her oath to her father, the death of Ramon, the danger which threatened the Duke of Alva, conspiracies, treacheries, rebellion, everything. What did it all matter? What did the world and its intrigues and its politics count beside the insistent, the wonderful call of love, the call of man to woman, of bird to bird, to mate and to nest, and to be happy, to forget the universe in one embrace, to renounce the kingdoms of the world in the first blissful kiss. For a few seconds Lenora remained quite still, while happiness, the strange and mysterious elf, fluttered softly about the room. It hovered for a while above that inglenook where two young hearts were mutely calling one to another, and it looked down on the beautiful girl with the glowing eyes and parted lips, who with every fiber of her ardent being and the insistence of her youth was ready to capture it, and chance, fate, or its own elusive nature, drove it relentlessly away. How peaceful was the sleepy little town at this moment when dusk finally faded in tonight, the tower bells of the cloth hall chimed the sixth hour. Outside, on the grand place, all had been still, save for the occasional footsteps of a passerby, or the measured tramp of a company of Halberdeers on duty, and now suddenly that peace was broken, the quietude of the town disturbed by piercing woman's shrieks, followed by shouts and curses, uttered loudly by a rough, masculine voice. Mark instinctively jumped to his feet. The cries had become pitiable, and were multiplied by others, which seemed to come from children's throats, and the shouts and curses became more peremptory and more rough. What is it, asked Lenora, not a little frightened? Oh, the usual thing, replied Mark hastily. A woman insulted in the streets, vain protests, rough usage, outrage, and probably murder. We are used to such incidents in Flanders, he added quietly. Already he was halfway across the tapirish. You are going, she queried anxiously, wither. Out into the street he said, can you not hear that a woman is in distress? But what can you do, she urged, the soldiers are there, you cannot interfere, you a netherlander? Yes, I, a netherlander, he said, it is a Flemish woman who is calling for help now. He turned to go, and she, with the same instinct that was moving him, rose to and followed him. The same instinct of protection, his, the man's for the woman who was in distress, hers, the woman's for the man who would pit his strength alone against superior numbers, she overtook him just as he reached the threshold of the tapirish. Beyond it was only the porch, the door of which stood wide open, and beyond that the grand place, the shrieks, and the ever-increasing noise of a scuffle came from an adjacent street close by. You must not go, monsieur, she said insistently, as with both hands, she clung to his arms. What can you do? There is a crowd there, and the soldiers, he smiled and tried very gently to disengage his arm from her clinging, insistent grasp. It will not be the first time, Madonna, he said, with a light laugh, that I have had a scuffle with a posse of soldiery. They sometimes mean no harm, he added reassuringly, seeing the look of anxious terror in her eyes. Many a time has a scuffle ended in jollity at a few words of common sense. Yes, yes, in Ghent, she urged, where you are known, but here, where no one knows you, spies of the Inquisition might be about if they see you interfering in favor of a heretic or a rebel, or, oh, men have been hanged and burned for lesser crimes than that. Ah, he said, looking down with a whimsical smile into her flushed and eager face, that is part of the benevolent rule which our sovereign Lord the King exercises over the low countries. Then seeing that at his flippant words, through which there rang a note of intense bitterness, her eyes had suddenly filled with tears, he murmured tenderly, God bless you, Madonna, for your sweet thoughts of me. I pray you, let me go, I'll come back soon. He added, while a look of triumph flashed up in his eyes, never fear. He ran out quickly into the street. She hesitated, but only for a second. The next she had followed him, without thought that she had neither hood nor mantle, nor that the unseemliness of her conduct would surely have shocked all the great ladies of Spain. The grand place was deserted and dark, only here and there, in the windows of the cloth hall, there was a glimmer of light. For a moment, Lenora paused in the porch, peering out into the gloom, trying to trace whence came the noise of the scuffle, for Mark had already disappeared. Then she ran out swiftly, turning to her right from the porch, till she reached the corner of a narrow street, here an oil lamp fixed into a wall by an iron bracket through a dim circle of light, beyond which the shadows appeared almost impenetrable. It was somewhere in amongst those shadows that a melee between shouting soldiers and shrieking women was taking place. Up to this moment, Lenora had never stopped to reflect as to what she meant or wanted to do. Blind instinct had driven her in the wake of Mark, feeling that he was in danger as indeed he was. A Netherlander these days was in himself always an object of suspicion and interference with Spanish soldiery under any circumstances was indeed likely to lead him into very grave trouble. If the soldiers were arresting or merely molesting a heretic or a rebel, anyone who interfered with them would at once fall under the searching eye of the Inquisition. And there was never a lack of spies on such occasions, the seven silver people who for that paltry daily some spent their lives in reporting treason, listening for it in every tavern and in every back street of every city. But now that she stood here at the street corner, hearing the ever increasing noise of the scuffle close by, hearing the shouts, the cries, the pitiable appeals followed by peremptory commands, she realized how miserably impotent and helpless she was. Yet she could hear Mark's voice speaking now in Spanish and now in Flemish as he tried obviously to understand the situation and to plead for those who were in distress. At first his voice had sounded rough and peremptory. Indeed Lenora could not help but marvel at its commanding quality. Then gradually it became cheerful and its tone turned to one of Mary Benter. The incident indeed was evidently one of those which alas were so usual in the cities and villages of the low countries these days. Two young women coming home down the dark back streets from some farm or silk weaving shop where they had been at work and a posse of half drunken soldiers to whom a Flemish peasant was an acknowledged prey for ribald sport. The women had resisted and tried to flee. They were pursued and rough horseplay had ensued. Then they had screamed and the men had sworn and presently other women and children joined in the scuffle while those who were wise stayed quietly indoors. Horseplay had become a matter of blows followed by threats of arrest and dark hints at heresy, rebellion and the inquisition. The Malay was at its height when Mark interfered. Several blows were still exchanged after that and there was a good deal of swearing and mutual objugation. Lenora, listening, wondered with what skill Mark gradually made those curses turn to facetious remarks, ill-natured at