Produced by John Bickers; Dagny
LYSBETH
A Tale Of The Dutch
By H. Rider Haggard
First Published 1901.
DEDICATION
In token of the earnest reverence of a man of a later generation for hischaracter, and for that life work whereof we inherit the fruits to-day,this tale of the times he shaped is dedicated to the memory of one ofthe greatest and most noble-hearted beings that the world has known; theimmortal William, called the Silent, of Nassau.
AUTHOR'S NOTE
There are, roughly, two ways of writing an historical romance--the firstto choose some notable and leading characters of the time to be treated,and by the help of history attempt to picture them as they were; theother, to make a study of that time and history with the country inwhich it was enacted, and from it to deduce the necessary characters.
In the case of "Lysbeth" the author has attempted this second method. Byan example of the trials, adventures, and victories of a burgher familyof the generation of Philip II. and William the Silent, he strives toset before readers of to-day something of the life of those who livedthrough perhaps the most fearful tyranny that the western world hasknown. How did they live, one wonders; how is it that they did not dieof very terror, those of them who escaped the scaffold, the famine andthe pestilence?
This and another--Why were such things suffered to be?--seem problemsworth consideration, especially by the young, who are so apt to takeeverything for granted, including their own religious freedom andpersonal security. How often, indeed, do any living folk give a gratefulthought to the forefathers who won for us these advantages, and manyothers with them?
The writer has sometimes heard travellers in the Netherlands expresssurprise that even in an age of almost universal decoration its noblechurches are suffered to remain smeared with melancholy whitewash. Couldthey look backward through the centuries and behold with the mind's eyecertain scenes that have taken place within these very temples andabout their walls, they would marvel no longer. Here we are beginningto forget the smart at the price of which we bought deliverance fromthe bitter yoke of priest and king, but yonder the sword bit deeperand smote more often. Perhaps that is why in Holland they still lovewhitewash, which to them may be a symbol, a perpetual protest; andremembering stories that have been handed down as heirlooms to this day,frown at the sight of even the most modest sacerdotal vestment. Thosewho are acquainted with the facts of their history and deliverance willscarcely wonder at the prejudice.
LYSBETH
A TALE OF THE DUTCH
BOOK THE FIRST
THE SOWING
CHAPTER I
THE WOLF AND THE BADGER
The time was in or about the year 1544, when the Emperor Charles V.ruled the Netherlands, and our scene the city of Leyden.
Any one who has visited this pleasant town knows that it lies in themidst of wide, flat meadows, and is intersected by many canals filledwith Rhine water. But now, as it was winter, near to Christmas indeed,the meadows and the quaint gabled roofs of the city lay buried beneatha dazzling sheet of snow, while, instead of boats and barges, skatersglided up and down the frozen surface of the canals, which were sweptfor their convenience. Outside the walls of the town, not far from theMorsch poort, or gate, the surface of the broad moat which surroundedthem presented a sight as gay as it was charming. Just here one ofthe branches of the Rhine ran into this moat, and down it came thepleasure-seekers in sledges, on skates, or afoot. They were dressed,most of them, in their best attire, for the day was a holiday set apartfor a kind of skating carnival, with sleighing matches, such games ascurling, and other amusements.
Among these merry folk might have been seen a young lady of two or threeand twenty years of age, dressed in a coat of dark green cloth trimmedwith fur, and close-fitting at the waist. This coat opened in front,showing a broidered woollen skirt, but over the bust it was tightlybuttoned and surmounted by a stiff ruff of Brussels lace. Upon her headshe wore a high-crowned beaver hat, to which the nodding ostrich featherwas fastened by a jewelled ornament of sufficient value to show that shewas a person of some means. In fact, this lady was the only child of asea captain and shipowner named Carolus van Hout, who, whilst still amiddle-aged man, had died about a year before, leaving her heiress to avery considerable fortune. This circumstance, with the added advantagesof a very pretty face, in which were set two deep and thoughtful greyeyes, and a figure more graceful than was common among the Netherlanderwomen, caused Lysbeth van Hout to be much sought after and admired,especially by the marriageable bachelors of Leyden.
On this occasion, however, she was unescorted except by a serving womansomewhat older than herself, a native of Brussels, Greta by name, who inappearance was as attractive as in manner she was suspiciously discreet.
