 Chapter 17 of Leatherface, A Tale of Old Flanders The cathedral bells of St. Boff's were the first to ring on that unforgettable twenty-third day of October, which was the feast of the Holy Redeemer. The appealing, sweet, melancholy sound came clearly through the humid air. Lenora, who was in her room with Greta, stood quite still for a moment, and listened. The bells of St. Fereld took up the call, then those of St. Jacob and St. Agneton, until the clang of bells echoed from end to end of the city, and drowned every other sound of strife or of misery. The roar of the artillery now was mute. The clash of pikes and lances was no longer heard. Only that curious medley of weird and terrible sounds still lingered in the air, a medley made up of sighs and groans of men falling down exhausted with pain, of masonry still crumbling, and woodwork still sizzling. A medley to which now was added the roll of drums, which on either side called to the men to lay aside their strife and to go and pray in peace. On the walls of the castleyard the duke's proclamation of the Lord's Day truce was posted up, and he himself was giving a few brief orders to his captains. Let the men understand, he said, that they are free to go to mass in the various churches of the city, and that they can do so without the slightest fear. But they must all be back inside the Castile precincts by two hours afternoon. Let the couriers go to the gatehouses at the six ports, and issue the same orders there, and have the proclamation posted up. Make it known here, as well as at the ports, that if any man fails to respect the truce, if there is any brawling in the streets or in the taverns, I shall proceed with merciless severity against the culprits. Then he turned to the captain of the castleguard, Don Sancho de Avila. Yours will be the duty to see that runners are sent out in secret on the Dendermond road, with orders that any troops which may be on the way make all possible speed. You had best remain in command here while I go to mass, keep your picked guard and the musketeers under arms, for the moment that the Dendermond Banderas are in sight, we must be ready to cooperate with them by a sortie and mass. I quite understand magnificence, replied the captain. A few moments later the bridge was lowered and some three thousand men filed out across it in orderly lines as for parade, but unarmed. The Spanish halberdeers formed the van and the rearguard. The Walloon pikemen and archers were massed in the center, and in the mists of them walked the Duke of Alva with his immediate cortege. De Vargas, who had his daughter on his arm, and Greta close beside her. Don Albaric del Río, councilor Hessels, and two or three other members of the council, behind them came the standard bearers, with standards unfurled and the drummers. In silence they reached the lines of the Oranges, which they had to cross in a double file, each man holding up his hands to show that he was unarmed. The Oranges leaders stood by in a group, and when the Duke and the members of the council had to file through the lines in their turn they stepped forward in order to greet them in amity. God guard ye, they said, as the Duke walked by. Will aid him in that, retorted the Spaniards cynically. Mark van Rijk was in the forefront of the group at the moment that Lenora went by, leaning on her father's arm. She looked up just then and saw him. He held his head erect, as he always did, but she could not fail to see how completely he had changed in those few hours since last she saw him at Dendermond. The hours seemed to have gone over him like years. Gone was that quaint, gentle, appealing way to which she had so nearly yielded. His attitude now was one of lofty defiance, sublime in its unshakable determination, and in its pride. Well, perhaps it was better so. Was he not the embodiment of everything that Lenora had been taught to hate and despise since her tenderest childhood? The despised race that dared to assert itself, the beneficiary who turned on the hand that loaded him with gifts, and above all the assassin who cowered in the dark, the slave who struck his master, whom he dared not defy. Yes, Mark Van Rijk, her husband, the murderer of Ramon, stood for all that, and Lenora despised herself for every tender feeling which had gripped her soul in the past two days whenever she thought of him as wounded, helpless, or may have dead. And yet now, when his eyes met hers, they suddenly took on a wonderful softness that quaint look, half whimsical, half appealing, came back to them, and with it, too, a look of infinite pity and of unswerving love. And as she caught the glance, she who felt so lonely and so desolate, there came to her mind the remembrance of the sweet and pathetic story of the primeval woman who was driven forth by God's Angel from the gates of Paradise. Somehow she felt that once, not so very long ago, she, too, had wandered for a brief while within the peaceful glades of a paradise of her own, and that now an angel with a flaming sword stood at its gates and would not allow her to return, but forced her to wander out through life in utter loneliness and with the unbearable load of agonizing remorse. Of all the episodes which the historical records of the time present to the imagination, not one, perhaps, is quite so moving and so inspiring as that of the solemn mass which was offered up in every church of the stricken city on this Sunday morning, the feast of the holy Redeemer when the Duke of Alva and the members of his odious blood council knelt side by side with the heroic men who were making their last desperate stand for justice, for liberty, and the sanctity of their homes. The lieutenant governor and the Spanish high dignitaries, both civil and military, are present in the Cathedral of St. Baths as are also the orangist leaders. The Spaniards occupy one side of the aisle, the Flemings with the women and children are on the other, and crowd every corner of the stately edifice up at the high altar. Father van der Schlick is officiating with others of the Cathedral clergy, and the pure voices of the choir boys resound through the building like the call of the angels of peace. The fabric of the exquisite building bears traces of that awful fate which an abominable tyranny was reserving for the entire city. The walls themselves stand, but in places they are torn by large fissures which look like gaping wounds in the flesh of a giant. Reverent hands have hastily swept aside the debris of glass and masonry, the fragments of stone statues and scraps of iron and wood, but here and there the head of an angel, the clasped hands of a saint or palm of a martyr still litter the floor. The slender columns of the aisle have taken on a curious rusty tint, and over the screen the apostles of carved wood are black with smoke. There are two large holes in the roof through which the bleak October breeze comes sighing in, and the sweet smell of stale incense which usually hangs about the place of worship has yielded to the pungent odor of charred wood and of singed draperies. On the Flemish side a dull tone of color prevails, browns and russets and dull reds. Many women have wrapped black hoods over their heads, and long black mantles hang from their shoulders, but on the other side the fantastic garb of the Spanish halberdeers throws a note of trenchant yellow right through the somber tint of the picture, and the white ruffs round the men's necks gleam like pale stars upon the canvas, and over it all the light through the broken window falls crude and gray. Only the chancel clothes with a warm light and father van der schlicks vestments of crimson silk, the gilt candlesticks upon the high altar, the flickering yellow flames of the candles, the red calyx of the young servers all form a kaleidoscope of brilliant colors which is almost dazzling, whilst up above the banners and coats of arms of the knights of the golden fleas still flaunt their rich heraldic tints against the dark vaulting of the roof, and above the high altar the figure of the redeemer with arms stretched out to bless seems to mock by its exquisite pathos and peas the hideous stripes of men. The church is crowded from end to end, flammings and walloons and spaniards, the tyrants and the oppressed all kneel together while father van der schlick up at the altar softly murmurs the confidior. Some have rough linen bandages round their head or arm, some have ugly stains upon their doublet or hose, others, unable to stand or lean, lie half-prone upon the ground, supported by their comrades. The duke of Alva holds his head erect, and senor De Vargas bows his down until it well nigh touches the ground. Most of the women are crying, some of them faint and have to be carried away. The spaniards are more demonstrative in their devotions than are the netherlanders. They strike their breaths at the confidior with wide ostentatious gestures and need much elbow room when they make the sign of the cross. At the reading of the gospel everyone stands, and men, women and children solemnly make profession of that faith of love and goodwill which the events of the past two days have so wantonly outraged. Lenora, from where she stands, can see her husband's head, with its closely cropped brown hair powering above the rest of the crowd. He does not look to right or left of him, but gazes fixedly upon the altar. Lenora can see his lips moving as he recites the creed, and to her straining senses it seems as if right through the murmurings of all these people she can distinguish his voice amongst all the others, and that it strikes against her heart with sweet persistence of unforgettable memories, and suddenly the high altar with the figure of the redeemer fades from her sight. The crowds vanish, the priest disappears, the voices of the choir boys are stilled. She is back once more in the small tapirage of the inn at Dendermond, sitting beside the hearth with Mark, her husband half kneeling, half sitting close to her. She lives again those few moments of dreamlike peace and joy when he lulled her with gentle words and tender glances which had shown her the first glimpse of what human happiness might be, and she lives again the moment when she stood in that same room with his wounded arm in