Lysbeth, a Tale of the Dutch by H. Rider Haggard (fantasy books to read txt) 📕

“Mark is dead,” he said, “and our dear brother, Andreas Jansen, is dying; the executioners heap the faggots round him. You think it cruel, you think it piteous, but I say to you, No. I say that it is a holy and a glorious sight, for we witness the passing of souls to bliss. Brethren, let us pray for him who leaves us, and for ourselves who stay behind. Yes, and let us pray for those who slay him that know not what they do. We watch his sufferings, but I tell you that Christ his Lord watches also; Christ who hung upon the Cross, the victim of such men as these. He stands with him in the fire, His hand compasses him, His voice supports him. Brethren, let us pray.”

Then at his bidding every member of that little congregation knelt in prayer for the passing spirit of Andreas Jansen.

Again Arentz looked through the window.

“He dies!” he cried; “a soldier has thrust him through with a pike in mercy, his head falls forward. Oh! God, if it be Thy will, grant to us a sign.”

Some strange breath passed through that upper chamber, a cold breath which blew upon the brows of the worshippers and stirred their hair, bringing with it a sense of the presence of Andreas Jansen, the martyr. Then, there upon the wall opposite to the window, at the very spot where their brother and companion, Andreas, saint and martyr, was wont to kneel, appeared the sign, or what they took to be a sign. Yes, there upon the whitewashed wall, reflected, mayhap, from the fires below, and showing clearly in the darkened room, shone the vision of a fiery cross. For a second it was seen. Then it was gone, but to every soul in this room the vision of that cross had brought its message; to each a separate message, an individual inspiration, for in the light of it they read strange lessons of life and death. The cross vanished and there was silence.

“Brethren,” said the voice of Arentz, speaking in the darkness, “you have seen. Through the fire and through the shadow, follow the Cross and fear not.”

The service was over, and below in the emptied market-place the executioners collected the poor calcined fragments of the martyrs to cast them with contumely and filthy jests into the darkling waters of the river. Now, one by one and two by two, the worshippers slipped away through some hidden door opening on an alley. Let us look at three of their number as they crept through bye streets back to a house on the Bree Straat with which we are acquainted, two of them walking in front and one behind.

The pair were Dirk van Goorl and his son Foy—there was no mistaking their relationship. Save that he had grown somewhat portly and thoughtful, Dirk was the Dirk of five and twenty years ago, thickset, grey-eyed, bearded, a handsome man according to the Dutch standard, whose massive, kindly countenance betrayed the massive, kindly mind within. Very like him was his son Foy, only his eyes were blue instead of grey, and his hair was yellow. Though they seemed sad enough just now, these were merry and pleasant eyes, and the round, the somewhat childlike face was merry also, the face of a person who looked upon the bright side of things.

There was nothing remarkable or distinguished about Foy’s appearance, but from it the observer, who met him for the first time, received an impression of energy, honesty, and good-nature. In truth, such were apt to set him down as a sailor-man, who had just returned from a long journey, in the course of which he had come to the conclusion that this world was a pleasant place, and one well worth exploring. As Foy walked down the street with his quick and nautical gait, it was evident that even the solemn and dreadful scene which he had just experienced had not altogether quenched his cheery and hopeful spirit. Yet of all those who listened to the exhortation of the saint-like Arentz, none had laid its burden of faith and carelessness for the future to heart more entirely than Foy van Goorl.

But of this power of looking on the bright side of things the credit must be given to his nature and not to his piety, for Foy could not be sad for long. Dum spiro, spero would have been his motto had he known Latin, and he did not mean to grow sorrowful—over the prospect of being burnt, for instance—until he found himself fast to the stake. It was this quality of good spirits in a depressing and melancholy age that made of Foy so extraordinarily popular a character.

Behind these two followed a much more remarkable-looking personage, the Frisian, Martin Roos, or Red Martin, so named from his hair, which was red to the verge of flame colour, and his beard of a like hue that hung almost to his breast. There was no other such beard in Leyden; indeed the boys, taking advantage of his good nature, would call to him as he passed, asking him if it was true that the storks nested in it every spring. This strange-looking man, who was now perhaps a person of forty years of age, for ten years or more had been the faithful servant of Dirk van Goorl, whose house he had entered under circumstances which shall be told of in their place.

Any one glancing at Martin casually would not have said that he was a giant, and yet his height was considerable; to be accurate, when he stood upright, something over six feet three inches. The reason why he did not appear to be tall was that in truth his great bulk shortened him to the eye, and also because he carried himself ill, more from a desire to conceal his size than for any other reason. It was in girth of chest and limb that Martin was really remarkable, so much so that a short-armed man standing before him could not make his fingers touch behind his back. His face was fair as a girl’s, and almost as flat as a full moon, for of nose he had little. Nature, indeed, had furnished him with one of ordinary, if not excessive size, but certain incidents in Martin’s early career, which in our day would be designated as that of a prize-fighter, had caused it to spread about his countenance in an interesting and curious fashion. His eyebrows, however, remained prominent. Beneath them appeared a pair of very large, round, and rather mild blue eyes, covered with thick white lids absolutely devoid of lashes, which eyes had a most unholy trick of occasionally taking fire when their owner was irritated. Then they could burn and blaze like lamps tied to a barge on a dark night, with an effect that was all the more alarming because the rest of his countenance remained absolutely impassive.