As Lysbeth skated down the canal towards the moat many of the goodburghers of Leyden took off their caps to her, especially the youngburghers, one or two of whom had hopes that she would choose them to beher cavalier for this day's fete. Some of the elders, also, asked herif she would care to join their parties, thinking that, as she wasan orphan without near male relations, she might be glad of theirprotection in times when it was wise for beautiful young women to beprotected. With this excuse and that, however, she escaped from themall, for Lysbeth had already made her own arrangements.
At that date there was living in Leyden a young man of four or five andtwenty, named Dirk van Goorl, a distant cousin of her own. Dirk was anative of the little town of Alkmaar, and the second son of one of itsleading citizens, a brass founder by trade. As in the natural course ofevents the Alkmaar business would descend to his elder brother, theirfather appointed him to a Leyden firm, in which, after eight or nineyears of hard work, he had become a junior partner. While he was stillliving, Lysbeth's father had taken a liking to the lad, with the resultthat he grew intimate at the house which, from the first, was opento him as a kinsman. After the death of Carolus van Hout, Dirk hadcontinued to visit there, especially on Sundays, when he was duly andceremoniously received by Lysbeth's aunt, a childless widow named Claravan Ziel, who acted as her guardian. Thus, by degrees, favoured withsuch ample opportunity, a strong affection had sprung up between thesetwo young people, although as yet they were not affianced, nor indeedhad either of them said a word of open love to the other.
This abstinence may seem strange, but some explanation of theirself-restraint was to be found in Dirk's character. In mind he waspatient, very deliberate in forming his purposes, and very sure incarrying them out. He felt impulses like other men, but he did notgive way to them. For two years or more he had loved Lysbeth, but beingsomewhat slow at reading the ways of women he was not quite certainthat she loved him, and above everything on earth he dreaded a rebuff.Moreover he knew her to be an heiress, and as his own means were stillhumble, and his expectations from his father small, he did not feeljustified in asking her in marriage until his position was more assured.Had the Captain Carolus still been living the case would have beendifferent, for then he could have gone to him. But he was dead, andDirk's fine and sensitive nature recoiled from the thought that it mightbe said of him that he had taken advantage of the inexperience of akinswoman in order to win her fortune. Also deep down in his mind he hada sincerer and quite secret reason for reticence, whereof more in itsproper place.
Thus matters stood between these two. To-day, however, though only withdiffidence and after some encouragement from the lady, he had askedleave to be his cousin's cavalier at the ice fete, and when sheconsented, readily enough, appointed the moat as their place of meeting.This was somewhat less than Lysbeth expected, for she wished his escortthrough the town. But, when she hinted as much, Dirk explained that
hewould not be able to leave the works before three o'clock, as the metalfor a large bell had been run into the casting, and he must watch itwhile it cooled.
So, followed only by her maid, Greta, Lysbeth glided lightly as a birddown the ice path on to the moat, and across it, through the narrowcut, to the frozen mere beyond, where the sports were to be held and theraces run. There the scene was very beautiful.
Behind her lay the roofs of Leyden, pointed, picturesque, and coveredwith sheets of snow, while above them towered the bulk of the two greatchurches of St. Peter and St. Pancras, and standing on a mound known asthe Burg, the round tower which is supposed to have been built by theRomans. In front stretched the flat expanse of white meadows, brokenhere and there by windmills with narrow waists and thin tall sails, andin the distance, by the church towers of other towns and villages.
Immediately before her, in strange contrast to this lifeless landscape,lay the peopled mere, fringed around with dead reeds standing so stillin the frosty air that they might have been painted things. On this merehalf the population of Leyden seemed to be gathered; at least there werethousands of them, shouting, laughing, and skimming to and fro in theirbright garments like flocks of gay-plumaged birds. Among them, drawnby horses with bells tied to their harness, glided many sledges ofwickerwork and wood mounted upon iron runners, their fore-ends fashionedto quaint shapes, such as the heads of dogs or bulls, or Tritons. Thenthere were vendors of cakes and sweetmeats, vendors of spirits also, whodid a good trade on this cold day. Beggars too were numerous, and amongthem deformities, who, nowadays, would be hidden in charitable homes,slid about in wooden boxes, which they pushed along with crutches.Lastly many loafers had gathered there with stools for fine ladies tosit on while the skates were bound to their pretty feet, and chapmenwith these articles for sale and straps wherewith to fasten them. Tocomplete the picture the huge red ball of the sun was sinking to thewest, and opposite to it the pale full moon began already to gatherlight and life.
