Lysbeth, a Tale of the Dutch by H. Rider Haggard (reading in the dark .TXT) 📖

front doubtless of the marble tomb in the church above, for through them he could see the pale moon rays wavering on the pavement of the choir. As he looked the priest at his side muttered:

“Hark! The doors are down. Aid us, St. Pancras!” and falling upon his knees he began to pray very earnestly.

Yielding at last to the blows of the battering-beam, the great portals had flown open with a crash, and now through them poured the mob. On they came with a rush and a roar, like that of the sea breaking through a dyke, carrying in their hands torches, lanterns hung on poles, axes, swords and staves, till at length they reached the screen of wonderful carved oak, on the top of which, rising to a height of sixty feet above the floor of the church, stood the great Rood, with the images of the Virgin and St. John on either side. Here, of a sudden, the vastness and the silence of the holy place which they had known, every one, from childhood, with its echoing aisles, the moonlit, pictured windows, its consecrated lamps twinkling here and there like fisher lights upon the darkling waters, seemed to take hold of them. As at the sound of the Voice Divine sweeping down the wild waves at night, the winds ceased their raving and the seas were still, so now, beneath the silent reproach of the effigy of the White Christ standing with uplifted hand above the altar, hanging thorn-crowned upon the Rood, kneeling agonised within the Garden, seated at the Holy Supper, on His lips the New Commandment, “As I have loved you, so ye also love one another,” their passions flickered down and their wrath slept.

“They are not here, let us be going,” said a voice.

“They are here,” answered another voice, a woman’s voice with a note of vengeance in it. “I tracked them to the doors, the Spanish murderer Ramiro, the spy Hague Simon, the traitor Adrian, called van Goorl, and the priests, the priests, the priests who butcher us.”

“Let God deal with them,” said the first voice, which to Adrian sounded familiar. “We have done enough. Go home in peace.”

Now muttering, “The pastor is right. Obey the Pastor Arentz,” the more orderly of the multitude turned to depart, when suddenly, from the far end of the transept, arose a cry.

“Here’s one of them. Catch him! catch him!” A minute more and into the circle of the torchlight rushed the Abbe Dominic, his eyes starting from his head with terror, his rent robe flapping on the ground. Exhausted and bewildered he cast himself down, and grasping the pedestal of an image began to cry for mercy, till a dozen fierce hands dragged him to his feet again.

“Let him go,” said the voice of the Pastor Arentz. “We fight the Church, not its ministers.”

“Hear me first,” she answered who had spoken before, and men turned to see standing above them in the great pulpit of the church, a fierce-eyed, yellow-toothed hag, grey-haired, skinny-armed, long-faced like a horse, and behind her two other women, each of whom held a torch in her right hand.

“It is the Mare,” roared the multitude. “It is Martha of the Mere. Preach on, Martha. What’s your text?”

“Whoso sheddeth man’s blood by man shall his blood be shed,” she answered in a ringing, solemn voice, and instantly a deep silence fell upon the place.

“You call me the Mare,” she went on. “Do you know how I got that name? They gave it me after they had shrivelled up my lips and marred the beauty of my face with irons. And do you know what they made me do? They made me carry my husband to the stake upon my back because they said that a horse must be ridden. And do you know who said this? That priest who stands before you.”

As the words left her lips a yell of rage beat against the roof. Martha held up her thin hand, and again there was silence.

“He said it—the holy Father Dominic; let him deny it if he can. What? He does not know me? Perchance not, for time and grief and madness and hot pincers have changed the face of Vrouw Martha van Muyden, who was called the Lily of Brussels. Ah! look at him now. He remembers the Lily of Brussels. He remembers her husband and her son also, for he burned them. O God, judge between us. O people, deal with that devil as God shall teach you.

“Who are the others? He who is called Ramiro, the Governor of the Gevangenhuis, the man who years ago would have thrust me beneath the ice to drown had not the Vrouw van Goorl bought my life; he who set her husband, Dirk van Goorl, the man you loved, to starve to death sniffing the steam of kitchens. O people, deal with that devil as God shall teach you.

“And the third, the half-Spaniard, the traitor Adrian called van Goorl, he who has come here to-night to be baptised anew into the bosom of the Holy Church; he who signed the evidence upon which Dirk was murdered”—here, again, the roar of hate and rage went up and beat along the roof—“upon which too his brother Foy was taken to the torture, whence Red Martin saved him. O people, do with that devil also as God shall teach you.

“And the fourth, Hague Simon the spy, the man whose hands for years have smoked with innocent blood; Simon the Butcher—Simon the false witness——”

“Enough, enough!” roared the crowd. “A rope, a rope; up with him to the arm of the Rood.”

“My friends,” cried Arentz, “let the man go. Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord, and I will repay.”

“Yes, but we will give him something on account,” shouted a voice in bitter blasphemy. “Well climbed, Jan, well climbed,” and they looked up to see, sixty feet above their heads, seated upon the arm of the lofty Rood, a man with a candle bound upon his brow and a coil of rope upon his back.

“He’ll fall,” said one.

“Pish!” answered another, “it is steeplejack Jan, who can hang on a wall like a fly.”

“Look out for the ends of the rope,” cried the thin voice above, and down they came.

