Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. Lysbeth, a Tale of the Dutch by H. Rider Haggard (reading in the dark .TXT) 📖
- Author: H. Rider Haggard
Book online «Lysbeth, a Tale of the Dutch by H. Rider Haggard (reading in the dark .TXT) 📖». Author H. Rider Haggard
“Why do you bring this man to me, Martin?”
“For judgment, Lysbeth van Goorl,” he answered.
“Who made me a judge over him?” she asked.
“My master, Dirk van Goorl, your son, Adrian, and Hendrik Brant. Their blood makes you judge of his blood.”
“I will have none of it,” Lysbeth said passionately, “let the people judge him.” As she spoke, from the crowd in the street below there swelled a sudden clamour.
“Good,” said Martin, “the people shall judge,” and he began to turn towards the window, when suddenly, by a desperate effort, Ramiro wrenched his doublet from his hand, and flung himself at Lysbeth’s feet and grovelled there.
“What do you seek?” she asked, drawing back her dress so that he should not touch it.
“Mercy,” he gasped.
“Mercy! Look, son and daughter, this man asks for mercy who for many a year has given none. Well, Juan de Montalvo, take your prayer to God and to the people. I have done with you.”
“Mercy, mercy!” he cried again.
“Eight months ago,” she said, “I uttered that prayer to you, begging of you in the Name of Christ to spare the life of an innocent man, and what was your answer, Juan de Montalvo?”
“Once you were my wife,” he pleaded; “being a woman, does not that weigh with you?”
“Once he was my husband, being a man did that weigh with you? The last word is said. Take him, Martin, to those who deal with murderers.”
Then that look came upon Montalvo which twice or thrice before Lysbeth has seen written in his face—once when the race was run and lost, and once when in after years she had petitioned for the life of her husband. Lo! it was no longer the face of a man, but such a countenance as might have been worn by a devil or a beast. The eyeball started, the grey moustache curled upwards, the cheek-bones grew high and sharp.
“Night after night,” he gasped, “you lay at my side, and I might have killed you, as I have killed that brat of yours—and I spared you, I spared you.”
“God spared me, Juan de Montalvo, that He might bring us to this hour; let Him spare you also if He will. I do not judge. He judges and the people,” and Lysbeth rose from her chair.
“Stay!” he cried, gnashing his teeth.
“No, I stay not, I go to receive the last breath of him you have murdered, my son and yours.”
He raised himself upon his knees, and for a moment their eyes met for the last time.
“Do you remember?” she said in a quiet voice, “many years ago, in this very room, after you had bought me at the cost of Dirk’s life, certain words I spoke to you? Now I do not think that it was I who spoke, Juan de Montalvo.”
And she swept past him and through the wide doorway.
Red Martin stood upon the balcony gripping the man Ramiro. Beneath him the broad street was packed with people, hundreds and thousands of them, a dense mass seething in the shadows, save here and again where a torch or a lantern flared showing their white faces, for the moon, which shone upon Martin and his captive, scarcely reached those down below. As gaunt, haggard, and long-haired, he stepped upon the balcony, they saw him and his burden, and there went up such a yell as shook the very roofs of Leyden. Martin held up his hand, and there was silence, deep silence, through which the breath of all that multitude rose in sighs, like the sighing of a little wind.
“Citizens of Leyden, my masters,” the Frisian cried, in a great, deep voice that echoed down the street, “I have a word to say to you. This man here—do you know him?”
Back came an answering yell of “Aye!”
“He is a Spaniard,” went on Martin, “the noble Count Juan de Montalvo, who many years past forced one Lysbeth van Hout of this city into a false marriage, buying her at the price of the life of her affianced husband, Dirk van Goorl, that he might win her fortune.”
“We know it,” they shouted.
“Afterwards he was sent to the galleys for his crimes. He came back, and was made Governor of the Gevangenhuis by the bloody Alva, where he brought to death your brother and past burgomaster, Dirk van Goorl. Afterwards he kidnapped the person of Elsa Brant, the daughter of Hendrik Brant, whom the Inquisition murdered at The Hague. We rescued her from him, my master, Foy van Goorl, and I. Afterwards he served with the Spaniards as a captain of their forces in the siege of Haarlem yonder—Haarlem that fell three days ago, and whose citizens they are murdering to-night, throwing them two by two to drown in the waters of the Mere.”
“Kill him! Cast him down!” roared the mob. “Give him to us, Red Martin.”
Again the Frisian lifted his hand and again there was silence; a sudden, terrible silence.
“This man had a son; my mistress, Lysbeth van Goorl, to her shame and sorrow, was the mother of him. That son, repenting, saved us from the sack of Haarlem, yea, through him the three of us, Foy van Goorl, Elsa Brant, and I, Martin Roos, their servant, are alive to-night. This man and his Spaniards overtook us on the lake, and there we conquered him by the help of Martha the Mare, Martha whom they made to carry her own husband to the fire. We conquered him, but she—she died in the fray; they stabbed her to death in the water as men stab an otter. Well, that son, the Heer Adrian, he was murdered in the boat with a knife-blow given by his own father from behind, and he lies here in this house dead or dying.