The scene seemed so charming and so happy that Lysbeth, who was young,and now that she had recovered from the shock of her beloved father'sdeath, light-hearted, ceased her forward movement and poised herselfupon her skates to watch it for a space. While she stood thus a littleapart, a woman came towards her from the throng, not as though she wereseeking her, but aimlessly, much as a child's toy-boat is driven bylight, contrary winds upon the summer surface of a pond.
She was a remarkable-looking woman of about thirty-five years of age,tall and bony in make, with deep-set eyes, light grey of colour, thatseemed now to flash fiercely and now to waver, as though in memory ofsome great dread. From beneath a coarse woollen cap a wisp of grizzledhair fell across the forehead, where it lay like the forelock ofa horse. Indeed, the high cheekbones, scarred as though by burns,wide-spread nostrils and prominent white teeth, whence the lips hadstrangely sunk away, gave the whole countenance a more or less equinelook which this falling lock seemed to heighten. For the rest the womanwas poorly and not too plentifully clad in a gown of black woollen, tornand stained as though with long use and journeys, while on her feet shewore wooden clogs, to which were strapped skates that were not fellows,one being much longer than the other.
Opposite to Lysbeth this strange, gaunt person stopped, contemplatingher with a dreamy eye. Presently she seemed to recognise her, for shesaid in a quick, low voice, the voice of one who lives in terror ofbeing overheard:--
"That's a pretty dress of yours, Van Hout's daughter. Oh, yes, I knowyou; your father used to play with me when I was a child, and once hekissed me on the ice at just such a fete as this. Think of it! Kissedme, Martha the Mare," and she laughed hoarsely, and went on: "Yes,well-warmed and well-fed, and, without doubt, waiting for a gallant tokiss you"; here she turned and waved her hand towards the people--"allwell-warmed and well-fed, and all with lovers and husbands and childrento kiss. But I tell you, Van Hout's daughter, as I have dared to creepfrom my hiding hole in the great lake to tell all of them who willlisten, that unless they cast out the cursed Spaniard, a day shall comewhen the folk of Leyden must perish by thousands of hunger behindthose walls. Yes, yes, unless they cast out the cursed Spaniard and hisInquisition. Oh, I know him, I know him, for did they not make me carrymy own husband to the stake upon my back? And have you heard why, VanHout's daughter? Because what I had suffered in their torture-dens hadmade my face--yes, mine that once was so beautiful--like the face of ahorse, and they said that 'a horse ought to be ridden.'"
Now, while this poor excited creature, one of a whole class of suchpeople who in those sad days might be found wandering about theNetherlands crazy with their griefs and sufferings, and living only forrevenge, poured out these broken sentences, Lysbeth, terrified, shrankback before her. As she shrank the other followed, till presentlyLysbeth saw her expression of rage and hate change to one of terror. Inanother instant, muttering something about a request for alms which shedid not wait to receive, the woman had wheeled round and fled away asfast as her skates would carry her--which was very fast indeed.
Turning about to find what had frightened her, Lysbeth saw standing onthe bank of the mere, so close that she must have overheard every word,but behind the screen of a leafless bush, a tall, forbidding-lookingwoman, who held in her hand some broidered caps which apparently she wasoffering for sale. These caps she began to slowly fold up and place oneby one in a hide satchel that was hung about her shoulders. All thiswhile she was watching Lysbeth with her keen black eyes, except whenfrom time to time she took them off her to follow the flight of thatperson who had called herself the Mare.
"You keep ill company, lady," said the cap-seller in a harsh voice.
"It was none of my seeking," answered Lysbeth, astonished into making areply.
"So much the better for you, lady, although she seemed to know you andto know also that you would listen to her song. Unless my eyes deceivedme, which is not often, that woman is an evil-doer and a worker of magiclike her dead husband Van Muyden; a heretic, a blasphemer of the HolyChurch, a traitor to our Lord the Emperor, and one," she added with asnarl, "with a price upon her head that before night will, I hope, bein Black Meg's pocket." Then, walking with long firm steps towards a fatman who seemed to be waiting for her, the tall, black-eyed pedlar passedwith him into the throng, where Lysbeth lost sight of them.
Lysbeth watched them go, and shivered. To her knowledge she had neverseen this woman before, but she knew enough of the times they lived into be sure that she was a spy of the priests. Already there were suchcreatures moving about in every gathering, yes, and in many a privateplace, who were paid to obtain evidence against suspected heretics.Whether they won it by fair means or by foul mattered not, providedthey could find something, and it need be little indeed, to justify theInquisition in getting to its work.