Suddenly while this little company went homewards a sound arose in the quiet street as of people running. Instantly all three of them pressed themselves into the doorway of a house and crouched down. Martin lifted his ear and listened.

“Three people,” he whispered; “a woman who flies and two men who follow.”

At that moment a casement was thrown open forty paces or so away, and a hand, bearing a torch, thrust out of it. By its light they saw the pale face of a lady speeding towards them, and after her two Spanish soldiers.

“The Vrouw Andreas Jansen,” whispered Martin again, “flying from two of the guard who burned her husband.”

The torch was withdrawn and the casement shut with a snap. In those days quiet burghers could not afford to be mixed up in street troubles, especially if soldiers had to do with them. Once more the place was empty and quiet, except for the sound of running feet.

Opposite to the doorway the lady was overtaken. “Oh! let me go,” she sobbed, “oh! let me go. Is it not enough that you have killed my husband? Why must I be hunted from my house thus?”

“Because you are so pretty, my dear,” answered one of the brutes, “also you are rich. Catch hold of her, friend. Lord! how she kicks!”

Foy made a motion as though to start out of the doorway, but Martin pressed him back with the flat of his hand, without apparent effort, and yet so strongly that the young man could not move.

“My business, masters,” he muttered; “you would make a noise,” and they heard his breath come thick.

Now, moving with curious stealthiness for one of so great a bulk, Martin was out of the porch. By the summer starlight the watchers could see that, before they had caught sight of, or even heard, him, he gripped the two soldiers, small men, like most Spaniards, by the napes of their necks, one in either hand, and was grinding their faces together. This, indeed, was evident, for his great shoulders worked visibly and their breastplates clicked as they touched. But the men themselves made no sound at all. Then Martin seemed to catch them round the middle, and behold! in another second the pair of them had gone headlong into the canal, which ran down the centre of the street.

“My God! he has killed them,” muttered Dirk.

“And a good job, too, father,” said Foy, “only I wish that I had shared in it.”

Martin’s great form loomed in the doorway. “The Vrouw Jansen has fled away,” he said, “and the street is quite quiet now, so I think that we had better be moving before any see us, my masters.”

Some days later the bodies of these Spanish soldiers were found with their faces smashed flat. It was suggested in explanation of this plight, that they had got drunk and while fighting together had fallen from the bridge on to the stonework of a pier. This version of their end found a ready acceptance, as it consorted well with the reputations of the men. So there was no search or inquiry.

“I had to finish the dogs,” Martin explained apologetically—“may the Lord Jesus forgive me—because I was afraid that they might know me again by my beard.”

“Alas! alas!” groaned Dirk, “what times are these. Say nothing of this dreadful matter to your mother, son, or to Adrian either.” But Foy nudged Martin in the ribs and muttered, “Well done, old fellow, well done!”

After this experience, which the reader must remember was nothing extraordinary in those dark and dreadful days when neither the lives of men nor the safety of women—especially Protestant men and women—were things of much account, the three of them reached home without further incident, and quite unobserved. Arriving at the house, they entered it near the Watergate by a back door that led into the stableyard. It was opened by a woman whom they followed into a little room where a light burned. Here she turned and kissed two of them, Dirk first and then Foy.

“Thank God that I see you safe,” she said. “Whenever you go to the Meeting-place I tremble until I hear your footsteps at the door.”

“What’s the use of that, mother?” said Foy. “Your fretting yourself won’t make things better or worse.”

“Ah! dear, how can I help it?” she replied softly; “we cannot all be young and cheerful, you know.”

“True, wife, true,” broke in Dirk, “though I wish we could; we should be lighter-hearted so,” and he looked at her and sighed.

Lysbeth van Goorl could no longer boast the beauty which was hers when first we met her, but she was still a sweet and graceful woman, her figure remaining almost as slim as it had been in girlhood. The grey eyes also retained their depth and fire, only the face was worn, though more by care and the burden of memories than with years. The lot of the loving wife and mother was hard indeed when Philip the King ruled in Spain and Alva was his prophet in the Netherlands.

“Is it done?” she asked.

“Yes, wife, our brethren are now saints in Paradise, therefore rejoice.”

“It is very wrong,” she answered with a sob, “but I cannot. Oh!” she added with a sudden blaze of indignation, “if He is just and good, why does God suffer His servants to be killed thus?”

“Perhaps our grandchildren will be able to answer that question,” replied Dirk.

“That poor Vrouw Jansen,” broke in Lysbeth, “just married, and so young and pretty. I wonder what will become of her.”

Dirk and Foy looked at each other, and Martin, who was hovering about near the door, slunk back guiltily into the passage as though he had attempted to injure the Vrouw Jansen.

“To-morrow we will look to it, wife. And now let us eat, for