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

against Foy’s and Adrian’s one, he went forward to where Ramiro lay stricken senseless on the kegs of specie and jewels in the bows, and took from him the great sword Silence. But he strapped the Spaniard’s legs together with his belt.

“That crack on the head keeps him quiet enough,” he said in explanation, “but he might come to and give trouble, or try to swim for it, since such cats have many lives. Ah! Señor Ramiro, I told you I would have my sword back before I was half an hour older, or go where I shouldn’t want one.” Then he touched the spring in the hilt and examined the cavity. “Why,” he said, “here’s my legacy left in it safe and sound. No wonder my good angel made me mad to get that sword again.”

“No wonder,” echoed Foy, “especially as you got Ramiro with it,” and he glanced at Adrian, who was labouring at the bow oar, looking, now that the excitement of the fight had gone by, most downcast and wretched. Well he might, seeing the welcome that, as he feared, awaited him in Leyden.

For a while they rowed on in silence. All that they had gone through during the last four and twenty hours and the seven preceding months of war and privation, had broken their nerve. Even now, although they had escaped the danger and won back the buried gold, capturing the arch-villain who had brought them so much death and misery, and their home, which, for the present moment at any rate, was a strong place of refuge, lay before them, still they could not be at ease. Where so many had died, where the risks had been so fearful, it seemed almost incredible that they four should be living and hale, though weary, with a prospect of continuing to live for many years.

That the girl whom he loved so dearly, and whom he had so nearly lost, should be sitting before him safe and sound, ready to become his wife whensoever he might wish it, seemed to Foy also a thing too good to be true. Too good to be true was it, moreover, that his brother, the wayward, passionate, weak, poetical-minded Adrian, made by nature to be the tool of others, and bear the burden of their evil doing, should have been dragged before it was over late, out of the net of the fowler, have repented of his sins and follies, and, at the risk of his own life, shown that he was still a man, no longer the base slave of passion and self-love. For Foy always loved his brother, and knowing him better than any others knew him, had found it hard to believe that however black things might look against him, he was at heart a villain.

Thus he thought, and Elsa too had her thoughts, which may be guessed. They were silent all of them, till of a sudden, Elsa seated in the stern-sheets, saw Adrian suddenly let fall his oar, throw his arms wide, and pitch forward against the back of Martin. Yes, and in place of where he had sat appeared the dreadful countenance of Ramiro, stamped with a grin of hideous hate such as Satan might wear when souls escape him at the last. Ramiro recovered and sitting up, for to his feet he could not rise because of the sword strap, in his hand a thin, deadly-looking knife.

“Habet!” he said with a short laugh, “habes, Weather-cock!” and he turned the knife against himself.

But Martin was on him, and in five more seconds he lay trussed like a fowl in the bottom of the boat.

“Shall I kill him?” said Martin to Foy, who with Elsa was bending over Adrian.

“No,” answered Foy grimly, “let him take his trial in Leyden. Oh! what accursed fools were we not to search him!”

Ramiro’s face turned a shade more ghastly.

“It is your hour,” he said in a hoarse voice, “you have won, thanks to that dog of a son of mine, who, I trust, may linger long before he dies, as die he must. Ah! well, this is what comes of breaking my oath to the Virgin and again lifting my hand against a woman.” He looked at Elsa and shuddered, then went on: “It is your hour, make an end of me at once. I do not wish to appear thus before those boors.”

“Gag him,” said Foy to Martin, “lest our ears be poisoned,” and Martin obeyed with good will. Then he flung him down, and there the man lay, his back supported by the kegs of treasure he had worked so hard and sinned so deeply to win, making, as he knew well, his last journey to death and to whatever may lie beyond that solemn gate.

They were passing the island that, many years ago, had formed the turning post of the great sledge race in which his passenger had been the fair Leyden heiress, Lysbeth van Hout. Ramiro could see her now as she was that day; he could see also how that race, which he just failed to win, had been for him an augury of disaster. Had not the Hollander again beaten him at the post, and that Hollander—Lysbeth’s own son by another father—helped to it by her son born of himself, who now lay there death-stricken by him that gave him life. . . . They would take him to Lysbeth, he knew it; she would be his judge, that woman against whom he had piled up injury after injury, whom, even when she seemed to be in his power, he had feared more than any living being. . . . And after he had met her eyes for the last time, then would come the end. What sort of an end would it be for the captain red-handed from the siege of Haarlem, for the man who had brought Dirk van Goorl to his death, for the father who had just planted a dagger between the shoulders of his son because, at the last, that son had chosen to be true to his own people, and to deliver them from a dreadful doom? . . . Why did it come back to him, that horrible dream which had risen in his mind when, for the first time after many years, he met Lysbeth face to face there in the Gevangenhuis, that dream of the pitiful little man falling, falling through endless space, and at the bottom of the gulf two great hands, hands hideous and suggestive, reaching through the shadows to receive him?