As for the other woman, the Mare, doubtless she was one of those wickedoutcasts, accursed by God and man, who were called heretics; people whosaid dreadful things about the Pope and the Church and God's priests,having been misled and stirred up thereto by a certain fiend in humanform named Luther. Lysbeth shuddered at the thought and crossed herself,for in those days she was an excellent Catholic. Yet the wanderer saidthat she had known her father, so that she must be as well born asherself--and then that dreadful story--no, she could not bear to thinkof it. But of course heretics deserved all these things; of that therecould be no doubt whatever, for had not her father confessor told herthat thus alone might their souls be saved from the grasp of the EvilOne?
The thought was comforting, still Lysbeth felt upset, and not a littlerejoiced when she saw Dirk van Goorl skating towards her accompanied byanother young man, also a cousin of her own on her mother's side whowas destined in days to come to earn himself an immortal renown--youngPieter van de Werff. The two took off their bonnets to her, Dirk vanGoorl revealing in the act a head of fair hair beneath which his steadyblue eyes shone in a rather thick-set, self-contained face. Lysbeth'stemper, always somewhat quick, was ruffled, and she showed it in herma
nner.
"I thought, cousins, that we were to meet at three, and the kirk clockyonder has just chimed half-past," she said, addressing them both, butlooking--not too sweetly--at Dirk van Goorl.
"That's right, cousin," answered Pieter, a pleasant-faced and alertyoung man, "look at _him_, scold _him_, for he is to blame. Ever since aquarter past two have I--I who must drive a sledge in the great race andam backed to win--been waiting outside that factory in the snow, but,upon my honour, he did not appear until seven minutes since. Yes, wehave done the whole distance in seven minutes, and I call that very goodskating."
"I thought as much," said Lysbeth. "Dirk can only keep an appointmentwith a church bell or a stadhuis chandelier."
"It was not my fault," broke in Dirk in his slow voice; "I have mybusiness to attend. I promised to wait until the metal had cooledsufficiently, and hot bronze takes no account of ice-parties and sledgeraces."
"So I suppose that you stopped to blow on it, cousin. Well, the resultis that, being quite unescorted, I have been obliged to listen to thingswhich I did not wish to hear."
"What do you mean?" asked Dirk, taking fire at once.
Then she told them something of what the woman who called herself theMare had said to her, adding, "Doubtless the poor creature is a hereticand deserves all that has happened to her. But it is dreadfully sad, andI came here to enjoy myself, not to be sad."
Between the two young men there passed a glance which was full ofmeaning. But it was Dirk who spoke. The other, more cautious, remainedsilent.
"Why do you say that, Cousin Lysbeth?" he asked in a new voice, a voicethick and eager. "Why do you say that she deserves all that can happento her? I have heard of this poor creature who is called Mother Martha,or the Mare, although I have never seen her myself. She was noble-born,much better born than any of us three, and very fair--once they calledher the Lily of Brussels--when she was the Vrouw van Muyden, and she hassuffered dreadfully, for one reason only, because she and hers did notworship God as you worship Him."
"As we worship Him," broke in Van de Werff with a cough.
"No," answered Dirk sullenly, "as our Cousin Lysbeth van Hout worshipsHim. For that reason only they killed her husband and her little son,and drove her mad, so that she lives among the reeds of the HaarlemerMeer like a beast in its den; yes, they, the Spaniards and their Spanishpriests, as I daresay that they will kill us also."
"Don't you think that it is getting rather cold standing here?"interrupted Pieter van de Werff before she could answer. "Look, thesledge races are just beginning. Come, cousin, give me your hand," and,taking Lysbeth by the arm, he skated off into the throng, followed at adistance by Dirk and the serving-maid, Greta.
"Cousin," he whispered as he went, "this is not my place, it is Dirk'splace, but I pray you as you love him--I beg your pardon--as you esteema worthy relative--do not enter into a religious argument with him herein public, where even the ice and sky are two great ears. It is notsafe, little cousin, I swear to you that it is not safe."