her hand and realized that he was the cowardly assassin who had struck Ramon down in the dark. God in heaven was not her hatred of him justified. Even at the foot of this altar where all should be peace and goodwill had she not the right to hate this one man who had murdered Ramon, who had fooled and cajoled her and used her as an incentive tool for his own ends, his own amusement, her father had told her that she would see him hanged and that his death would be her work under the guidance of God. Not one moment of the past would she undo, and she regretted nothing, save the moments of weakness which came over her whenever she met his glance. He was the leader of these abominable rebels, a leader every inch of him that she could see, but yet a murderer for all that and the deadly enemy of her country and her king. God had had his will with her, and now he was dealing punishment with equal justice to all, and Lenora standing there shivering under the cold draft which came on her from the shattered roof, yet inwardly burning with a fever of regret and a longing marveled if among the thousands that would suffer through God's retributive justice anyone would endure the martyrdom which she was suffering now. Later on during the noonday rest, Lenora sat in her room in the mist torrent and tried to visualize once more all that she had lived through in the past hour, her meeting with Mark when she went through the orangest lines with her father, the crowded church, the somber colors, the pathetic aspect of broken statuary and holy images charred and shattered, the return to the castile in silence, the outline of Mark's profile above the crowd. Mark, always Mark, if only she could forget. The air in the narrow room felt stuffy and oppressive. She ordered Greta to open the window. It gave on the same iron balcony to which the council chamber and the apartments of the Duke of Alva had access, but as it was high up in the wall and very small she could sit quite close beside it and yet not be seen by anyone who might be walking on the balcony. Lenora's head ached intolerably and Greta, always kind and anxious, took down the wavy masses of fair hair and brushed them gently so as to soothe the quivering nerves. A strange hush hung in the air. The hush of a Sunday afternoon, when a big and peaceful city is at rest, a hush in strange and almost weird contrast to the din which had shaken up the very atmosphere during the past two days. Only from the castle yard down below there comes the sad sound of groans and sighs of pain and an occasional call for Donna Lenora with the cool soft hands and the gentle voice, the ministering angel of goodness and consolation. Greta, queried Lenora abruptly, dust loved me truly. With my whole heart noble lady, replied the child simply, then if thou lovest me, dits pray at mass this morning for the success of our cause and the confusion of those abominable rebels. Greta made no reply, and anon, a low suppressed sob, caused Lenora to say not unkindly, thy heart is with the rebels, Greta. I know most of their leaders, noble lady, murmured the girl, through her tears. They are brave, fine men. When I think of those who surely must die after this, I feel as if my heart must break with sorrow and with pity. Dits know them well. I, noble lady, they used to come to the three weavers, the three weavers, Greta. I, my father, kept the tavern here in Ghent, the noble signors of the city and the Spanish officers of the garrison, all used to come to us in the afternoons. Missour Jan Van McGrode, the chief sheriff, Missour Levin Van Daines, and the signor de Beauvoir, they all came regularly, and, and Missour Mark Van Reich, she added under her breath, him they call Leatherface. My husband, Greta, murmured Lenora, I know it, noble lady. Dits know then that Missour Mark Van Reich was Leatherface, not till yesterday, noble lady, not till the men spoke of it, and said that the mysterious Leatherface was the leader of the rebels, and that he was the son of the High Bailiff of Ghent, Missour Mark Van Reich. Thou disknow him too, then, as Leatherface. I, noble lady, said Greta quietly, he saved my life and my sisters. I would give mine to save him now. Save thy life, how, when? Only a few days ago, noble lady, murmured the child, speaking with a great effort at self-control. The recollection of that awful night brought fresh terror to her heart. But Lenora's brows contracted now in puzzlement. A few days ago Mark was courting her then. I do not understand, she said impatiently. A few days ago Leatherface, Missour Mark Van Reich, was in Ghent. I was betrothed to him, on the seventh day of this month, and till on that night he saved my life, and Katrina's I, and saved us from worse than death. She paused abruptly. Her round, young cheeks lost their last vestige of color. Her eyes, their clear, childlike look. She cast a quick, furtive glance on Lenora, as if she were afraid. But Lenora was unconscious of this change in the girl's manner. Her very senses seemed to be on the alert, hanging upon the peasant girl's lips. The night of her betrothal was the night on which Ramon was murdered. The tavern of the three weavers was the place where he was found. This girl then knew something of that awesome occurrence which, despite outside assurances, had remained vaguely puzzling to Lenora's mind. Now she would hear and know, and her very heart seemed to stand still, as her mind appeared to be waiting upon the threshold of a mystery which was interwoven with her whole life and with her every hope of peace. But what, she queried with agonized impatience, Speak, girl, canst not see that I only live to hear. Our father was taken, said gratta quietly. He was hanged eight days ago. Hanged, exclaimed Lenora, horror struck. Why, what had he done? He was of the Protestant faith, and Lenora made no comment, and the girl wiped her eyes which had filled with tears. Thou and Catrine were spared, asked Lenora after a while. We were spared at the time, said gratta, but I suppose she added with quaint philosophy, we remained objects of suspicion. The soldiers would often be very rough with us, and upon the seventh day of October, the commanding Spanish officer in Ghent, once more she paused timidly, fear of having said too much, fighting with the childish love to retail her woes, and pour her interesting story into sympathetic ears. Well, queried Lenora, more impatiently, go on, child, what did the commanding Spanish officer in Ghent do to thee on the seventh day of October? But at this gratta burst into a flood of tears, the events were so recent, and the shock of horror and of fear had been so terrible at the time that the recollection of it all still had the power to unnerve her. Lenora, whose own nerves were cruelly on the rack at this moment, had much adieu to keep her impatience in check. After a few moments, gratta became more calm and dried her eyes. There was a big to-do at the townhouse, she said more quietly, and the whole city was gaily decorated. The apprentices had a holiday in the evening, they were very hilarious, and so were the soldiers. Well, and the soldiers came to the three weavers, they had been drinking heavily, and were very rough. The commanding Spanish officer came in late in the evening. He encouraged the soldiers to drink, and to make fun of us, of Catrine and of me. We were all alone in the house, and we were very frightened. The Spanish officer ordered Catrine to wait on the soldiers, then he made me go with him to a private room. The tears were once more very near the surface, and a hot blush of shame for all that she had had to endure overspread gratta's face and neck. Go on, child, queried Lenora, what happened after that? The Spanish officer was very cruel to me, noble lady. I think he would have killed me, and I am sure the soldiers were very cruel to Catrine. Oh, it was horrible, horrible, she cried, and we were quite alone and helpless. Yes, I know that, said Lenora, and even to herself, her own voice sounded curiously dull and toneless, but tell me what happened. I was crouching in a corner of the room, noble lady. My back ached terribly, for I had been thrown across the table, and I thought my spine must be broken. My wrists, too, were very painful, where the noble officer had held them so tightly. I was half-wild with terror, for I did not know what would become of me. Then the door opened, and a man came in. Oh, I was dreadfully frightened. He was very tall and very thin, like a dark wreath, and over his face he had a mask, and he spoke kindly to me, and after a while I was less frightened, and then he told me just what to do, how to find Catrine, to take some money and run away to our kinswoman who lives in Dendermond. I thought then that he was no wraith, continued Greta in an awestruck whisper, but just one of the archangels, for they do appear in curious disguises sometimes. He saved my life and Catrine's, and more than life, noble lady, added the girl with a note of dignity in her tone, which sat quaintly upon her timid little person. Do you not think that it was God who sent him to protect two innocent girls from the cruelty of those wicked men? Yes, I think so, child, said Lenora quietly, but tell me, dust know what happened after that? No, lady, I do not. I went to look for Catrine just as the stranger ordered me to do, but she added under her breath and still under the spell of past terrors. We heard afterwards, through Pierre Buter's, the butcher, that the noble senior commandant was found killed that same night in the tavern of the three weavers. The provost found him lying dead in the same room where the archangel had appeared. Stabbed, child? Didst thou say? No, noble lady. The provost told Pierre Buter's that the noble Spanish commandant had been felled by mighty hands in a hand-to-hand fight. He had no wound on him, only the marks of powerful fingers round his throat, but his own dagger, they say, was covered in blood. Pierre Buter's helped to place the body in the coffin, and he said that the noble Spanish commandant had been killed in fair fight, a fight with fists and not with swords. He also said that the stranger who killed him was the mysterious leather face of whom we hear so much, and that may have we should never hear