Like his son, Adrian, Ramiro was superstitious; more, his intellect, his reading, which in youth had been considerable, his observation of men and women, all led him to the conclusion that death is a wall with many doors in it; that on this side of the wall we may not linger or sleep, but must pass each of us through his appointed portal straight to the domain prepared for us. If so, what would be his lot, and who would be waiting to greet him yonder? Oh! terrors may attend the wicked after death, but in the case of some they do not tarry until death; they leap forward to him whom it is decreed must die, forcing attention with their eager, craving hands, with their obscure and ominous voices. . . . About him the sweet breath of the summer afternoon, the skimming swallows, the meadows starred with flowers; within him every hell at which the imagination can so much as hint.

Before he passed the gates of Leyden, in those few short hours, Ramiro, to Elsa’s eyes, had aged by twenty years.

Their little boat was heavy laden, the wind was against them, and they had a dying man and a prisoner aboard. So it came about that the day was closing before the soldiers challenged them from the watergate, asking who they were and whither they went. Foy stood up and said:

“We are Foy van Goorl, Red Martin, Elsa Brant, a wounded man and a prisoner, escaped from Haarlem, and we go to the house of Lysbeth van Goorl in the Bree Straat.”

Then they let them through the watergate, and there, on the further side, were many gathered who thanked God for their deliverance, and begged tidings of them.

“Come to the house in the Bree Straat and we will tell you from the balcony,” answered Foy.

So they rowed from one cut and canal to another till at last they came to the private boat-house of the van Goorls, and entered it, and thus by the small door into the house.

Lysbeth van Goorl, recovered from her illness now, but aged and grown stern with suffering, sat in an armchair in the great parlour of her home in the Bree Straat, the room where as a girl she had cursed Montalvo; where too not a year ago, she had driven his son, the traitor Adrian, from her presence. At her side was a table on which stood a silver bell and two brass holders with candles ready to be lighted. She rang the bell and a woman-servant entered, the same who, with Elsa, had nursed her in the plague.

“What is that murmuring in the street?” Lysbeth asked. “I hear the sound of many voices. Is there more news from Haarlem?”

“Alas! yes,” answered the woman. “A fugitive says that the executioners there are weary, so now they tie the poor prisoners back to back and throw them into the mere to drown.”

A groan burst from Lysbeth’s lips. “Foy, my son, is there,” she muttered, “and Elsa Brant his affianced wife, and Martin his servant, and many another friend. Oh! God, how long, how long?” and her head sank upon her bosom.

Soon she raised it again and said, “Light the candles, woman, this place grows dark, and in its gloom I see the ghosts of all my dead.”

They burned up—two stars of light in the great room.

“Whose feet are those upon the stairs?” asked Lysbeth, “the feet of men who bear burdens. Open the large doors, woman, and let that enter which it pleases God to send us.”

So the doors were flung wide, and through them came people carrying a wounded man, then following him Foy and Elsa, and, lastly, towering above them all, Red Martin, who thrust before him another man. Lysbeth rose from her chair to look.

“Do I dream?” she said, “or, son Foy, hath the Angel of the Lord delivered you out of the hell of Haarlem?”

“We are here, mother,” he answered.

“And whom,” she said, pointing to the figure covered with a cloak, “do you bring with you?”

“Adrian, mother, who is dying.”

“Then, son Foy, take him hence; alive, dying, or dead, I have done with——” Here her eyes fell upon Red Martin and the man he held, “Martin the Frisian,” she muttered, “but who——”

Martin heard, and by way of answer lifted up his prisoner so that the fading light from the balcony windows fell full upon his face.

“What!” she cried. “Juan de Montalvo as well as his son Adrian, and in this room——” Then she checked herself and added, “Foy, tell me your story.”

In few words and brief he told it, or so much as she need know to understand. His last words were: “Mother, be merciful to Adrian; from the first he meant no ill; he saved all our lives, and he lies dying by that man’s dagger.”

“Lift him up,” she said.

So they lifted him up, and Adrian, who, since the knife pierced him had uttered no word, spoke for the first and last time, muttering hoarsely:

“Mother, take back your words and forgive me—before I die.”

Now the sorrow-frozen heart of Lysbeth melted, and she bent over him and said, speaking so that all might hear:

“Welcome to your home again, Adrian. You who once were led astray, have done bravely, and I am proud to call you son. Though you have left the faith in which you were bred, here and hereafter may God bless you and reward you, beloved Adrian!” Then she bent down and kissed his dying lips. Foy and Elsa kissed him also in farewell before they bore him, smiling happily to himself, to the chamber, his own chamber, where within some few hours death found him.

Adrian had been borne away, and for a little while there was silence. Then, none commanding him, but as though an instinct pushed him forward, Red Martin began to move up the length of the long room, half dragging, half carrying his captive Ramiro. It was as if some automaton had suddenly been put in motion, some machine of gigantic strength that nothing could stop. The man in his grip set his heels in the floor and hung back, but Martin scarcely seemed to