In the centre of the mere the great event of the day, the sledge races,were now in progress. As the competitors were many these must be run inheats, the winners of each heat standing on one side to compete in thefinal contest. Now these victors had a pretty prerogative not unlikethat accorded to certain dancers in the cotillion of modern days. Eachdriver of a sledge was bound to carry a passenger in the little car infront of him, his own place being on the seat behind, whence he directedthe horse by means of reins supported upon a guide-rod so fashionedthat it lifted them above the head of the traveller in the car. Thispassenger he could select from among the number of ladies who werepresent at the games; unless, indeed, the gentleman in charge of herchose to deny him in set form; namely, by stepping forward and saying inthe appointed phrase, "No, for this happy hour she is mine."
Among the winners of these heats was a certain Spanish officer, theCount Don Juan de Montalvo, who, as it chanced, in the absence onleave of his captain, was at that date the commander of the garrison atLeyden. He was a man still young, only about thirty indeed, reported tobe of noble birth, and handsome in the usual Castilian fashion. That isto say, he was tall, of a graceful figure, dark-eyed, strong-featured,with a somewhat humorous expression, and of very good if exaggeratedaddress. As he had but recently come to Leyden, very little was knownabout this attractive cavalier beyond that he was well spoken of by thepriests and, according to report, a favourite with the Emperor. Also theladies admired him much.
For the rest everything about him was handsome like his person, as mightbe expected in the case of a man reputed to be as rich as he was noble.Thus his sledge was shaped and coloured to resemble a great black wolfrearing itself up to charge. The wooden head was covered in wolf skinand adorned by eyes of yellow glass and great fangs of ivory. Round theneck also ran a gilded collar hung with a silver shield, whereon werepainted the arms of its owner, a knight striking the chains from off acaptive Christian saint, and the motto of the Montalvos, "Trust to Godand me." His black horse, too, of the best breed, imported from Spain,glittered in harness decorated with gilding, and bore a splendid plumeof dyed feathers rising from the head-band.
Lysbeth happened to be standing near to the spot where this gallant hadhalted after his first victory. She was in the company of Dirk van Goorlalone--for as he was the driver of one of the competing sledges, herother cousin, Pieter van de Werff, had now been summoned away. Havingnothing else to do at the moment, she approached and not unnaturallyadmired this brilliant equipage, although in truth it was the sledge andthe horse rather than their driver which attracted her attention. As forthe Count himself she knew him slightly, having been introduced to anddanced a measure with him at a festival given by a grandee of the town.On that occasion he was courteous to her in the Spanish fashion, rathertoo courteous, she thought, but as this was the manner of Castiliandons when dealing with burgher maidens she paid no more attention to thematter.
The Captain Montalvo saw Lysbeth among the throng and recognised her,for he lifted his plumed hat and bowed to her with just that touch ofcondescension which in those days a Spaniard showed when greetingone whom he considered his inferior. In the sixteenth century it wasunderstood that all the world were the inferiors to those whom Godhad granted to be born in Spain, the English who rated themselves ata valuation of their own--and were careful to announce the fact--aloneexcepted.
An hour or so later, after the last heat had been run, a steward of theceremonies called aloud to the remaining competitors to select theirpassengers and prepare for the final contest. Accordingly each Jehu,leaving his horse in charge of an attendant, stepped up to some younglady who evidently was waiting for him, and led her by the hand to hissledge. While Lysbeth was watching this ceremony with amusement--forthese selections were always understood to show a strong preferenceon behalf of the chooser for the chosen--she was astonished to hear awell-trained voice addressing her, and on looking up to see Don Juan deMontalvo bowing almost to the ice.
"Senora," he said in Castilian, a tongue which Lysbeth understoodwell enough, although she only spoke it when obliged, "unless my earsdeceived me, I heard you admiring my horse and sledge. Now, with thepermission of your cavalier," and he bowed courteously to Dirk, "I nameyou as my passenger for the great race, knowing that you will bring mefortune. Have I your leave, Senor?"
Now if there was a people on earth whom Dirk van Goorl hated, theSpaniards were that people, and if there lived a cavalier who he wouldprefer should not take his cousin Lysbeth for a lonely drive, thatcavalier was the Count Juan de Montalvo. But as a young man, Dirk wassingularly diffident and so easily confused that on the spur of themoment it was quite possible for a person of address to make him saywhat he did not mean. Thus, on the present occasion, when he saw thiscourtly Spaniard bowing low to him, a humble Dutch tradesman, he wasoverwhelmed, and mumbled in reply, "Certainly, certainly."
If a glance could have withered him, without doubt Dirk wouldimmediately have been shrivelled to nothing.