first and uncouth, then more light-hearted and finally grudgingly pleasant. Within five minutes the tumult began to subside. Lenora could hear the women weeping and the soldiers laughing quite good humoredly. How it had all been done, she did not know. Presently from the tramping of feet she gathered that the Malay had broken up. A woman's voice said loudly, God, for guilt! And Lenora thought that indeed God would repay the light-hearted man of the world who had by sheer good humor and compelling personality turned a drama into pleasing farce. Well, friend, she heard a man's voice saying in Spanish, I don't know who you are, but a right good fellow. And I'm not mistaken. Perhaps it was wisest to leave those women alone. I am sure of it, friend, quote Mark Gailey. The common daunt off makes a to-do about street brawling and you might have been blamed and got two days' guard room arrest just for kissing a pair of Flemish wenches. The game was not worth the candle. Even the devil would have no profit in it. Well, said mate, retorted the other lustily, come and have a mug of ale on it with me and my men at the Duke's head down yonder. Thank you, friend, but I put up at the merry beggars and must return thither now, a little later, perhaps, at your service, comrade. There was a pause during which Lenora made up her mind since all tumult and all danger had passed to go back to that inglenook beside the fire and there to wait till Mark returned, to wait so that she might resume with him that conversation of a while ago which had interested her so much. But on the point of turning, she halted. Three words spoken by one of the soldiers had come to her out of the gloom and caused her heart to stop its beating. You are hurt, one man had said, in a kind, gruff way, evidently in deep concern. No, no, it's nothing, Mark replied, a small scratch, in the scuffle just now. But you are bleeding. And if I am, friend, it won't be the first time in my life I tell you it's nothing. At it, Mark, with obvious impatience, good night, good night, came in chorus from the men. The measured tramp of booted feet, slowly dying away in the distance down the narrow street, told Lenora that at last the men had gone. But Mark was hurt, and she stood waiting at the street corner, for she heard his step coming slowly toward her. He was hurt, and had made light of it. But one of the soldiers had remarked that he was bleeding, and she waited now for him, dreading, yet vaguely hoping that he was really wounded, oh, only slightly, but still wounded, so that she might wait on him. So strange is a woman's heart, when first it wakes from the dreams, the unrealities, the fairy worlds of childhood. With beating heart Lenora listened to that slowly advancing footstep, how slow it seemed. But if it had lost that elasticity, which but a few moments ago had carried Mark bounding down this same street, now it dragged and finally came to a halt, just as Mark's figure emerged into the shaft of light, thrown along the wall by the street lamp, close to which Lenora was standing. She smothered a little cry, and ran forward to meet him, for she had seen his figure sway and halt, then lean heavily against the wall. You are heard, she exclaimed, even before she reached him. At the sound of her voice he pulled himself together, and in a moment had straightened out his shoulders, and was walking quite steadily toward her. Madonna, he cried in astonishment, what are you doing here? Oh, I, I, she murmured, a little ashamed now, that she met his pleasant gray eyes fixed so kindly upon her. I heard the noise, I became anxious. It was only a street brawl, he said, not fit for you to witness. Even now, though he spoke quite firmly, his voice sounded weary and weak. You are heard, she reiterated. Hurt, no, he laughed, but the laughter died on his lips. He had to steady himself against the wall, for a sudden dizziness had seized him. I pray you take my arm, she insisted. Can you walk as far as the tavern? Indeed I can, he retorted, on my honor, tis a mere scratch. And you'll not take my arm, she said peremptorily, I'll call for help. Heaven forbid, he exclaimed gaily, I should be laughed at for a malingerer. Shall we return to the tavern, Madonna, and will you not take my arm? He held his right arm out to her, but as he did so, she noticed that he kept the other behind his back. She did take his arm, however, it was obviously best, since he was more severely hurt than he cared to admit, to go at once back to the tavern and dress the wound there with water and clean linen. They walked in silent, side by side. It was only a matter of a hundred yards or so, and after a very few moments, they reached the porch of the merry beggars. And as the buxom hostess was standing there, vaguely wondering what had happened to her guests, Lenora at once dispatched her off for a basin of clean, warm water and her very softest linen towels. Then she went into the tavern, and Mark followed her. The room was as peaceful, as deserted as it had been a while ago. The host himself had in the interval made up the fire, and it was blazing brightly, lighting up the little inglenook with the hideback chair wherein Lenora had sat, and the low one drawn so close to it. Turning to Mark, she noticed that he still kept his left arm resolutely behind his back. Our good hostess won't belong with the water, she said. In the meanwhile, I pray you let me tend to your wound. It was nothing, Madonna, I entreat you. He said, with Mark's impatience, a blow from a halberd caught me on the arm. I scarcely feel it now. Let me see, she commanded. Then as he made no movement to obey, she, half crying with anxiety and half laughing with excitement, ran swiftly round him, and in an instant she had hold of his left hand, and with gentle pressure compelled him to yield it to her. He tried to struggle, but the pain in his arm rendered it somewhat helpless. I insist, she said gently, and clung to his hand, supporting the forearm as she did so. Your sleeve is covered with blood, she exclaimed. It is nothing, he persisted obstinately. But for the moment she was the stronger of the two. Short of doing her violence, he could not prevent her from holding his hand with one of hers and with the other and doing the buttons at his wrist. Then, with utmost gentleness, she detached the shirt which was sticking to a deep, gaping wound that stretched from the wrist right up to the elbow. Oh, but this is terrible, she cried. No blow from a halberd would have inflicted such a wound. Oh, why does not that woman hurry, she added, whilst tears of vexation and impatience rose to her eyes. There was nothing to hand wherewith she could staunch the wound. Even momentarily, every second was precious. I have a knowledge of such matters, she said gently, at the convent. We tended on many wounded soldiers when they came to us hurt from the wars. This is no fresh wound, Missouri, she added slowly, but an old and very severe one dealt not so very long ago by a dagger probably which tore the flesh and muscle right deeply to the bone. It had not healed completely, the blow from the halberd caused it to reopen and, but the next words remained frozen on her lips. Even whilst she spoke, she had gradually felt a death-like feeling, like an icy hand gripping her heart and tearing at its