of him again, for the Spanish commandant must have wounded him to death. The dagger was covered with blood almost to the hilt. But concluded Greta, with a knowing little nod of the head, this I did not believe at the time, and now I know that it was not so. The stranger may not have been one of the archangels, but truly he was a messenger of God. When the noble lady brought me back with her to Ghent, I heard the men talking about the mysterious leather face. Then the day before yesterday, when the cavalrymen flew helter-skelter into the castleyard, they still talked loudly of leather face. But I guessed then that he was not a real archangel, but just a brave man who protects the weak and fights for justice, and she paused, terrified at what she had said. Ignorant as she was, she knew well enough that the few last words which she had uttered had caused men and women to be burned at the stake before now. Wide-eyed and full of fear, she looked on the noble Spanish lady, expecting every moment to see a commanding finger pointed on her and orders given for her immediate arrest, instead of which she saw before her a pale, slim girl, scarce older than herself, and infinitely more pathetic, just a young and beautiful woman with pale face and eyes swimming in tears, whose whole attitude just expressed an immense and overwhelming grief. The veil of mystery which had hung over Ramon's death had indeed been lifted at last by the rough uncouth hands of the innkeeper's daughter. Lenora as yet hardly dared to look into the vista which it opened up before her. Boundless remorse, utter hopelessness, the dreary sense of the irreparable. All that lay beyond the present, stunning blow of this terrible revelation. God in heaven, she cried out mutely in her misery, how could she ever have thought even for a moment that those gray eyes so merry and yet so tender could mask a treacherous and cowardly soul? How could she think that those lips which so earnestly pleaded for a kiss could ever have been framed to hide a lying tongue? Would to God that she could still persuade herself that all this new revelation was a dream, that Greta, the unsophisticated child, had lied and concocted the whole story to further some hidden schemes of her own? Would to God she could still believe that Mark was vile and false and assassin and a perjurer and that she could hate him still? She met Greta's eyes fixed so fearfully upon hers. She met them at the moment when she was about to give herself over to the transient happiness of a brief daydream, dreams of two unforgettable hours when he sat beside her with his hand shading his face, his eyes resting upon her, dreams of his voice when he said, when I look at you, Madonna, I invariably think of happiness. But Greta recalled her to herself and to the awful present. Despite her great respect for the noble Spanish lady, she suddenly put her arms round her shoulders and tried to draw her away from the open window. His highness, she whispered hurriedly, he will see us. What matters, child? murmured Lenora, he will not harm us. Instinctively, however, she did yield to Greta's insistence and drew back slightly from the window. From the balcony, down below, there came the sound of measured tramping. Two or three men were walking there slowly up and down and talking confidentially together while they walked. Whenever they were close to the window, their voices came up quite distinctly, but it was impossible to hear all that they said. But one or two disjointed sentences gave a faint clue to the subject of their conversation. Lenora now leaned closer to the window frame trying to hear, for she had recognized her father's voice as well as that of the Duke of Alva, and they were speaking of their future plans against the rebels and against the city, and Lenora felt that she would give her life to know what those plans were. After a moment or two she heard the voice of Captain de Avila. He was apparently coming up the iron stairs from the yard and was speaking hurriedly. A runner, your highness, he said straight from Dendermond what news queried the Duke, and his voice sounded almost choked as if with fierce impatience. One of Captain Ladrano's messengers reached Dendermond last night, replied de Avila. He was lucky enough to get a horse almost at once. Well, and this man came running straight back to bring us the news. Captain Brachamante started at break of day. He should be well on his way with the reinforcements by now. There was a horse exclamation of satisfaction and a confused murmur of voices for a moment or two. Then De Vargas spoke. It was a bold venture, Monsignor. He said, This truce you mean, retorted Alva. Well, not quite so bold as it appeared. Those Netherlanders are such mighty fools that it is always easy to make them believe anything that we choose to tell them. Do they not always fall into our traps? I had only to swear by my immortal soul that we had not sent for reinforcements, and the last of their resistance was overcome. Lenora could hear her father's harsh laugh after this, and then Del Rio said blandly, Van Reich did not believe in that oath. Perhaps not at first, Alva said, but it was so finely worded and spoken with such solemnity it was bound to carry conviction in the end. You were not afraid, Monsignor, queried De Vargas this morning in the crowd after mass that the rebels would break the truce and fall upon our men? No, replied the Duke curtly. Were you? There came no answer from De Vargas and to the listeners it seemed as if by his silence he was admitting that he did not believe the Oranges capable of such abominable treachery, a fine tribute that, Lenora thought, from her father, who hated and despised the Netherlanders, but he and Alva would even now call such loyalty and truth the mere stupidity of uncultured clowns. Anyhow it was worth the risk, De Vargas resumed after a while, with that cold cynicism which will sacrifice friends, adherents, kindred for the furtherance of political aims. Well worth the risk, asserted Alva, we have gained the whole of today. If these rebels had rushed the Castile this morning I verily believe that we could not have held it, I might have fallen into their hands, and with me as their hostage they would by now have been in a position to dictate their own terms before reinforcements reached us, always supposing that they did not murder us all. Yes, he reiterated with obvious satisfaction, even if treachery had been in the air it was still well worth the risk. And in the meanwhile, suggested Del Rio, in the meanwhile Bracamonte is on his way here, he must have started well before noon, he might be here before nightfall, with at least five thousand men, I hope, added De Vargas, night may see us, masters of this city once more, seniors rejoined Alva, and by God will punish those rebels for the fright they have given us. Ghent will be envying Mons and Mecklen. The three men walked slowly away after that, and their voices were lost in the distance. The listeners could no longer distinguish what was said, but Anon, a harsh laugh struck their ear, and leaning out of the window, Lenora could see the Duke and her father standing just outside the council chamber. The Duke had thrown back his head and was laughing heartily. De Vargas, too, looked highly amused. Not one single word of remorse or regret had been spoken by either of them for the blasphemous oath which had finally overcome the resistance of the Oranges of a truth it did not weigh on the conscience of the man who had so wantonly outraged his maker less than an hour before he knelt at the foot of his altar, and De Vargas and his kind were only too ready to benefit by the perjury. The sack of Ghent, jeopardized for a few hours, was once more looming ahead as a coveted prize. What was a false oath or so one crime the more when weighed in the balance with all the money and treasure which the unexpected resistance of a few Flemish clowns had so nearly wrenched from these noble Spaniards grasp. Dis here came in a smothered whisper from Lenora. She had turned suddenly and now faced Greta, who stood wide-eyed and terrified in the center of the room. Her arms were behind her and she clung to the window ledge. Her fair hair, all loose, streamed round her shoulders, pale with glowing eyes and quivering lips. She looked like some beautiful feline creature at bay. Dis here she reiterated hoarsely. Every word most noble lady came the whispered response. What dits make of it? That his highness sent to Dendrimond for help and that troops are on their way. But his highness swore most solemnly that he would respect the truths which he himself asked for and that both sides would resume the fight this evening just as they were before without fresh help or reinforcements. I heard the men say last night noble lady that reinforcements had already been sent for from Dendrimond. The Duke feared that the Netherlanders were getting the upper hand. He asked for the truths only to gain time. Then if Captain Brachomonte arrives from Dendrimond with fresh troops the Netherlanders are lost. God guard them, said Greta fervently. He alone can save them now. Oh! cried Lenora with sudden passionate bitterness. How can men conceive such abominable treachery? How can God allow them to triumph? Greta said nothing. Her eyes were full of tears. Lenora stared straight out before her into the dark corner of the room. There was a frown of deep thought between her brows and her fresh young mouth became hard and set. Greta, she said abruptly, is it not horrible to think that those we care for are liars and traitors? Then as Greta made no reply she continued with the same passionate vehemence. Is it not horrible to think that brave men must be butchered like cattle because they trusted in the oath of a perjurer? Oh! that all the baseness, all the lying, should be on one side and all the heroism on the other and that God should allow those monsters to triumph. She paused and suddenly her whole expression changed. The vehemence, the passion went out of it. Her lips seized to quiver. A curious pallor overspread her cheeks and the lines of her mouth became hard and set. Greta, she said abruptly, aren't afraid? Of what, noble lady? asked the child. Oh! of everything, of insults and violence