“Spare me,” screamed the wretched priest, as his executioners caught hold of him.

“Yes, yes, as you spared the Heer Jansen a few months ago.”

“It was to save his soul,” groaned Dominic.

“Quite so, and now we are going to save yours; your own medicine, father, your own medicine.”

“Spare me, and I will tell you where the others are.”

“Well, where are they?” asked the ringleader, pushing his companions away.

“Hidden in the church, hidden in the church.”

“We knew that, you traitorous dog. Now then for the soul-saving. Catch hold there and run away with it. A horse should be ridden, father—your own saying—and an angel must learn to fly.”

Thus ended the life of the Abbe Dominic at the hands of avenging men. Without a doubt they were fierce and bloody-minded, for the reader must not suppose that all the wickedness of those days lies on the heads of the Inquisition and the Spaniards. The adherents of the New Religion did evil things also, things that sound dreadful in our ears. In excuse of them, however, this can be urged, that, compared to those of their oppressors, they were as single trees to a forest full; also that they who worked them had been maddened by their sufferings. If our fathers, husbands and brothers had been burned at the stake, or done to death under the name of Jesus in the dens of the Inquisition, or slaughtered by thousands in the sack of towns; if our wives and daughters had been shamed, if our houses had been burned, our goods taken, our liberties trampled upon, and our homes made a desolation, then, my reader, is it not possible that even in these different days you and I might have been cruel when our hour came? God knows alone, and God be thanked that so far as we can foresee, except under the pressure, perhaps, of invasion by semi-barbarian hordes, or of dreadful and sudden social revolutions, civilized human nature will never be put to such a test again.

Far aloft in the gloom there, swinging from the arm of the Cross, whose teachings his life had mocked, like some mutinous sailor at the yard of the vessel he had striven to betray, the priest hung dead, but his life did not appease the fury of the triumphant mob.

“The others,” they cried, “find the others,” and with torches and lanterns they hunted round the great church. They ascended the belfry, they rummaged the chapels, they explored the crypt; then, baffled, drew together in a countless crowd in the nave, shouting, gesticulating, suggesting.

“Get dogs,” cried a voice; “dogs will smell them out;” and dogs were brought, which yapped and ran to and fro, but, confused by the multitude, and not knowing what to seek, found nothing. Then some one threw an image from a niche, and next minute, with a cry of “Down with the idols,” the work of destruction began.

Fanatics sprang at the screens and the altars, “all the carved work thereof they break down with hatchet and hammer,” they tore the hangings from the shrines, they found the sacred cups, and filling them with sacramental wine, drank with gusts of ribald laughter. In the centre of the choir they built a bonfire, and fed it with pictures, carvings, and oaken benches, so that it blazed and roared furiously. On to it—for this mob did not come to steal but to work vengeance—they threw utensils of gold and silver, the priceless jewelled offerings of generations, and danced around its flames in triumph, while from every side came the crash of falling statues and the tinkling of shattered glass.

The light of that furnace shone through the lattice stonework of the tomb, and in its lurid and ominous glare Adrian beheld the faces of those who refuged with him. What a picture it was; the niches filled with mouldering boxes, the white gleam of human bones that here and there had fallen from them, the bright furnishings and velvet pall of the coffin of the newcomer on which he stood—and then those faces. The priests, still crouched in corners, rolling on the ground, their white lips muttering who knows what; the sacristan in a swoon, Hague Simon hugging a coffin in a niche, as a drowning man hugs a plank, and, standing in the midst of them, calm, sardonic and watchful, a drawn rapier in his hand, his father Ramiro.

“We are lost,” moaned a priest, losing control of himself. “We are lost. They will kill us as they have killed the holy Abbe.”

“We are not lost,” hissed Ramiro, “we are quite safe, but, friend, if you open that cursed mouth of yours again it shall be for the last time,” and he lifted his sword, adding, “Silence; he who speaks, dies.”

How long did it last? Was it one hour, or two or three? None of them knew, but at length the image-breaking was done, and it came to an end. The interior of the church, with all its wealth and adornments, was utterly destroyed, but happily the flames did not reach the roof, and the walls could not catch fire.

By degrees the iconoclasts wearied; there seemed to be nothing more to break, and the smoke choked them. Two or three at a time they left the ravaged place, and once more it became solemn and empty; a symbol of Eternity mocking Time, of Peace conquering Tumult, of the Patience and Purpose of God triumphant over the passions and ravings of Man. Little curls of smoke went up from the smouldering fire; now and again a fragment of shattered stonework fell with an echoing crash, and the cold wind of the coming winter sighed through the gaping windows. The deed was done, the revenge of a tortured multitude had set its seal upon the ancient fane in which their forefathers worshipped for a score of generations, and once more quiet brooded upon the place, and the shafts of the sweet moonlight pierced its desecrated solitudes.

One by one, like ghosts arising at a summons of the Spirit, the fugitives crept from the shelter of the tomb, crept across the transepts to the little door of the baptistery, and with infinite peeping and precaution, out into the night, to vanish this way and that, hugging their hearts as though to feel whether they still beat safely in their bosoms.

As he passed the Rood Adrian looked up, and there, above the broken carvings and the shattered statue of the Virgin, hung the calm face of the Saviour crowned with thorns. There, too, not far from