strings. An awful dizziness seized her. She looked up, still holding Mark's hand and gazed straight into his face. He too was pale as the dead ashes in the grate. His whole face had become wax-like in its rigidity. Only his eyes remained alive and glowing, fixed into her own, now with a look which held a world of emotion in its depth. A passionate tenderness and mute appeal, and a vowel, and a yearning, and with it all an infinity of despair. And she, thus looking into that face, which only lived through the eyes, saw all around her the narrow white-washed walls of the tapridge fading away into darkness. In their stead she saw a narrow passage, dark and gloomy, and in its remotest and darkest corner a figure cowered, clad in dark clothes from head to foot, and wearing a mask of leather upon its face, the assassin waiting for his prey. And she saw Ramon, handsome, light-hearted, debonair Ramon, her kinsman and her lover, standing unsuspecting by. She saw it all, the picture as her father had painted it for her edification, the assassin lying in wait. Ramon, unsuspecting, she saw the murder committed there in the dark, the stealthy, surreptitious blow. She saw Ramon totter and fall, but before falling turn on the dastardly murderer, and with hand already have paralyzed by oncoming death, deal him a deep and gashing wound in the left forearm with his dagger which tore flesh and muscle between elbow and wrist right through to the bone. And while she looked straight into his eyes and yet saw nothing but the vision of that awful deed, her lips murmured automatically the four accusing words. Then it was you, he had not for one second lost his hold upon himself since that awful moment when he realized that she guessed. He had no idea that Don Ramon at the point of death had spoken of the wound which he had inflicted on the man who had meted out summary justice to him for his crimes. But now he knew that the secret which he would have buried with him in a bottomless grave was known to her to the woman whom he had learned to love with his whole soul. She knew now and henceforth they must be not only strangers but bitter enemies. Nothing, not even perhaps his own death, would ever wipe away the sense of utter abhorrence wherewith she regarded him now. He took his last look of her as one does of one infinitely dear who sinks into the arms of death. He drank in every line of her exquisite face the childlike contour of chin and throat, her alabaster like skin, the exquisite mouth which he was destined now never to touch with his yearning lips. In this supreme moment his love for her only just in its infancy rose to its full effulgence. He knew now that he worshipped her and knew that never while the shadow of her dead kinsmen stood between them would he hold her in his arms. Then it was you she murmured again and with those fateful words pronounced his condemnation and her own indomitable hate. Madonna, he entreated, speaking with the infinite tenderness and pity which filled his heart, will you deign to listen if I try to plead my own cause? But no look of softness came into her eyes. They were glowing and dry and unseeing. She did not see him, not Mark, her husband, as he stood there now before her. She saw him cowering in a dark corner, clad in somber clothes and wearing a leather mask. She saw him with an assassin's dagger in his hand and she saw Ramon lying dead at his feet. Then it was you she said forth a third time and he bent his head in mute of owl. For a few seconds longer she stood there rigid and silent, slowly her fingers opened and his hand, which she had held, dropped away to his side. A shudder went right through her. She tottered and nearly fell, only saving herself by holding on to the corner of the table. He made a movement as if he would try and support her, as if he would put his arms around her and pillow her against his breast. But with an expression of supreme loathing she drew away from him and with a pitiable cry half of hatred and wholly of misery she turned and fled from the room. End of Chapter 10 Chapter 11 of Leatherface, A Tale of Old Flanders This is a LibriVox recording. A LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, recording by Dion Jones, Salt Lake City, Utah. Leatherface, A Tale of Old Flanders by Baroness Orksie Chapter 11. Utter Loneliness What happened directly after that? Lenora did not know. Consciousness mercifully left her, and when she woke once more she found herself sitting in a small room which smelled of lavender and warm linen beside a fire which burned low in a wide open hearth. She opened her eyes and looked inquiringly around her. The room was dark, only faintly lighted by the lamp which hung from a beam in the ceiling. A young girl was busy in a corner of the room bending over an ironing board. Does the noble lady feel better? She asked kindly, but with all the deference which those of the subject race were expected to show to their superiors, she spoke in broken French. Most women and men who served in the Inns and Taverns in the cities of the Low Countries were obliged to know some other language besides their own, seeing that the Taperusian were frequented by Spanish, French, and German soldiery. I am quite well, I think they replied Lenora gently, but will thou tell me where I am and how I came to be sitting here when she paused for with a rush the recollection of the past terrible moments came sweeping back upon her? It seemed as if consciousness would flee from her once again. The noble lady must have felt dizzy, said the girl quietly, and sent me in with the warm water for the noble Signor's wound, and I saw the noble lady just running out of the Taperage to the porch and then fall in a swoon. I was frightened, but the noble Signor ordered me quickly to tie a towel around his wounded arm, and then he carried the noble lady up here to a nice warm room where he told me that may have she should deign to spend the night. Oh, the noble Signor is grievously wounded, he silence girl, cried Lenora suddenly, for indeed with every word the child seemed to be touching and aching plays in her heart. No, no, she added more gently, seeing that the girl, abashed and not a little frightened, had gone back in silence to her ironing board. I did not mean to be unkind, but as thou seest, I am not well. Come, tell me what happened after the noble Signor carried me up here, and waited on him noble lady, said the girl, for the wound in his arm bled grievously, but he was impatient and soon ordered her to leave him alone. Then I came up here and did all I could to bring the noble lady round. I tried vinegar and burned feathers under the noble lady's nose, but I was not frightened. I knew the noble lady would revive, and the leech lives but two doors off. We were all of us anxious about the noble Signor because of his wound, and he looked so pale and haggard, so Aunt and I soon ran down to him again. We found him sitting by the table, just sealing down a letter which he had been writing. I am going, Mevru, he says to Aunt quite curtly, take thine orders from the noble lady, she will tell thee her own wishes. He gave her some money and a letter which he ordered her to give to the noble lady as soon as she deigned to wake, and then he took his hat and mantle, and went out by the porch, just like that, all