and death. No, noble lady, said Greta simply, I trust to God to protect me. Then wilt come with me? Whether, noble lady, into the city, alone with me, we'll pretend that we go to benediction. Into the city, exclaimed the girl, alone. Aren't afraid? No. Then put up my hair and get hood and cloak and give me mine. Greta did as she was ordered. She pinned up Lenora's fair hair and brought her a mantle and hood and wrapped them round her. Then she fastened on her own. Come! said Lenora curtly. She took the girl by the hand, and together the two women went out of the room. Their way led them through endless corridors and down a long winding staircase. Hand in hand they ran like furtive little animals on the watch for the human enemy. Down below the big, flagged hall was full of soldiers. The two women only realized this when they reached the last landing. Will they let us pass? murmured Greta. Walk beside me and hold thy head boldly, said Lenora. They must not think that we are afraid of being challenged. She walked down the last flight of the stairs with slow majestic steps. Her arms folded beneath her cloak, looking straight ahead of her with that air of calm detachment and contempt of others which the Spanish noblesse know so well how to assume. Captain de Avila was below at sight of Donna Lenora. He came forward and said with absolute respect, La Signora desires to go out. As you see, she replied haughtily, not further than the precincts of the Castile, I hope. What is that to you whether I go? she queried. My orders, he stammered, somewhat taken aback by this grand manner on the part of the Signora who had always been so meek and silent hitherto. What orders have you had, Signor? Captain? she queried, which warrant your interference with my movements. I truly, he murmured, Signora de Vargas. My father, I presume, has not given you the right to question my freedom to go and come as I please, she retorted, still with the same uncompromising haughture. No, but then I pray you let me pass, I hear the bells of Saint Ferreld, I shall be late for benediction. She swept past him, leaving him not a little bewildered and completely abashed. He watched her tall, graceful figure as she sailed through the portico and fence across the castle yard. Then he shrugged his shoulders as if to cast aside any feeling of responsibility which threatened to worry him, and returned to the guard room and to his game of hazard. It was only then that he recollected that it lacked another two hours to benediction yet. In the yard, Lenora had more serious misgivings. There's the guard at the gatehouse, she murmured. Keep up thy look of unconcern, Greta. We can only win if we are bold. As she anticipated, the provost at the gatehouse challenged her. I go to Saint Ferreld, she said calmly. My father is with me. He hath stopped to speak with Captain de Avila, lower the bridge, provost, and let us pass. We are late enough for benediction, as it is. The provost hesitated for a moment. The Signor captain sent me orders just now that no one was to leave the Castile. He said, Am I under the Signor captain's orders, she retorted, or the daughter of Signor de Vargas, who will punish thee, Sera, for thine insolence? The provost, much disturbed in his mind, had not the courage to run counter to the noble lady's wish. He had had no orders, with regard to her, and as she very rightly said, she was not under the orders of the Signor captain. He ordered the bridge to be lowered for her, vaguely intending not to let her pass, until he assured himself that Signor de Vargas was nigh. But Lenore gave him no time for reflection. She waited until the bridge was down. Then suddenly she seized Greta's hand, and quick as a young hare, she darted past the provost and the guard, before they thought of laying hands on her, and she was across the bridge, before they had recovered from their surprise. Once on the open ground, Lenore drew breath. The provost and the guard could not very well run after her, and for the moment she was safe from pursuit. On ahead lay the sharp bend of the lower shelled. Beyond it the ruined mass of the Vlishe house, and the row of houses, now all shattered to pieces, where the oranges held their watch. Her heart was beating furiously, and she felt Greta's rough little hand quivering in hers. She felt such a tiny atom, a mere speck in this wide open space. In front of her was the city, which seemed, even in the silence of this Sunday afternoon, to be quivering in the throes of oncoming death, to right and left of her the great tract of flat country, this land of Belgium, which she had not yet learned to love, but for which she now felt a wonderful pity. It was a rude lesson which she had been made to learn within the last hour, the lesson that the idols of her childhood and girlhood had not only feet of clay, but that they were steeped to the neck in the mire of falsehoods and treachery. She had also learned that the man whom she had once hated with such passionate bitterness was worthy of a pure woman's love, that happiness had knocked at the gateway of her own heart and been refused admittance, and that God was not want to give very obvious guidance in the terrible perplexities which at times beset his creatures. Therefore, now she no longer lured herself with the belief that she was acting at this moment under the direct will of God. She knew that she was guided by an overmastering and blind instinct which told her that she must see Mark at once, and warned him that the perfidy of the Duke of Alva had set a deathly trap for him and for his friends. A few more minutes, and she and Greta were over the kettle bruge and under the shadow of the tall houses on the river embankment beyond. Take me, she said to Greta, peremptorily, to the house of the High Bailiff of Ghent. A Tale of Old Flanders by Baroness Orksy Chapter 18 The Last Stand The word has gone round. We must all assemble in the Cathedral Church. Every burger, every artisan, every apprentice who belongs by blood to Ghent, must, for the noughts, cast a side pick and shovel. The dead can wait. The living claim attention. Quite a different crowd from that which knelt at prayer this morning. It is just two o'clock, and the sacred edifice is thronged. Up in the galleries, the aisles, the chancel, the organ loft, the pulpit, everywhere, there are men, young and old, men who for two days now have been face to face with death, and who wear on their grim faces the traces of the past fears struggle and of the coming cataclysm. There are no women present. They have nobly taken on the task of the men, and the dainty burger's wives who used to spend their time at music or needlework willed the spade today with as much power as their strength allows. Perfect order reigns despite the magnitude of the crowd. Those who found no place inside the building throng the cemetery and the precincts behind the high altar. The orangest standard is unfurled, and in front of the altar rails stand the men who have fought in the forefront of the insurgents ranks, who have led every assault, affronted every danger, braved musket fire and arrow shot and burning buildings and crumbling ruins, the men who have endured and encouraged and cheered. Mark Van Reich, the popular leader, Lawrence, his brother, Pierre Deneute, Levin Van Daines, Frederick Van Bevereen, and Jan Van McGrode, who is seriously wounded, but who has risen from his sick bed and crawled hither in order to add the weight of his council and of his enthusiasm to what he knows Van Reich will propose. Yes, they are there, all those that are left, and with them are the older burgers, the civic dignitaries of their city, the sheriffs of the cure, the aldermen, the road-shapen, the magistrates, and the high bailiff himself, who is known to be such a hot adherent of Alva. It is he who has convened this meeting. A general rally of the citizens of Ghent, he called them together by roll of drums and by word of mouth transmitted by volunteer messengers who have flown all over the town. This morning we spent in prayer. Today is a day of peace. Let us meet and talk things over, for if wisdom waits upon enthusiasm, all is not lost yet. The proposal has come from the high bailiff at the hour of noon, when men only thought of the grim work of burying the dead, and women wandered through the streets to search for the loved one who has been missing since yesterday. But at the word of the high bailiff, the men laid aside their picks and spades. If all is not lost, why then there is something still to do and the dead must wait. And every man goes to the cathedral church to hear what the high bailiff has to say. The church and precincts are crowded. In silence everyone listens whilst he speaks. He has always been a faithful subject of King Philip, an obedient servant of the regent and the lieutenant governor. His influence and well-known adherents to the king has saved the city many a time from serious reprisals against incipient revolt and from many of the horrors of the Inquisition. Now, while up there in the Castile, Alva impatiently awaits the arrival of fresh troops which will help to crush the rebellious city, the high bailiff pleads for submission. He has faith in the human tiger. Let us throw ourselves at his feet, he urges. He is a brave soldier, a great warrior. He will respect your valorous resistance if he sees that in the hour when you have the advantage over him, you are prepared to give in and to throw yourselves upon his mercy. Let us go, we who are older and wiser. Let those who have led this unfortunate revolt keep out of the way. I will find the right words. I know to melt the heart of our lieutenant governor, now turned in wrath against us. Let us go and cry for mercy and, by God, I believe that we shall get it. Like the waves upon the sea, the crowd in the church moves and oscillates. Murmurs of assent and dissent mingle from end to end, from side to side. No, yes, tour shameful, tour wise. There are the women to think of and the children. He will not listen. Why this purposeless abasement? Van Rijk and the other leaders make no comment upon the High Bailiff's appeal, even though their whole soul revolts at the thought of this fresh humiliation to be endured by the burgers of Ghent, once so