To say that Lysbeth wasangry is too little, for in truth she was absolutely furious. She didnot like this Spaniard, and hated the idea of a long interview with himalone. Moreover, she knew that among her fellow townspeople there was agreat desire that the Count should not win this race, which in itsown fashion was the event of the year, whereas, if she appeared as hiscompanion it would be supposed that she was anxious for his success.Lastly--and this was the chiefest sore--although in theory thecompetitors had a right to ask any one to whom they took a fancy totravel in their sledges, in practise they only sought the company ofyoung women with whom they were on the best of terms, and who werealready warned of their intention.
In an instant these thoughts flashed through her mind, but all she didwas to murmur something about the Heer van Goorl----
"Has already given his consent, like an unselfish gentleman," broke inCaptain Juan tendering her his hand.
Now, without absolutely making a scene, which then, as to-day, ladiesconsidered an ill-bred thing to do, there was no escape, since halfLeyden gathered at these "sledge choosings," and many eyes were on herand the Count. Therefore, because she must, Lysbeth took the proferredhand, and was led to the sledge, catching, as she passed to it throughthe throng, more than one sour look from the men and more than oneexclamation of surprise, real or affected, on the lips of the ladiesof her acquaintance. These manifestations, however, put her upon hermettle. So determining that at least she would not look sullen orridiculous, she began to enter into the spirit of the adventure, andsmiled graciously while the Captain Montalvo wrapped a magnificent apronof wolf skins about her knees.
When all was ready her charioteer took the reins and settled himselfupon the little seat behind the sleigh, which was then led into line bya soldier servant.
"Where is the course, Senor?" Lysbeth asked, hoping that it would be ashort one.
But in this she was to be disappointed, for he answered:
"Up to the little Quarkel Mere, round the island in the middle of it,and back to this spot, something over a league in all. Now, Senora,speak to me no more at present, but hold fast and have no fear, for atleast I drive well, and my horse is sure-footed and roughed for ice.This is a race that I would give a hundred gold pieces to win, sinceyour countrymen, who contend against me, have sworn that I shall loseit, and I tell you at once, Senora, that grey horse will press me hard."
Following the direction of his glance, Lysbeth's eye lit upon the nextsledge. It was small, fashioned and painted to resemble a grey badger,that silent, stubborn, and, if molested, savage brute, which will notloose its grip until the head is hacked from off its body. The horse,which matched it well in colour, was of Flemish breed; rather araw-boned animal, with strong quarters and an ugly head, but renowned inLeyden for its courage and staying power. What interested Lysbeth most,however, was to discover that the charioteer was none other than Pietervan de Werff, though now when she thought of it, she remembered hehad told her that his sledge was named the Badger. In his choice ofpassenger she noted, too, not without a smile, that he showed hiscautious character, disdainful of any immediate glory, so long as theend in view could be attained. For there in the sleigh sat no fine younglady, decked out in brave attire, who might be supposed to look at himwith tender eyes, but a little fair-haired mate aged nine, who was infact his sister. As he explained afterwards, the rules provided that alady passenger must be carried, but said nothing of her age and weight.
Now the competitors, eight of them, were in a line, and coming forward,the master of the course, in a voice that every one might hear, calledout the conditions of the race and the prize for which it was to berun, a splendid glass goblet engraved with the cross-keys, the Arms ofLeyden. This done, after asking if all were ready, he dropped a littleflag, whereon the horses were loosed and away they went.
Before a minute had passed, forgetting all her doubts and annoyances,Lysbeth was lost in the glorious excitement of the moment. Like birdsin the heavens, cleaving the keen, crisp air, they sped forward overthe smooth ice. The gay throng vanished, the dead reeds and stark bushesseemed to fly away from them. The only sounds in their ears were therushing of the wind, the swish of the iron runners, and the hollowtapping of the hooves of their galloping horses. Certain sledges drewahead in the first burst, but the Wolf and the Badger were not amongthese. The Count de Montalvo was holding in his black stallion, and asyet the grey Flemish gelding looped along with a constrained and awkwardstride. When, passing from the little mere, they entered the straight ofthe canal, these two were respectively fourth and fifth. Up the coursethey sped, through a deserted snow-clad country, past the church of thevillage of Alkemaade. Now, half a mile or more away appeared the QuarkelMere, and in the centre of it the island which they must turn. Theyreached it, they were round it, and when their faces were once more sethomewards, Lysbeth noted that the Wolf and the Badger were third andfourth in the race, some one having dropped behind. Half a mile more andthey were second and third; another half mile and they were first andsecond with perhaps a mile to go. Then the fight began.