alone, into the darkness, whether he did not deign to say, We are just poor people, and we did not dare to ask, but the wind has sprung up, and it hath begun to rain, the night will be rough, and the noble Signor is not fit to hold a horse with his arm in such a grievous state. Where is the letter, asked Lenora curtly, from the pocket of her apron the girl produced a letter folded into four and sealed down with wax, which she handed to the noble Spanish lady with a respectful curtsy. Aunt told me to give it to the noble lady, she said, as soon as she deigned to wake. Is thine aunt the hostess of this inn, queried Lenora? She was fingering the letter, feeling a curious hesitancy and reluctance to read its contents, and asked a few idle questions whilst she made an effort to control her nerves. Yes, at the noble lady's service, replied the girl. Art of this city, then? No, so please you, I come from Ghent. From Ghent? What is thy name, then? Greta, so pleased the noble lady, whispered the girl. Then, as the noble lady said nothing more, but sat just quite still, with the unopened letter in her hand, Greta went back to her ironing board. Lenora watched her mechanical movements for a while, a mist was before her eyes, and she could not see very clearly. But somehow she liked the look of Greta, who was from Ghent, whom she would have liked to question further, only that when she tried to speak, the words seemed to get choked in her throat. All of a sudden she broke the seal upon the letter, and swept away the mist before her eyes with an impatient movement of the hand. Madonna, he had written, I would not leave you thus all alone in this strange place, to which an act of folly on my part did bring you, but that I read my dismissal in your eyes. The sight of me is hateful to you, alas, this I can understand. By the time you read this I shall be far away, but anon upon the road I shall meet the ox wagon with your effects and your serving woman. It cannot be far from here, as the driver had orders to put up in this town for the night. I will speed him on as fast as he can, and then tomorrow you can continue your journey in peace, for the driver will arrange for an escort to accompany you as far as Brussels. He will have his orders. In the meanwhile I have ventured to slip a sealed packet containing money into the pocket of your gown. It was done while you lay unconscious in my arms. I pray you do not scruple to take it. The money is yours, a part of your dowry, an account of which my father will render unto yours as soon as may be. In the meanwhile you are free to come and go or stay in this town just as you were in Brussels or in Ghent. Your pass and permit, as well as mine, were in perfect order. The dispute with the provost at the gate, the difficulty about the permits, was but a ruse on my part so that I might spend a time in your company under the pretense that we were not allowed to continue our journey to Brussels. To ask your forgiveness for this as well as for other graver matters were useless, I know. To ask you to erase the events of the past two weeks from your memory were perhaps an insult. As for me, I shall look upon it as a sacred duty never to offend you with my presence as long as I live, but I lay mine undying homage at your feet. Mark van Rijk. The letter dropped into her lap. For a while she sat, staring straight into the fire. The girl was putting away her ironing board and folding away the linen, ranging it carefully in the press. Having made the room quite tidy, she asked timidly, will the noble lady deign to take supper? But she had to repeat her question three times at intervals before Lenora gave answer. What, she said vaguely, like one waking from a dream. Yes. No. What did say, girl? Will the noble lady deign to take supper? Bring me some milk and bread, replied Lenora, and can I sleep here tonight? In this bed, said the girl, and she pointed to the recess in the wall, where snow-white sheets and pillows seemed literally to invite repose, if the noble lady will deign to be satisfied. I shall be glad to rest here, said Lenora, with a woe-begone little sigh, for I am very tired. Anon, a wagon, will be here with my effects and my serving woman. Send her to me directly. She arrives. Her voice was absolutely toneless and dull. She spoke like one who is infinitely weary or in utter hopelessness, but the girl, whose kind heart ached for the beautiful lady, did not dare to offer comfort. She prepared to leave the room in order to fetch the frugal supper. Lenora turned her head once more toward the fire. Her eyes caught sight of the letter, which still lay in her lap. With a sudden fierce gesture, she picked it up, crushed it between her fingers, and threw it into the flames. A few minutes later, Greta came back carrying a tray with fine wheat and bread, a jar of milk, and some fresh cheese, her round young face beaming with benevolence and compassion. If the noble lady will deign to eat, she said, as she put the tray down upon the table, the noble lady will feel less weary, and then, as soon as the ox wagon arrives with the serving woman, the noble lady could go to bed. Wait one moment, said Lenora, as the girl once more prepared to go. I want a courier now at once to take an urgent message as far as Brussels. Can you find me one? There are four butchers in the town, noble lady, who deliver all the messages for three or four leagues round. Uncle can go and see if one of them is inclined to go, but the night is very rough. I will give the man, who will take my message to Brussels, this night five golden dukots, said Lenora, peremptorily. Greta opened her eyes wide with astonishment. Five golden dukots, she exclaimed ecstatically, of a truth the poor trading folk of Dendermond had never seen quite so much money all at once and in the same hand. I doubt not, but that Michael Danes, the butcher at the sign of the calf's head in the Mirham, will be glad to earn the money, and he hath a very strong horse. Then tell your uncle, child, to go at once to him and to give him this letter, which he is to deliver without fail, before ten o'clock this night. From the bosom of her gown she drew the letter which she had written during the previous night and handed it to the young girl. The letter she added slowly is for Monsieur Don Juan de Vargas, chief of the council of his highness, the lieutenant governor. He lodges in Brussels at the sign of the blue firmament over against the brood house. Let your uncle explain to Michael Danes, the butcher, that if this letter is not delivered before ten o'clock this evening, he will be made to suffer the severe penalty imposed by the law on all those who neglect to do their duty to the state. Indeed, this last peremptory order was necessary for Greta, hearing to whom the letter was addressed, hardly dared to touch it. Indeed, there would be no fear that Michael Danes would fail to execute the noble lady's commands with punctuality and utmost speed. The name of Don Juan de Vargas was one that would make any man fly to the ends of the earth if ordered so to do. A message or letter to or from him would of a surety be delivered punctually even if the heavens were on the point of falling or the earth about to open. To Greta, the name meant something more than that. It was the dreaded symbol of an awful