proud and so independent. But they won't speak. Mark knows that with one word he can sway the whole of this crowd. They are heroes all, every one of these men. At one word from him they will cast aside every thought, save that of the renewed fight, the final fight to the death. They are seething with enthusiasm. Their blood is up, and prudence and wisdom have to be drilled into them now, that they have tasted of the martyr's cup. You can hear Father van der Schlitt's voice now. He too is for humility and an appeal for mercy on this, the festival day of the Holy Redeemer. The Lieutenant Governor is a pious man and a good Catholic. The appeal is sure to please his ears. Oh, the virtues that adorn the Duke of Alva in the estimation of his adherents. He is pious and he is brave, a good Catholic and a fine soldier. Mercy in him is allied to wisdom. He will easily perceive that to gain the gratitude of the citizens of Ghent would be more profitable to him than the destruction of a prosperous city. See this truth which he himself suggested, was it not the product of a merciful and a religious mind, to pray in peace, to obey the dictates of the Church, to give the enemy the chance of burying the dead, were these not the sentiments of a good and pious man. Missor Henry Debuck, Sr. Shepin, and Judge of the High Court, has many tales to tell of the kindness and generosity of the Duke. Oh, they are very eloquent these wealthy burgers who have so much more to lose by this revolt than mere honor and mere life. And the others listen. Oh yes, they listen. Need a stone be left unturned? And since Missor the High Bailiff hath belief in his own eloquence, why let him exercise it, of course, not that there is one wit less determination in any single man in the crowd. If the High Bailiff fails in his mission, they will fight to the last man still. But, oh, who can shut his heart altogether against hope? And there are the women and the children and all those who are old and feeble. God speed to you, then, my Lord High Bailiff, Charles Van Rijk, the pusillanimous father of a gallant son. God speed to all of you who go to plead with a tiger to spare the prey which he already holds between his claws. The High Bailiff will go, and with him Father Vanderschlitt and Father Laurent Toke from St. Agneton and Missor Debuck and Francois de Wetteren, all the men who, two days ago, were kneeling in the mud at the tyrant's feet, and presented him so humbly with the gates of the city which he had sworn to destroy. There is no cheering as they detach themselves from the group of the rebel leaders who still stand somewhat apart, leaving the crowd to have its will. No cheering, it is all done in silence. Men do not cheer on the eve of being butchered, they only look on their standard up above the high altar behind the carved figure of the Redeemer, and though they have given silent consent for this deputation to the tyrant, they still murmur in their hearts for orange and liberty. Jan van Magrode, weak and ill from his wound, has had the last word. He begs that everyone should wait here just as they are in silence and patience until the High Bailiff and his friends come back with the news, good or bad, peace or renewed fighting, life or death, whichever it is they must all be together in order to decide. Just at the last the High Bailiff turns to his son. You do not approve of our going, Mark. He asks with some diffidence. I think that it is purposeless, replies Mark. You cannot extract blood out of a stone or mercy out of the heart of a brute. They go, the once proud burgers of the city of Ghent, they go to throw themselves for the last time at the feet of that monster of tyranny and cruelty who even at this hour is gloating over the thought of the most deadly reprisals he hath ever dealt to these downtrodden people. They go, with grave yet hopeful faces, in their dark robes, which are the outward sign of the humility, the loyalty which dwell in their hearts. The crowd have wished them Godspeed, and as they file out of this stately cathedral and through the close, the men stand respectfully aside and eye them with a trustful regard which is infinitely pathetic. Their leaders have remained beside the altar rails grouped together, talking quietly among themselves. Mark van Rijk, however, goes to mingle with the crowd, to speak with all those who desire a word with him, with the men whose heart is sore at the humiliation which they are forced to swallow, who would sooner have died than see the dignitaries of their city go once again as suppliance before that execrable tyrant whom they loathe. What is thine idea, van Rijk? Most of the men ask him, as they crowd around him, anxious to hear one word of encouragement or of hope, dost think the tyrant will relent, not unless we hold him as he holds us, not unless we have him at our mercy. Then what can we do? What can we do? Do he reiterates for the hundredth time today, do fight to the last man, die to the last man, until God, worried of the tyrant's obstinacy, will crush him and give us grace, but we cannot win in the end. No, but we can die as we have lived, clean, undaunted, unconquered, but our wives, our daughters, ask them, he retorts boldly, is it not the women who would lick the tyrant's shoes? The hour drags wearily on. In imagination, every one inside and around the cathedral follows the burgers on their weary pilgrimage, half an hour to walk to the castile, half an hour for the audience with the duke, half an hour to return, unforeseen delay in obtaining admittance. It may be two hours before they return. Great many of the men have returned to the gloomy task of burying the dead, others to that of clearing the streets from the litter which encumbers them, but even those who work the hardest keep their attention fixed upon the cathedral and its approach. Van Rijk had suggested that the great bell be rung when the burgers came back with the duke's answer so that all who wished could come and hear. And now the answer has come. The high bailiff has returned with father's van der Schlitt and Laurent Toak, with Alderman de Bach and de Wetteren and with the others. They have walked back from the castile, bare-headed and shoeless, with their hands tied behind their back and a rope around their neck. That was the duke of Alva's answer to the deputation of Flemish patricians and burgers who had presented themselves before him in order to sue for his mercy. They had not even been admitted into his presence. The provost at the gatehouse had curtly demanded their business and then taken their message to the duke and returned five minutes later with orders to send back the beggars once they came, bare-headed and shoeless, and with a rope around their necks in token of the only mercy which they might expect from him. The bridge had been lowered for them when they arrived, but they were kept parlaying with a provost at the gatehouse, not a single officer, even of lower rank, deigned to come out to speak with them. The yard was filled with soldiers who insulted and jeered at them. The high bailiff was hit on the cheek by a stone which had been aimed at him, and Father Laurent Tokes Soutain was almost torn off his back. Every one of them had suffered violence at the hands of the soldiery whilst the duke's abominable orders were being carried out with appalling brutality. Every one of them was bleeding from a cut or a blow dealt by that infamous crowd who were not ashamed thus to maltreat defenceless and elderly men. When they crossed the open tract of country between the castle moat and the shelled, a shower of caked mud was hurled after them from the ramparts, not a single insult was spared them, not a sting to their pride, not a crown to their humiliation. It was only when they reached the shelter of the streets that they found some peace. In silence they made their way toward the cathedral. The crowds of men and women at work, amongst the dead and the wounded, made way for them to allow them to pass, but no one questioned them. The abject condition in which they returned told its own pitiable tale. The cathedral bell had told, and from everywhere the men came back to hear the full account of the miserable mission. The crowd was dense and not everyone had a view of the burgers as they stood beside the altar rail in all their humiliation, but those who were nearest told their neighbors and soon everyone knew what had happened. The younger leaders ground their heels into the floor and Jan van Magrode, sick and weak as he was, was the first to stand up and to ask the citizens of Ghent if the events of today had shaken them in their resolve. You know now what to expect from that fiend. Will you still die like heroes or be slaughtered like cattle? He called out loudly, ere he fell back exhausted and faint. Horror had kept every one dumb until then, and grim resolve did not break into loud enthusiasm now, but on the fringe of the crowd there were a number of young men, artisans and apprentices, who at first sight of the returned messengers had loudly murmured and cursed. Now one of them lifted up his voice, it raised strange echoes in the mutilated church. We are ready enough to die, he said, and will fight to the end, never fear. But before the last of us is killed, before that execrable tyrant has his triumph over us, lads of Ghent, I ask you, are we not to have our revenge? Yes, yes, came from a number of voices, still from the fringe of the crowd, where the young artisans were massed together. Well spoken, Peter Bald, let us have revenge first. Revenge, revenge, echoed from those same ranks. Every word echoed from pillar to pillar, in the great, bare, crowded church. And now it was from the altar rails that Mark Van Reich's voice rang out clear and firm. What revenge dost propose to take, Peter Bald, he asked. The other, thus directly challenged by the man whose influence was paramount in Ghent just now, looked round at his friends for approval. Seeing nothing but eager, flushed faces and eyes that glowed in response to his suggestion, the pride of leadership entered his soul. He was a fine, tall lad who yesterday had done prodigies of valor against the Spanish cavalry. Now he had been gesticulating with both arms above his head, so that he was easily