Yard by yard the speed increased, and yard by yard the black stalliondrew ahead. Now in front of them lay a furlong or more of bad iceencumbered with lumps of frozen snow that had not been cleared away,which caused the sleigh to shake and jump as it struck. Lysbeth lookedround.
"The Badger is coming up," she said.
Montalvo heard, and for the first time laid his whip upon the haunchesof his horse, which answered gallantly. But still the Badger came up.The grey was the stronger beast, and had begun to put out his strength.Presently his ugly head was behind them, for Lysbeth felt the breathfrom his nostrils blowing on her, and saw their steam. Then it was past,for the steam blew back into her face; yes, and she could see the eagereyes of the child in the grey sledge. Now they were neck and neck, andthe rough ice was done with. Six hundred yards away, not more, lay thegoal, and all about them, outside the line of the course, were swiftskaters travelling so fast that their heads were bent forward and downto within three feet of the ice.
Van de Werff called to his horse, and the grey began to gain. Montalvolashed the stallion, and once more they passed him. But the black wasfailing, and he saw it, for Lysbeth heard him curse in Spanish. Then ofa sudden, after a cunning glance at his adversary, the Count pulled uponthe right rein, and a shrill voice rose upon the air, the voice of thelittle girl in the other sledge.
"Take care, brother," it cried, "he will overthrow us."
True enough, in another moment the black would have struck the greysideways. Lysbeth saw Van de Werff rise from his seat and throw hisweight backward, dragging the grey on to his haunches. By an inch--notmore--the Wolf sleigh missed the gelding. Indeed, one runner of itstruck his hoof, and the high wood work of the side brushed and cut hisnostril.
"A foul, a foul!" yelled the skaters, and it was over. Once more theywere speeding forward, but now the black had a lead of at least tenyards, for the grey must find his stride again. They were in thestraight; the course was lined with hundreds of witnesses, and from thethroats of every one of them arose a great cry, or rather two cries.
"The Spaniard, the Spaniard wins!" said the first cry that was answeredby another and a deeper roar.
"No, Hollander, the Hollander! The Hollander comes up!"
Then in the midst of the fierce excitement--bred of the excitementperhaps--some curious spell fell upon the mind of Lysbeth. The race, itsdetails, its objects, its surroundings faded away; these physicalthings were gone, and in place of them was present a dream, a spiritualinterpretation such as the omens and influences of the times she livedin might well inspire. What did she seem to see?
She saw the Spaniard and the Hollander striving for victory, but not avictory of horses. She saw the black Spanish Wolf, at first triumphant,outmatch the Netherland Badger. Still, the Badger, the dogged Dutchbadger, held on.
Who would win? The fierce beast or the patient beast? Who would be themaster in this fight? There was death in it. Look, the whole snow was
red, the roofs of Leyden were red, and red the heavens; in the deep huesof the sunset they seemed bathed in blood, while about her the shouts ofthe backers and factions transformed themselves into a fierce cry asof battling peoples. All voices mingled in that cry--voices of hope, ofagony, and of despair; but she could not interpret them. Something toldher that the interpretation and the issue were in the mind of God alone.
Perhaps she swooned, perhaps she slept and dreamed this dream; perhapsthe sharp rushing air overcame her. At the least Lysbeth's eyes closedand her mind gave way. When they opened and it returned again theirsledge was rushing past the winning post. But in front of it travelledanother sledge, drawn by a gaunt grey horse, which galloped so hardthat its belly seemed to lie upon the ice, a horse driven by a young manwhose face was set like steel and whose lips were as the lips of a trap.
Could that be the face of her cousin Pieter van de Werff, and, if so,what passion had stamped that strange seal thereon? She turned herselfin her seat and looked at him who drove her.
Was this a man, or was it a spirit escaped from doom? Blessed Mother ofChrist! what a countenance! The eyeballs starting and upturned, nothingbut the white of them to be seen; the lips curled, and, between, twolines of shining fangs; the lifted points of the mustachios touching thehigh cheekbones. No--no, it was neither a spirit nor a man, she knew nowwhat it was; it was the very type and incarnation of the Spanish Wolf.
Once more she seemed to faint, while in her ears there rang thecry--"The Hollander! Outstayed! Outstayed! Conquered is the accursedSpaniard!"
Then Lysbeth knew that it was over, and again the faintness overpoweredher.