reality, a reality which for her had meant the terrors of that awful night when the Spanish officer threatened and insulted her and catring. When death or outrage stared them both in the face and the awful catastrophe was only averted by the interference of the mysterious leather face, so she took the letter which was addressed to one who was even greater, even more to be feared than the Spanish officer. She took it with a trembling hand as she would some sacred symbol, then she curtsied and went out of the room. Lenora rose and followed her into the passage where she stood listening until she heard Greta calling to her uncle and aunt. The three of them then spoke together in Flemish, which Lenora hardly understood, but she caught the names Michael Danes and Missour Don Juan de Vargas and then the words spoken very emphatically by Greta before 10 o'clock this night. She went back to her room and closed the door softly behind her. So then the die was cast. There was an end to all the irresolution, the heart aching, the tearing of soul and nerves upon the rack of doubt and indecision, hopeless misery and deathly bitterness filled Lenora's heart now. She had been fooled and deceived, fooled by soft words and conjoaling ways by lies and treachery, and she had very nearly succumbed to the monstrous deceit. Fool, fool that she was, she reiterated the word aloud over and over again, for there was a weird pleasure in lashing her pride with the searing thongs of that humiliating memory. Had not God himself intervened and torn the mask from the traitor's face, she might even now be lying in his arms. With the kiss of an assassin upon her lips, a shudder of loathing went right through her. She shivered as if stricken with uggy, and all the while a blush of intense shame was scorching her cheeks. Fool, fool, she had stood with her father beside the dead body of her lover, her lover and kinsman, and there she had registered an oath which a few conjoaling words had well nigh caused her to break. Surely the dull aching misery which she was enduring at this moment was but a very mild punishment for her perjury. She had allowed Ramon's murderer to cajole her with gentle words to lull her into apathy in the face of her obvious duty to her king and to the state. He had played the part of indifference when all the while he, above all others, was steeped to the neck in treason and in rebellion. He, the spy of the Prince of Orange, the hired assassin, the miserable cowardly criminal, and she had listened to him, had sat close beside him by the hearth and allowed his arm to creep around her shoulders, the arm which had struck Ramon down in the dark. The arm she no longer doubted it now, which would be hired to strike the Duke of Alva or her own father with the same abominable treachery. Oh, the shame of it, the hideous abominable shame! He had guessed last night that she was on the watch, that she had seen and heard the odious plotting against the life of the Lieutenant Governor. He had guessed, and then, by tortuous means and lying tongue, had sought to circumvent her, had lured her into this city, and then, by dint of lies and more lies and lies again, had hoped to subdue her to his will by false kisses and sacrilegious love. And she had been on the point of sacrificing her country's needs and the life of the Duke of Alva to the blandishments of a traitor. Oh, the shame of it, the terrible burning shame! But God had intervened, at least of this she could have no doubt. All day she had prayed for an indication from above. She had prayed for guidance. She had prayed for a sign, and it had come. Awesome, terrible, and absolutely convincing. God, in unmasking the one traitor who had well-nigh touched her heart, had shown her plainly that her duty lay in unmasking them all, traitors, traitors, every one of them. And God had given her an unmistakable sign that he desired to punish them all. Did she neglect those signs now? She would be the vilest traitor that ever defiled the earth. It had all been so clear. The Malay in the streets marks interference, the blow from the halberd which had reopened the half-heeled wound, his momentary weakness, and her sudden vision of the truth. Thank God it was not too late. The meeting was to be held this night at the house of Mesur Denut, the procurator general, the Prince of Orange, and all the other rebels would make the final arrangements for taking up arms against the king and murdering or capturing the lieutenant governor. This meeting at any rate, she, Lenora, had frustrated. Mark of a surety had already warned the conspirators before he started on the journey, and Lawrence too, after he received her letter, the meeting of a certainty would be postponed. But even so, and despite all warnings, the band of assassins could not escape justice. Her letter would be in her father's hands this night. In a few hours he and through him, the lieutenant governor, would know every phase of the infamous plot which had the murder of his highness for its first aim. They would know the names of the two thousand traitors who were waiting to take up arms against the king. They would know of William of Orange's presence in Ghent, of his recruiting campaign there, of the places where he kept stores of arms and ammunition. All that she had set forth clearly and succinctly omitting nothing. Oh, her father would know how to act. He would know how to crush the conspiracy and punish the traitors. Would he also know how to lay his powerful hand on the mysterious leather face? The man of dark deeds and cruel treacherous blows, the murderer of Ramon de Linea, the one whom others paid to do the foul deeds which shunned the light of day. Lenora leaned back against the cushions of her chair. Physical nausea had overcome her at the thought of all that she had done. She had served the king and had served the state. She had undoubtedly saved the life of the Duke of Alva and therefore rendered incalculable service to her country. Great. She was the means whereby a band of pestilential traitors and rebels would be unmasked and punished, and among these she must reckon, Mark Van Rijk, her husband. Oh, him she hated with a real personal hatred, far stronger and more implacable than that wherewith she regarded impersonally all the enemies of the king. He seemed to her more cruel, more cowardly, more despicable than any man could be. Yes, she had done all that, and now her one hope was that she might die this night having done her duty and kept her oath and then been left unutterably lonely and wretched in hopeless desolation. The night was rough, as Greta had foretold. Gusts of wind blew against the window frames and made them rattle and creak with a weird and eerie sound. The rain beat against the panes and down the chimney making the fire sizzle and splutter and putting out the merry little tongues of flame. Lenora drank some milk and tried to eat the bread, but every morsel seemed to choke her. She went to the window and drew aside the thick curtains and sat in the seat in the embrasure for she felt restless and stifled, and on she threw open one of the casements. The rain beat in against her face and bare neck, but this she did not mind. She was glad to cool her head and face a little. The grand place looked gloomy and dark. Most of the lights in the cloth