“My master and I, we brought this man, who to-day is called Ramiro, to be judged by the woman whose husband and son he slew. But she would not judge him; she said, ‘Take him to the people, let them judge.’ So judge now, ye people,” and with an effort of his mighty strength Martin swung the struggling body of Ramiro over the parapet of the balcony and let him hang there above their heads.
They yelled, they screamed in their ravenous hate and rage; they leapt up as hounds leap at a wolf upon a wall.
“Give him to us, give him to us!” that was their cry.
Martin laughed aloud. “Take him then,” he said; “take him, ye people, and judge him as you will,” and with one great heave he hurled the thing that writhed between his hands far out into the centre of the street.
The crowd below gathered themselves into a heap like water above a boat sinking in the heart of a whirlpool. For a minute or more they snarled and surged and twisted. Then they broke up and went away, talking in short, eager sentences. And there, small and dreadful on the stones, lay something that once had been a man.
Thus did the burghers of Leyden pass judgment and execute it upon that noble Spaniard, the Count Juan de Montalvo.
TWO SCENES
Scene the First
Some months had gone by, and Alkmaar, that heroic little city of the north, had turned the flood of Spanish victory. Full of shame and rage, the armies of Philip and of Valdez marched upon Leyden, and from November, 1573, to the end of March, 1574, the town was besieged. Then the soldiers were called away to fight Louis of Nassau, and the leaguer was raised till, on the fatal field of Mook Heath, the gallant Louis, with his brother Henry and four thousand of their soldiers, perished, defeated by D’Avila. Now once more the victorious Spaniards threatened Leyden.
In a large bare room of the Stadthuis of that city, at the beginning of the month of May, a man of middle-age might have been seen one morning walking up and down, muttering to himself as he walked. He was not a tall man and rather thin in figure, with brown eyes and beard, hair tinged with grey, and a wide brow lined by thought. This was William of Orange, called the Silent, one of the greatest and most noble of human beings who ever lived in any age; the man called forth by God to whom Holland owes its liberties, and who for ever broke the hideous yoke of religious fanaticism among the Teuton races.
Sore was his trouble on this May morning. But last month two more of his brothers had found death beneath the sword of the Spaniard, and now this same Spaniard, with whom he had struggled for all these weary years, was marching in his thousands upon Leyden.
“Money,” he was muttering to himself. “Give me money, and I will save the city yet. With money ships can be built, more men can be raised, powder can be bought. Money, money, money—and I have not a ducat! All gone, everything, even to my mother’s trinkets and the plate upon my table. Nothing is left, no, not the credit to buy a dozen geldings.”
As he thought thus one of his secretaries entered the room.
“Well, Count,” said the Prince, “have you been to them all?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And with what success?”
“The burgomaster, van de Werff, promises to do everything he can, and will, for he is a man to lean on, but money is short. It has all left the country and there is not much to get.”
“I know it,” groaned Orange, “you can’t make a loaf from the crumbs beneath the table. Is the proclamation put up inviting all good citizens to give or lend in this hour of their country’s need?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thank you, Count, you can go; there is nothing more to do. We will ride for Delft to-night.”
“Sir,” said the secretary, “there are two men in the courtyard who wish to see you.”
“Are they known?”
“Oh yes, perfectly. One is Foy van Goorl, who went through the siege of Haarlem and escaped, the son of the worthy burgher, Dirk van Goorl, whom they did to death yonder in the Gevangenhuis; and the other a Friesland giant of a man called Red Martin, his servant, of whose feats of arms you may have heard. The two of them held a shot tower in this town against forty or fifty Spaniards, and killed I don’t know how many.”
The Prince nodded. “I know. This Red Martin is a Goliath, a brave fellow. What do they want?”
“I am not sure,” said the secretary with a smile, “but they have brought a herring-cart here, the Frisian in the shafts for a horse, and the Heer van Goorl pushing behind. They say that it is laden with ammunition for the service of their country.”
“Then why do they not take it to the Burgomaster, or somebody in authority?”
“I don’t know, but they declare that they will only deliver it to you in person.”
“You are sure of your men, Count? You know,” he added, with a smile, “I have to be careful.”
“Quite, they were identified by several of the people in the other room.”
“Then admit them, they may have something to say.”
“But, sir, they wish to bring in their cart.”
“Very well, let them bring it in if it will come through the door,” answered the Prince, with a sigh, for his thoughts were far from these worthy citizens and their cart.
Presently the wide double doors were opened, and Red Martin appeared, not as he was after the siege of Haarlem, but as he used to be, well-covered and bland, with a beard even longer and more fiery than of yore. At the moment he was strangely employed, for across his great breast lay the broad belly-band of a horse, and by its means, harnessed between the shafts, he dragged a laden cart covered with an old sail. Moreover the load must have been heavy, for notwithstanding his strength and that of Foy, no weakling, who pushed behind, they had trouble in getting the wheels up a little rise at the threshold.
Foy shut the doors, then they trundled their cart into the middle of the great room, halted and saluted. So curious was the sight, and so inexplicable, that the Prince, forgetting his troubles for a minute, burst out laughing.
“I daresay it looks strange, sir,” said Foy, hotly, the colour rising to the roots of his fair hair, “but when you have heard our story I am not sure that you will laugh at us.”
“Mynheer van Goorl,” said the Prince with
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