distinguishable in the crowd by those who had a clear view. And in order to emphasize his spokesmanship, his friends hoisted him above their shoulders and bearing him aloft, they forged their way through the throng until they reached the center of the main aisle. Here they paused and Peter Bald could sweep the entire crowd with his enthusiastic glance. What I revenge would take, he said boldly. Nay, let me rather ask. What revenge must we take, citizens of Ghent? The tyrant even now has abused the most sacred laws of humanity which bid every man to respect the messengers of peace. He is disloyal and ignoble and false. Why should we be honorable and just? He neither appreciates our loyalty nor respects our valor. Let us then act in the only way which he can understand. Citizens, we have two thousand prisoners in the cellars of our gildhouses. Two thousand Waloons, who under the banner of our common tyrant, have fought against us their nearest kindred. I propose that we kill those two thousand prisoners and send their heads to the tyrant as a direct answer to this last outrage. Yes, yes, well said, came from every side, from the younger artisans and the apprentices, the hot-headed faction amongst all these brave men, brave themselves but writhing under the terrible humiliation which they had just endured and thirsting for anything that savored of revenge. Yes, yes, the axe for them, send their heads to the tyrant. Well spoken, Peter Bald, they cried. The others remained silent. Many, even amongst the older men, perhaps, would have echoed the younger one's call. Cruelty breeds cruelty, and oppression breeds callous thoughts of revenge. Individually, there was hardly a man there who was capable of such an act of atrocious barbarism as the murder of a defenseless prisoner. But for years now, these people had grown under such abominable tyranny, had seen such acts of wanton outrage perpetrated against them, and all those they held dear, that collectively their sense of rightful retribution had been warped, and they had imbibed some of the lessons of reprisals from their execrable masters. At the foot of the altar rails, the group of leaders who stood as a phalanx around Mark Van Rijk, their chief, waited quietly, whilst the wave of enthusiasm for Bald's proposal rose and swelled, and mounted higher and higher until it seemed to pervade the whole of this sacred edifice, and then gradually subsided into more restrained, if not less enthusiastic, determination. We will do it, said one of Bald's most fervent adherents. It is only justice, and it is the law which the tyrant understands, the law of might. It is the law which he himself has taught us, said another, the law of retributive justice, the law of treachery, of rapine, and of outrage. Now broke in Mark's firm, clear voice once more. It rose above the tumult, above the hubbub, which centered round the person of Peter Bald. It rang against the pillars and echoed from end to end of the aisle. Are we miserable, rabble, that we even dream of murder? Not of murder, cried Bald in challenge, only of revenge. Your revenge, thundered Mark. Do you dare speak of it, in the house of him who says, I will repay? God is on our side, he will forgive, cried some of them. Everything except outrage. What you propose is a deed worthy only of hell. No, no, Bald is right. Magnanimity has had its day, but for this truce today, who knows, we might have been masters of the Castile. Will the murdering of helpless prisoners aid your cause then? It will at least satisfy our craving for revenge. Right, right, Bald, they all exclaimed, do not heed what Van Reich says. We will fight tomorrow. Die tomorrow, they cried, and blacken your souls today, retorted Mark. The tumult grew more wild. Descension had begun to sow its ugly seed among these men, whom a common danger, united heroism and courage, had knit so closely together. The grim, silent, majestic determination of a while ago was giving place slowly to rabid, frenzied calls of hatred, to ugly oaths, glowing eyes and faces, heated with passion. The presence of the dozen elderly patricians and burgers, still bareheaded and shoeless, still with the rope around their necks, helped to fan up the passions which their misfortunes had aroused. For the moment, however, the hot-headed malcontents were still greatly in the minority, but the danger of descent, of mutiny, was there, and the set expression on the faces of the leaders, the stern look in Mark Van Reich's eyes, testified that they were conscious of its presence. Then it was that right through this tumult, which had spread from the building itself to the precincts and even beyond, a woman's cry rang out with appalling clearness. It was not a cry of terror, rather one of command. But so piercing was it that for the moment every other cry was stilled. Peter Ball's adherents were silenced, and suddenly, over this vast assembly wherein but a few seconds ago passions ran riot, there fell a hush, attention of every nerve, a momentary lull of every heartbeat, as with the prescience of something momentous, to which that woman's cry was only the presage, and in the midst of that sudden hush the cry was heard again, more clearly this time and closer to the cathedral porch, so that the words came quite distinctly. Let me get to him, take me to your leader, I must speak with him at once, and like distant thunder the clamor rose again, men and women shouted and called, the words Spaniard and Spy were easily distinguishable. The crowd could be seen to sway, to be moving like a huge wave, all in one direction toward the porch. Hundreds of faces showed plainly in the dull gray light, as necks were craned to catch a glimpse of the woman who had screamed. But evidently, with but rare exceptions, the crowd was not hostile. Those who had cried out the words Spy were obviously in the minority, with death looming so near, with deadly danger to every woman in the city within sight, every instinct of chivalry toward the weak was at its greatest height. Those inside the cathedral could see that the crowd was parting in order to let two women move along, and that the men in the forefront elbowed away for them, so that they should not be hindered on their way. It was the taller of the two women who had uttered the piteous yet commanding appeal. Let me go to him, take me to your leader, I must speak with him. She reiterated that appeal now at the south porch, to which she had been literally carried by the crowd outside, and here suddenly three stalwart men belonging to one of the city gills took, as it were, possession of her and her companion, and with vigorous play of elbows and of staves forged away for them both right up to the altar rails, even whilst in the west end of the church the enthusiastic tumult around Peter Bald, which this fresh incident had momentarily stilled, arose with renewed vigor, and the young artisans and apprentices once more took up their cry. Revenge, death to all the prisoners, the woman who was wrapped up in a long black mantle and hood, fell panting, exhausted, breathless, almost at Mark Van Reich's feet, and murmured hoarsely, five thousand troops are on their way to Ghent, they will be here within two hours, save yourselves, if you can. Her voice hardly rose above a whisper, Mark alone heard every word she said, he stooped and placing two fingers under her chin, with a quick and firm gesture he lifted up the woman's head so that her hood fell back, and the light from the east window struck full upon her face and her golden hair. I come straight from the Castile, she said, more clearly now, for she was gradually recovering her breath, let your friends kill me if they will. The Duke of Alva swore a false oath, a messenger left even last night for Dendermond. How do you know this? queried Mark quietly. Greta and I heard the Duke speak of it all, with my father just now, she replied. He asked for the truce in order to gain time. He hopes that the troops from Dendermond will be here before nightfall. The guards at the gatehouses are under arms, and three thousand men are inside the Castile, ready to rush out the moment the troops are in sight. It was impossible to doubt her story. Those who stood nearest to her passed it on to their neighbors, and the news traveled like wildfire from end to end of the church. They are on us five thousand Spaniards from Dendermond to annihilate us all. God have mercy on our souls, God have mercy on our women and children. Panic seized a great many there. They rushed and scrambled out of the building, running blindly like sheep, and spread the terrible news through the streets, calling loudly to God to save them all. The panic very naturally spread to the women and children who thronged the streets at this hour, and to the silent workers who had quietly continued their work of burial. Soon all the market squares were filled with shrieking men, women, and children who ran about aimlessly with wild gestures and cries of lamentation. Those who had kept indoors all today, either fearing the crowds or piously preparing for death, came rushing out to see what new calamity was threatening them, or whether the supreme hour had indeed struck for them all. Inside the cathedral the cries of revenge were stilled. Dulled was the lust to kill. The immense danger which had been forgotten for a moment in that frantic thirst for revenge made its deathly presence felt once more. Pallid faces and wide open, terror-filled eyes were turned toward the one man whose personality seemed still to radiate the one great ray of hope. But just for a moment Mark Van Rijk seemed quite oblivious of that wave of sighs and fears which tended toward him now and swept all thought of mutiny away. He was supporting Lenora, who was gradually regaining strength and consciousness. Just for a few seconds he allowed tumult and terror to see unheeded around him. Just for those few seconds he forgot death and danger, his friends, the world. Everything saved that Lenora had come to him at the hour when his heart yearned for her more passionately than ever before, and that she was looking up into his face with eyes that told so plainly the whole extent of her love for him. Only a few seconds then he handed her over to the gentle care of Father