hall opposite were extinguished. Only in a few windows they still glimmered feebly. Lenora caught herself counting those lights. There were two small ones in the dormer windows at the top and one in a tall window in the floor below. And right down, on a level with the street, the main door stood wide open and showed a long, shallow streak of light. One, two, up above, they looked like eyes. Then one in the middle that was the nose, all awry and out of the center. And below the long mouth, like a huge grin, and the roof looked like a huge hat with a tower like a feather. The more Lenora looked into those lights opposite, the more like a grinning face did they seem until the whole thing got on her nerves and she started laughing. Laughing. She laughed until her sides ached and her eyes were full of tears. She laughed though her head was splitting with pain and the nerves of her face ached with intolerable agony. She laughed until her laughter broke into a sob and she fell forward with her hands upon the window sill, her burning forehead upon her hands, the rain and wind beating upon her head, her neck, her back. Her hair was soon wet through, its heavy strands fell away from the pins and combs that confined them and streamed down like a golden cascade all about her shoulders, the while she sobbed out her heart in misery and wretchedness. The clock of the Cloth Hall Tower chimed the ninth hour. Lenora raised her head and once more peered out into the night. Nine o'clock, if Michael Danes had done his duty, he must be more than halfway to Brussels by now. It almost seemed to Lenora's super-sensitive nerves at this moment that she could hear the tramp of his horse's hooves upon the muddy road. Hammer, hammer, hammer. Surely, surely she could hear it or was it her own heartbeats that she was counting? Hammer, hammer, hammer. Two horses, each with a rider, were speeding along the road, one to Brussels, Michael Danes, the butcher messenger bearing the letter for Don Juan de Vargas, which would raise in its trail a harvest of death for traders and along the road to Ghent, Mark speeding to, to warn those traders to remain in hiding or to flee while there was yet time, for justice was on their track. Mark had gone to Ghent of this, Lenora was sure she had burned his letter, but she remembered its every word. He spoke of meeting the ox wagon, which was on its way from Ghent, besides which, of course, he was bound to go back. Was he not the paid spy of the Prince of Orange, his mentor, and his friend? And mentally Lenora strained her ears to listen, to hear which of those two riders would first reach his destination, and as she listened, it seemed as if that monotonous hammer, hammer, was beating against her heart, and with every blow was crushing to death more of her life, more of her youth, and all of her hopes of happiness. Ines, tired out with the jolting of the wagon, went to the skin, fagged and cold, found her mistress still sitting by the open window with streaming hair and eyes glowing as with inward fever. The devoted soul very quickly forgot her own discomfort in view of her young mistress's sorry plight. She chafed the ice-cold hands and combed the dripping hair. She took off the heavy gown and the leather shoes and silk stockings. She bathed the hot brow and little cold feet, and finally got Lenora into bed, and had the satisfaction of seeing her smile. There now, my saint, she said, cheerily, you feel better, do you not? I tell you when I met Monsieur van Rijk, and he told me that you were here and that we were to get to you at once. I nearly swooned with fright. I wanted to ask him a dozen questions, but he had ridden away out into the darkness before I could speak a single word. The pillow was fresh and smelt sweetly of lavender. Lenora had closed her eyes, and a sense of physical well-being was, despite heartache and mental agony, gradually creeping into her bones. Where did you meet Monsieur van Rijk, I know, she asked quietly. Oh, along way from here, my saint, we did not start from Ghent until four o'clock in the afternoon, and have been jogging along at foot pace ever since. Oh, these interminable roads and horrible jolting wagons, it was about two hours ago that we came on, Monsieur van Rijk, riding like one possessed. Was he riding toward Ghent? Toward Ghent, my saint, and as I told you, as soon as he had given Jan his orders, he flew by like the wind. The roads were quite lonely after that. I tell you, my saint, I was passing glad that we had a good escort to mounted men, you know, road beside the wagon, or I should have been mightily afraid of malefactors. You gave the sealed packet to Monsieur Lawrence van Rijk, as asked Lenora, as I had directed. I gave him the packet two hours after you had started. And what did he say? He said nothing, my saint. With a wary sigh, Lenora turned her head away. She kept her eyes closed, resolutely, and after a while, Ines thought that she slept. So she tiptoed quietly out of the room, having drawn the coverlet well over her mistress's form. She left the lamp in the room, for she had enough understanding to know that Lenora was perturbed and anxious, and in times of anxiety, darkness is oft an evil counselor. Please visit LibriVox.org, recording by Dion Jines, Salt Lake City, Utah. Leatherface, A Tale of Old Flanders, by Baroness Orksie, Chapter 12, Reprisals It is to thee, Signore de Varnuik, that excellent and faithful chronicler, that we are indebted for the most detailed account of all the events which occurred in the city of Ghent during those few memorable days in October. The weather, he tells us, had been perpetually rainy, and the days were drying in rapidly, for it was then the nineteenth of the month, and what with the sky so perpetually overcast it was nearly dark, when close upon five o'clock in the afternoon, the ensigns of the companies of Waloon Soldierry first entered the city by the Wallport. They demanded admittance in the name of the king, the regent and the lieutenant governor, and the guard at the gate would certice never have ventured to refuse what they asked. At first the townsfolk were vastly entertained at seeing so many troops, nothing was further from their mind than the thought that these had been sent into the city with evil intent. So the gaffers and gossips stood about in the streets and open places, staring at the fine pageant and the women and children, gaped at the soldiers from the windows of their houses, all in perfect good humor, and little dreaming of the terrible misery which these soldiers were bringing in their train into the beautiful city of Ghent. No one thought of civil strife then. In the forefront marched men and young boys who carried javelins in their hands and had round shields swung upon their arm. These shields were bordered with a rich fringe of crimson silk, and they glittered like steel in the damp atmosphere. After these men, a company of halberdeers from the garrisons of Mecklen and Elost, and they looked splendid in their striped doublets, their plumed bonnets slung behind their backs, their enormous boots reaching halfway up their thighs. In the mists of them rode the master of the camp on his cream-charger. The ends of his crimson and yellow scarf, soaked through with rain and driven by the wind, flapped unremittingly against his steel cross, whilst the plumes on his felt hat hung bedraggled into his face. Then came the archipassiers, marching five abreast, and there were several thousands of them, for it took half an hour for them all to cross the bridge. These were followed by a vast number of elegant foot soldiers carrying their huge lances upon their shoulders, well armed, magnificently accoutered, their armor highly polished, and richly engraved, and wearing gauntlets and steel bonnets. Finally came three companies of artillery with culverines and falconettes, and with five wagons, and behind them the masked drummers and fifers who brought up the rear playing gay music as they marched. The troops assembled on the couter, which was thronged to overflowing with gaffers and idlers. Everyone was talking and justing then. No one had a thought of what was to come. No one looked upon these gaily decked troops with any sinister prescience of coming evil. They were nearly all Walloons from the provinces of Antwerp and Brabant, and many of them spoke the Flemish tongue, in addition to their own, and when after inspection they stood or walked at ease on the couter, the girls exchanged Jess and Mary Sallys with them. Two hours later the Duke of Alva entered the city. It was a very dark night, but the rain had left off. The Lieutenant Governor had a company of lancers with him, and these were Spanish, every man of them. One hundred torch bearers accompanied the Duke and his escort, and they had much difficulty in keeping their torches alight in the damp night air. The flames spluttered and sizzled, and the men waved the torches about so that sparks flew about in every direction to the grave danger of the peaceable citizens who were in the foremost ranks of the crowd. It was to be supposed that the High Bailiff and sheriffs of the city had been warned of the arrival of his highness, for they met him at the Wallport, attired despite the threatening weather in their magnificent civic robes. The Duke, who rode a black charger, paused just inside the gates and listened in silence to the loyal address which these dignitaries presented to him. The sizzling torches threw a weird, unsteady light upon the scene, distorting every form into a grotesque shape, half concealing, half illuminating. The stern face of the Lieutenant Governor draped in his velvet robe. When the loyal address had been duly presented and further speeches of welcome delivered by the senior sheriff and by the shout, the Lieutenant Governor demanded that the keys of the city be within the hour brought to him on the cooter, where he would be inspecting the troops. This demand greatly astonished the sheriffs and aldermen, but they did not dare to raise any objections and promised that they would most dutifully comply with his highness's request. With my commands, the Duke corrected them curtly, nor would he dismiss the gravesignors, but kept them kneeling there before him in the mud until they had humbly assured him that they would execute his commands, whereupon the Duke proceeded to the cooter. The troops had been aligned for his inspection, and a very gay and gaudy throng they looked in the flickering torchlight. All the houses round the place were lighted up from within by now, and crowds thronged in from all the side streets. It was many years since Ghent had seen so gay a sight. There were three hundred torchbearers on the parade ground by now, each with huge resin torches, and so brightly illumined was the place that you could have deciphered a letter out in the open, just as easily as you would in daylight. Lances and hullbirds held erect formed a shimmering background to the picture, like a forest of straight tall stems, and their metal heads glimmered like little tongues of fire, throwing out strange and unexpected flashes of light as the men moved who held them. In the center of the picture, the Duke of Alva, on horseback, the endurance of the man was absolutely wonderful. He had ridden all the way from Brussels that day, starting at daybreak, a matter of nine leagues and more. He had tired two horses out, but not himself, and he was a man of sixty. The chronicler goes on to tell us that the Duke's face looked grim and determined, but not fatigued, and in his prominent eyes under their drooping lids was a glitter like steel, hard and cruel and triumphant, too. He held the reins of his charger with one hand, the other was on his hip. He wore a felt hat, which he had pulled down upon his brow, and a huge cape of dark woolen stuff lined with purple silk, which covered his shoulders, and fell right round him over his saddle-bow. A group of Cavaliers surrounded him in fantastic multicolored doublets and hoes, all slashed and pinked, and enormous bonnets covered with gigantic plumes, and behind these stood the standard bearers. The autumn wind had caught the foals of the huge ensigns which were grouped in half-dozens close together so that the great foals interlocked from time to time and spread themselves out like a monster moving, waving mass of crimson and yellow with the devices of the companies embroidered thereon in black and silver. It was indeed a fine and picturesque spectacle arranged with a view to making it impressive and to strike awe into the hearts of the citizens. The civic dignitaries had returned by now, and the High Bailiff had brought the keys of the town upon a velvet cushion. He and the ten sheriffs and the shout, the fifteen road-shopping, who were the city counsellors and the shoppans who were the aldermen, all approached the Lieutenant Governor with back nearly bent double in their loyalty and humility. But when they were within speaking distance of the Duke, they all had to kneel just as before in the mud and the dirt. The master of the camp was there to direct them, and they had not the pluck to resist. Then the High Bailiff was made to advance alone with the cushion in both his hands and upon the cushion the keys of the city, and he was made to kneel close to the Duke's stirrup and humbly present him with the keys. The Lieutenant Governor said curtly, tis well, and ordered the chief gentleman of his bodyguard to take possession of the keys. Then he said, in a loud voice, so that everyone could hear, The gates of this city shall be closed this night, and will so remain until such time as the order which I am about to give to the inhabitants is complied with. There was a prolonged roll of drums, and the gentleman of the bodyguard rode away from the place with a company of halberdeers, and he carried the keys of the city with him. He was going to close the gates of the city as the Lieutenant Governor directed. When the roll of the drums had died away, there was a moment silence on the huge overcrowded counter through which you might have heard a thousand hearts beating in sudden deathly anxiety. Here then was no ordinary pageant, no mere display of soldiery and of arms such as the Spaniards were over fond of, something momentous was about to happen which in these days of perpetual strife and continuous oppression could but mean sorrow and humiliation to this proud city and to her freedom loving children. The high bailiff and the shout and the town counsellors were all kept kneeling, though they were elderly men, most of them, and the ground was very damp, and the people crowded