van der Schlitt. But as with infinite gentleness he finally released himself from her clinging arms. He murmured in her ear, God reward you, Madonna. With your love as my shield I feel that I could conquer the universe. Then he faced the terror-stricken crowd once more. Burgers and artisans of Ghent, he called loudly, We have two hours before us. The perjured tyrant is bringing five thousand fresh troops against us. If by nightfall we have not conquered, our city is doomed, and all of us who have survived, and all our women and children will be slaughtered like sheep. To arms cried the leaders. Jan van Magrode and Levin van Daines, Pierre de Newt, and the others. To arms was echoed by a goodly number of the crowd. But a great many were silent. Despair had gripped them with its icy talon. The hopelessness of it all had damped their enthusiasm. Five thousand fresh troops, they murmured, and there are less than four thousand of us all told. We cannot conquer, came from Peter Bald's friends at the west end of the church. Let us at least take our revenge. Yes, revenge. Death to the Walloons, they cried. Revenge, yes, exclaimed Mark van Rijk. Let us be revenged on the lyre, the tyrant, the perjurer. Let us show him no mercy, and extort from him by brute force that which he has refused us all these years civil and religious freedom. Van Rijk, thou art raving, broke in the men who stood nearest to him, some of them his most ardent supporters. Alva, by nightfall, will have three times the numbers we have. The gates will be opened to his fresh troops. We must seize the Castile and the gates before then, he retorted. How can we? We made several assaults yesterday. We have not enough men. We have half an hour, wherein, to increase their numbers, thou art raving, they cried. Not one able-bodied man, but was fighting yesterday, not half their number, knew how to handle pike or lance, musket or crossbow. Then we must find two thousand men who are trained soldiers and know all that there is to know about fighting. That would make it a two to one fight. Burgers of Ghent, which one of you cannot account for two Spaniards when the lives of your women and your children depend on the strength of your arm. Two thousand men, the cry came from everywhere, cry of doubt, of hope, of irony, or of defiance. How are we to get them? Where can we get them from? Come with me, and I'll show you, retorts Mark, and he immediately makes for the door. The other leaders stick close to him as one man, as do all those who have been standing near the altar rails, and those who saw him, even when first he turned to them all, with eyes glowing with the fire of the most ardent patriotism, with the determination to die if need be, but by God, to try and conquer first. It was only those who were in the rear of the crowd or in the side aisles who did not come immediately under the spell of that magnetic personality, of that burning enthusiasm which from its lexicon had erased the word failure, but even they were carried off their feet by the human wave, which now swept out of the cathedral by the south door, bearing upon it the group of rebel leaders, with Mark's broad shoulders and closely cropped head towering above the others. The throng was soon swelled to huge proportions by all those who had been hanging about in the precincts all the afternoon, unable to push their way into the crowded edifice, the tumult and the clamor which they made added to the cries of those who were running in terror through the streets, made a pandemonium of sounds which was almost hellish in its awful suggestion of terror, of confusion, and of misery. But those who still believed in the help of God, those in whom faith in the justice of their cause was allied with the sublime determination of martyrs, were content to follow their hero blindly, vaguely marveling what his purpose could be, whilst the malcontents in the rear, rallying round Peter Bald, once more began to murmur of death and of revenge. Mark led the crowd across the wide cathedral square to the gilt-house of the armors, the fine building with the tall, crow-stepped gables, and the magnificent carved portico to which a double flight of fifteen stone steps and wrought iron balustrade gave access. He ran up the steps and stood with his back to the portico, fronting the crowd. Everyone could see him now, from the remotest corners of the square. Many had invaded the houses round, and heads appeared at all the windows. Burgers of Ghent he called aloud. We have to conquer, or we must die. There are less than four thousand of us at this moment fit to bear arms against Alva's hordes, which still number seven. Five thousand more of them are on their way to complete the destruction of our city, to murder our wives and our children, and to desecrate our homes. We want two thousand well-trained soldiers to oppose them and inflict on the tyrant such a defeat as will force him to grant us all that we fight for liberty. How wilt do that, friend of the leather mask, queried some of the men ironically, how wilt find two thousand well-trained soldiers? Follow me and I will show you. He turned and went into the building, the whole crowd following him as one man. The huge vaulted hall of the gildhouse was filled in every corner with walloon prisoners, the fruit of the first day's victory. They were lying or sitting about the floor, some of them playing hazard with scraps of leather cut from their belts. Others watched them or merely stared straight in front of them with a sullen look of hopelessness. They were the ones who had wives and children at home, or merely who had served some time under Alva's banner, and had learned from him how prisoners should be treated, when the leaders of the insurrection with Mark van Wright at their head made eruption into the hall, followed by a tumultous throng, the walloons as if moved by a blind instinct through aside their games, and all retreated to the furthest end of the hall, like a phalanx of frightened men who have not even the power to sell their lives. Many of those who had rushed in, in Mark's wake, were the malcontents whose temper, Peter Ball's hot-headed words had inflamed. Odd by the presence of their leaders, they still held themselves in check, but the walloons, from their place of retreat, crowded together, and terrified some many a glowing face, distorted by the passion to kill. Many an eye fixed upon them, with glowering hatred and an obvious longing for revenge. Then Mark called out. Now then, friends, in two hours' time, the tyrant will have twelve thousand troops massed against us. We have two thousand well-trained soldiers within our guild houses, who are idle at this moment. Here are five hundred of them, the others are close by. With their help we can crush the tyrant, fight him till we conquer, and treat him as he would have treated us. Here is your revenge for his insults. Get your brothers to forswear their allegiance, and to fight by your side. A gasp went right through the hall, which now was packed closely with men. The five hundred well-oon prisoners huddled together at one end, and some four thousand men again, filling every corner of the vast arcaded hall. In the very midst of them all, Mark van Rijk hoisted up on the shoulders of his friends, with gleaming eyes and quivering voice, awaited their reply. The malcontents were the first to make their voices heard. These traitors, they shouted, the paid mercenaries of Alva aren't crazy van Rijk. The Spanish women have cajoled thee, some of them exclaimed, with a curse, or offered thee a bribe from the tyrant, cried others. We'll hang thee, along with the prisoners, if thou darest to turn against us, added Peter bald spitefully. Hang me, then, friends, and ye list, he said with a loud laugh. But let me speak, while ye get the gallows ready. While loons, he added, turning to the prisoners, who were regarding him with utter bewilderment, in which past terror still held sway, ye are our kith and kin. Together we have grown under the most execrable tyrant the world has ever known. Today I offer you the power to strike one blow at the tyrant, a blow from which he will never recover, a blow which will help you to win that which every netherlander craves for liberty. Will ye help us to strike that blow and cover yourselves with glory? I, I, came from the walloons with one stupendous cry of hope and of relief. Will you fight with us? Yes, die with us, yes, for the freedom of the netherlands, for liberty, they cried. But all the while murmurings were going on among the Flemmings. Their hatred of the walloons, who had borne arms against their own native land, and for its subjugation, under the heel of an alien master, was greater almost than their hatred against the Spaniards. The walloons, horror, they shouted, even whilst Mark was infusing some of his own ardent enthusiasm into the veins of those five hundred prisoners, shame on thee, Van Rijk, whilst one man, who has remained nameless to history, cried out loudly, Traitor, I, Traitor, thou, retorted Van Rijk, who wouldst prefer the lust of killing to that of victory. Burgers of Ghent, he continued, in the name of our sacred motherland, I entreat you, release these men, let me have them as soldiers under our banner, let me have them as brothers to fight by our side, you would shed their blood and steep your souls in crime, let them shed theirs for liberty and cover themselves with glory. Yes, yes, came from the leaders and from the phalanx of fighting men who stood closest to their hero. Yes, yes, release them, let them fight for us. The call was taken back and echoed and re-echoed until the high vaulted roof rang with the enthusiastic shouts. Walloons, will you fight with us? they asked. To the death, replied the prisoners, one country, one people, one kindred, rejoined Mark. With solemn earnestness, henceforth there will be neither Flemings nor Walloons, just Netherlanders, standing shoulder to shoulder to crush the tyrant of us all. Netherlanders, orange and liberty, cried Walloons and Flemings in unison. Give them back their own arms. Provost, commanded Mark, our untrained men have not known how to use them. And follow me, friends, we have not gathered our reinforcements together yet. In half an hour we shall have