in all round the soldiers as near as they could in order to hear what his highness wished to say. Citizens of Ghent, he began in his harsh and strident voice which could be heard from end to end of the counter. It has come to my knowledge that William of Nassau, Prince of Orange, is dwelling in this city, and that contrary to the ordinance of our sovereign Lord the King, he hath attempted to levy troops within these gates for an unlawful purpose. Those who have thus in defiance of all law and order enrolled themselves under a standard of rebellion and have taken up arms against our sovereign Lord and King will be dealt with summarily. But in the meanwhile, understand that anyone who henceforth harbors under his roof the said William of Nassau, Prince of Orange, or assists or aids him to leave this city is guilty of rebellion and will be punished with death. Understand also that it is my desire that the person of the Prince of Orange be delivered unto me within 48 hours at the Castile where I shall be lodging, and that I have ordered that the gates of the city be closed until the expiration of that time. And finally understand that if within 48 hours the person of William of Nassau, Prince of Orange, is not delivered unto me, then will the whole city of Ghent be guilty of treason and rebellion, and every man, woman, and child in it will be punishable with death, and the town itself will be dealt with as summarily as were Mons and Valencians and Meklin. God bless our gracious and merciful King. He raised his hat and lifted his face up to heaven, and his lips were seen to move as if in prayer. The master of the camp gave the signal for a huge and prolonged roll of drums which echoed from end to end of the couter and into every corner of the city, and all the soldiers set up a lusty shout of God bless our sovereign Lord and King. But the people were silent, no one uttered a word, no one joined in the shouting. Men looked at one another with scared wide open eyes. The boldest had become as pale as death. Some of the women swooned with terror. Others broke into terrified sobs. Even the children realized that something very terrible had occurred. They clung weeping to their mother's skirts. The lieutenant governor, having spoken, wheeled round his horse and rode slowly across the couter, closely surrounded by his bodyguard and his torchbearers. Just then, so Monsieur de Varnawik assures us the wind, which had been very boisterous all the evening, suddenly dropped, and the air became very still and strangely oppressive. A few huge drops of rain fell, making a loud patter upon the steel bonnets and curises of the soldiers, and then a streak of vivid lightning rent the black clouds right out over the lay, and a terrific clap of thunder shook the very houses of the city upon their foundation. The Duke of Alvis Horace reared and nearly threw him. There was momentary confusion, too, among the bodyguard. Those who were devout Catholics promptly crossed themselves. Those who were superstitious at once saw in that curious and unexpected phenomenon a warning from God himself. Then the rain came down in torrents and speedily dispersed the crowd. The civic magistrates and counselors were at last able to struggle to their feet. Most of them felt cramped from the lengthy kneeling. They assembled in groups and whispered with one another. The townsfolk looked on them with eyes full of anxiety. It was to them that the poorer people must look for help in this awful calamity which threatened them all. After the Lieutenant Governor and his courtage had left the couter, the soldiers broke ground and ran wild throughout the city. No special lodgings had been allotted to them, but apparently they had been told that they could quarter themselves where they listed. They began by taking possession of the covered markets, and this could easily have been tolerated, but many of them raided the houses of peaceful citizens in a manner most unseemly and often brutal, making terrible noise and confusion throughout the city. They treated the owners of the houses as if the latter were not but menials, and they themselves, the masters of the place, so much so indeed that several families left their homes in the possession of the soldiery and took refuge with relations who had not been thus inflicted. Terror and misery had rapidly spread throughout the city. There were many who had not heard the proclamation of the Lieutenant Governor, and when the rumor reached them that numbers of soldiers were billeted in the town, they made preparations for immediate flight. Some even went so far as to load all their furniture and effects upon wagons ready to go out of the city this very night, for they remembered how five years ago, when first the Duke of Alva's troops were quartered in Ghent, how abominably they had behaved toward all the citizens, robbing, looting and pillaging for all the world as if they were bands of brigands rather than disciplined soldiers. Great was the terror and consternation of those who wanted to flee now when they understood that all the city gates were closed and that no one would be allowed to go through them until the Prince of Orange, who was said to be in Ghent, was delivered over to the Lieutenant Governor. This was indeed a terrible state of things and one destined to strike hopeless terror in the hearts of most, seeing that hardly anyone inside the city knew ought of the Prince of Orange or of his comings and goings, and yet they were liable to be punished for treason in which they had had no share. And in the meanwhile, the soldiers ran riot throughout the city, even though with much ostentation, a great deal of to-do and much beating of drums, their provosts read out at the four corners of the city a proclamation forbidding all looting and marauding and enjoining the men under pain of hanging to take anything from the citizens without paying for it. This proclamation was, of course, a mere farce for the soldiers, despite the lateness of the hour, had at once raided the butchers, bakers, and other provisioned shops, and though they professed to pay for everything they took, they refused to give more than one sue for a pound of meat, and then they cut out all the bone and threw it back in the face of the wretched butcher who tried to argue with them. And all the while remember that these men were not Spaniards, they were Walloons of the provinces immediately adjacent to the two Flanders, and their kith and kin had also grievously suffered from Spanish arrogance and oppression. But what will men not do for money or under compulsion, or may have under that abject fear which the very name of Alva had brought forth into the heart of people who had once been so proud and so independent? The Signore de Vernawick puts it on record that in his opinion the employing of Walloon troops to check the so-called revolt of Ghent was an act of refined cruelty on the part of the Duke. He liked to pit brother against brother, kinsmen against his own kind. He had cowed the Flemings and the Walloons to such an extent that now at last he could use one against the other, and could rely on each side being more cruel and relentless through that extraordinary perversion of human nature which makes civil strife so much more brutal and horrible than any war between the nations.