two thousand brothers under our flag. Long live Leatherface to arms, brothers, were the last shouts which rang through the hall, ere Mark van Rijk led his followers away to the nearest guild house, and then to the next, where two thousand Walloon prisoners were by the magic of his patriotism and his enthusiasm transformed into two thousand friends. Once more the roar of artillery and of musketry fills the air. It is long before the evening Angelus has begun to ring, but from far away the news has come to every captain at the city gates that reinforcements are on the way from Dendermond. No one can respect a truce which hid the blackest perfidy ever perpetrated by a tyrannical master against a brave people. As soon as the news has filtered into the heart of the city, the Oranges rush to their arms reinforced by two thousand trained troops. Their battle cry becomes triumphant. Netherlands, orange and liberty, resounds defiantly from end to end of the city. The besieging force rush the Castile. They sow the open tract of ground around the moat with their heroic dead. Again and again they rush for the breach. Culverines and falconets upon the ramparts are useless after a while, and a shower of heavy stones falls upon the plucky assailants. There are five hundred Walloon bowmen now who know how to shoot straight, and some musketeers who vie with the Spaniards for precision. They cover the advance of the Helberdeers and the pikemen who return to the charge with the enthusiasm born of renewed hope. The Bruges gate has fallen. The Wallport is in the insurgent's hands. Captain Cervoloni at the Brayport is hard-pressed, and up in the mist torrent of the Castile Alva paces up and down like a caged tiger. Brachamont or nightfall he cries with desperate rage, for he cannot understand why the Dendermond troops are detained. Surely that rabble has not seized all the gates. Twice he has ordered a sortie. Twice the moat has received a fresh shower of dead. The breach has become wider. The orangist Helberdeers are fighting foot by foot up the walls. They have succeeded in throwing their bridge made of pikes and lances across the moat, and soon they are crossing in their hundreds. Heavens above how come they to be so numerous. Captain de Avila has been severely wounded. Three younger captains have been killed. The orangist Falcanets, a light piece of artillery and not easy to use, works incessantly upon the breach. Alva himself is everywhere. His doublet and hose are torn too. His breastplate and tassets are riddled with arrow shot. He bleeds profusely from the hand. His face is unrecognizable beneath a covering of smoke and grime. Rage and fear have made him hideous, not fear of personal danger, for to this he is wholly indifferent, but fear of defeat, of humiliation, of the heavy reprisals which that contemptible rabble will exact. He insults his soldiers and threatens them in turn. He snatches musket or crossbow, directs, leads, commands, and sees his wildest hopes shattered one by one. The din and confusion from the city itself is hardly heard above the awful pandemonium which reigns in and around the besieged Castile. The Vuischhaus on the shelled is a mass of flames. The roof suddenly falls in with a terrific crash which seems to shake the very earth to its depths. There is not a single window left in the Mies Torren and the rooms as well as the yard below are littered with broken glass. We have no more balls left. Magnificence reports the captain in charge of the artillery. What must we do? Do, cries the Duke of Alva fiercely, throw yourself into the moat, or get the musketeers to turn their muskets against you. For of a certainty you will be massacred within the hour. Inside the city it is hell let loose, fighting hand to hand, pike to pike, goes on in every street, on every bridge, under every doorway, eye even beneath the cathedral porch. The doors of the houses have all been broken open, and men who are wounded and exhausted crawl under them for shelter and safety. The women and children had all been ordered to go inside their own homes before the first battle cry of the Oranges rang out. A goodly number of them, however, took refuge in the churches, and there were defended by companies of Walloons posted at the doors. The bridges are fought four inch by inch, when at last they fall into the hands of the Oranges they are destroyed one by one. Hell let loose indeed, desperate men fighting for freedom against a tyrant who has never known defeat. The evening Angelus was never rung on that Lord's Day, the feast of the Holy Redeemer. But at the hour when day first fades into evening, Mark van Rijk, superb, undaunted, and glowing now with the ardor of victory, leads the final assault on the Castile. Netherlanders, for liberty he cries. A stone has hit his shoulder. There is a huge cut across his face. The sleeve has been torn right out of his doublet. His bare arm and the hand which wheels an unconquered sword gleams like metal in the fast-gathering twilight. To the breach, he calls, and is the first to scramble down the declivity of the moat and on to the heap of masonry which fills the moat here to the top of the bank. An arrow aimed at his head pierces his right arm. A stone hurled from above falls at his feet and raises a cloud of dust which blinds him. A heavy fragment hits him on the head. He stumbles and falls backwards down to the brink of the moat. Never mind me, he calls. For liberty, Netherlanders, the Castile is yours. Hold on. He has managed to hold on for dear life to the rough stones on the declivity crawling along the top of the bank to escape being trampled on by the pikemen. The latter have a hot time at the breach. The Spanish musketeers under the duke of Alva's own eyes are firing with remarkable accuracy and extraordinary rapidity, whilst from the ramparts the shower of heavy stones makes deadly havoc. Twice the Walloons have given ground. They are led by Lawrence Van Rijk now, who twice returns to the charge. Mark struggles to his feet. Hold on, Walloons. The Castile is ours. He cries. And while the Walloons continue the desperate fighting at the breach, he gathers together a company of Flemish swordsmen, the pick of his little army, those who have stuck closely to him throughout the past two days, who have fought every minute, who have been decimated, lost their provosts and their captains, but have never once cried halt and never thought of giving in. A hundred or so of them are all that is left. They carry their sword in their right hand and a pistol in their left. They follow Mark round the walls to where the moat melts into the wide tract of Marass, which surrounds the northeast side of the Castile. The shadow from the high walls falls across the marshy ground. The men move round silently, whilst behind them, at the breach and on the bridge, the noise of musketry and falling masonry drowns every other sound. Now the men halt, and still in silence they strip to their skins, then with their pistols in their right hand and their sword between their teeth, they plunge ankle deep into the mud. They are men of Ghent, every one of them, men of the Low Countries, who know their Marassas as mariners know the sea. They know how to keep their foothold in these slimy traps, where strangers would inevitably be sucked into a hideous grave. They make their way to the foot of the wall. They move like ghosts now, and are well nigh waist deep in the mud. Night closes in rapidly round them. Behind them the sky is diffused with the crimson reflection of an autumnal sunset. Their arms, chests, and backs are shiny with sweat. Their hot breath comes and goes rapidly with excitement and the scent of danger, which hovers behind them in that yawning Marass, and ahead of them on the parapet of those walls. Victory waits for you, my men, says Mark, in a commanding voice, up on yonder wall. Whoever is for Orange and for Liberty, follow me. Then he starts to climb, and one by one, the men follow. What atoms they look up on those high walls, crawling, creeping, scrambling, with hands and knees, and feet clinging to the unevenness in the masonry, or scraps of coarse grass that give them foothold, like ants crawling up a heap. On they go, their bare backs reflect the crimson glow of the sun. Mark, their hero, leads the way. His torn arm and lesser-rated shoulder leave a trail of blood upon the stones. At the breach the Waloons must be hard-pressed for cries of triumph follow each volley from the Spanish musketry. On, on, Netherlanders, for Orange and Liberty. Now Mark has reached the top. His arm is over the parapet, then his knee. The look-out man has seen him. He shoulders his musket to give the alarm. But before he can fire, Mark is on him, and three more flammings now have scrambled over the wall. This portion of the castile is never seriously guarded. The morass is thought to be impassable, and forms the only guard on the northeast wall. But these men of Ghent have conquered the morass, and they are on the walls, and have overpowered the look-out men, ere these have had time to scream. Naked, sweating, bleeding at hands and knees, they look like wraths from some inferno down below. They rush down Helter Skelter into the castle yard. The Spanish musketeers caught in their rear once they never expected attack, down their weapons, and run with a mad, suave capoot to the shelter of the Miste Torren. The Waloons, not understanding what has happened, see the Spaniards running, and seize the lucky moment. Lawrence van Rijk leads them through the breach, and they rush into the yard with pikes and halberds fixed, and fill it suddenly with their cry of triumph. Then they fight their way round to the gatehouse, and lower the bridge, and the flammings in their turn come pouring into the castile. Within ten minutes every Spaniard inside the castile has laid down his arms. The stronghold is in the hands of the Oranges, and Mark van Rijk, up on the iron balcony outside the Duke of Alva's council chamber, surrounded by his naked stalwarts, demands the surrender of the Lieutenant Governor of the Netherlands in the name of Orange and of Liberty. Then, without a sigh or a groan, he throws up his arms, and those who are nearest to him are only just in time to catch him ere he falls.