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

belt of undergrowth, he heard the sound of men’s voices growling and threatening, and with them a woman’s cry for help. At any other time he would have hesitated and reconnoitred, or, perhaps, have retreated at once, for he knew well the dangers of mixing himself up in the quarrels of wayfarers in those rough days. But the loss of the hawk had exasperated his nerves, making any excitement or adventure welcome to him. Therefore, without pausing to think, Adrian pushed forward through the brushwood to find himself in the midst of a curious scene.

Before him ran the grassy road or woodland lane. In the midst of it, sprawling on his back, for he had been pulled from his horse, lay a stout burgher, whose pockets were being rifled by a heavy-browed footpad, who from time to time, doubtless to keep him quiet, threatened his victim with a knife. On the pillion of the burgher’s thickset Flemish horse, which was peacefully cropping at the grass, sat a middle-aged female, who seemed to be stricken dumb with terror, while a few paces away a second ruffian and a tall, bony woman were engaged in dragging a girl from the back of a mule.

Acting on the impulse of the moment, Adrian shouted,

“Come on, friends, here are the thieves,” whereon the robber woman took to flight and the man wheeled round, as he turned snatching a naked knife from his girdle. But before he could lift it Adrian’s heavy staff crashed down upon the point of his shoulder, causing him to drop the dagger with a howl of pain. Again the staff rose and fell, this time upon his head, staggering him and knocking off his cap, so that the light, such as it was, shone upon his villainous fat face, the fringe of sandy-coloured whisker running from throat to temples, and the bald head above, which Adrian knew at once for that of Hague Simon, or the Butcher. Fortunately for him, however, the Butcher was too surprised, or too much confused by the blow which he had received upon his head, to recognise his assailant. Nor, having lost his knife, and believing doubtless that Adrian was only the first of a troop of rescuers, did he seem inclined to continue the combat, but, calling to his companion to follow him, he began to run after the woman with a swiftness almost incredible in a man of his build and weight, turning presently into the brushwood, where he and his two fellow thieves vanished away.

Adrian dropped the point of his stick and looked round him, for the whole affair had been so sudden, and the rout of the enemy so complete, that he was tempted to believe he must be dreaming. Not eighty seconds ago he was hiding the dead falcon in his satchel, and now behold! he was a gallant knight who, unarmed, except for a dagger, which he forgot to draw, had conquered two sturdy knaves and a female accomplice, bristling with weapons, rescuing from their clutches Beauty (for doubtless the maiden was beautiful), and, incidentally, her wealthy relatives. Just then the lady, who had been dragged from the mule to the ground, where she still lay, struggled to her knees and looked up, thereby causing the hood of her travelling cloak to fall back from her head.

Thus it was, softened and illuminated by the last pale glow of this summer evening, that Adrian first saw the face of Elsa Brant, the woman upon whom, in the name of love, he was destined to bring so much sorrow.

The hero Adrian, overthrower of robbers, looked at the kneeling Elsa, and knew that she was lovely, as, under the circumstances, was right and fitting, and the rescued Elsa, gazing at the hero Adrian, admitted to herself that he was handsome, also that his appearance on the scene had been opportune, not to say providential.

Elsa Brant, the only child of that Hendrik Brant, the friend and cousin of Dirk van Goorl, who has already figured in this history, was just nineteen. Her eyes, and her hair which curled, were brown, her complexion was pale, suggesting delicacy of constitution, her mouth small, with a turn of humour about it, and her chin rather large and firm. She was of middle height, if anything somewhat under it, with an exquisitely rounded and graceful figure and perfect hands. Lacking the stateliness of a Spanish beauty, and the coarse fulness of outline which has always been admired in the Netherlands, Elsa was still without doubt a beautiful woman, though how much of her charm was owing to her bodily attractions, and how much to her vivacious mien and to a certain stamp of spirituality that was set upon her face in repose, and looked out of her clear large eyes when she was thoughtful, it would not be easy to determine. At any rate, her charms were sufficient to make a powerful impression upon Adrian, who, forgetting all about the Marchioness d’Ovanda, inspirer of sonnets, became enamoured of her then and there; partly for her own sake and partly because it was the right kind of thing for a deliverer to do.

But it cannot be said, however deep her feelings of gratitude, that Elsa became enamoured of Adrian. Undoubtedly, as she had recognised, he was handsome, and she much admired the readiness and force with which he had smitten that singularly loathsome-looking individual who had dragged her from the mule. But as it chanced, standing where he did, the shadow of his face lay on the grass beside her. It was a faint shadow, for the light faded, still it was there, and it fascinated her, for seen thus the fine features became sinister and cruel, and their smile of courtesy and admiration was transformed into a most unpleasant sneer. A trivial accident of light, no doubt, and foolish enough that Elsa should notice it under such circumstances. But notice it she did, and what is more, so quickly are the minds of women turned this way or that, and so illogically do they draw a right conclusion from some pure freak of chance, it raised her prejudice against him.

“Oh! Señor,” said Elsa, clasping her hands, “how can I thank you enough?”

This speech was short and not original. Yet there were two things about it that Adrian noted with satisfaction; first, that it was uttered in a soft and most attractive voice, and secondly, that the speaker supposed him to be a Spaniard of noble birth.

“Do not thank me at all, gracious lady,” he replied, making his lowest bow. “To put to flight two robber rogues and a woman was no great feat, although I had but this staff for weapon,” he added, perhaps with a view to impressing upon the maiden’s mind that her assailants had been armed while he, the deliverer, was not.

“Ah!” she answered, “I daresay that a brave knight like you thinks nothing of fighting several men at once, but when that wretch with the big hands and the flat face caught hold of me I nearly died of fright. At the best of times I am a dreadful coward, and—no, I thank you, Señor, I can stand now and alone. See, here comes the Heer van Broekhoven under whose escort I am travelling, and look, he is bleeding. Oh! worthy friend, are you hurt?”

“Not much, Elsa,” gasped the Heer, for he was still breathless with fright and exhaustion, “but that ruffian—may the hangman have him—gave me a dig in the shoulder with his knife as he rose to run. However,” he added with satisfaction, “he got nothing from me, for I am an old traveller, and he never thought to look in my hat.”

“I wonder why they attacked us,” said Elsa.

The Heer van Broekhoven rubbed his head thoughtfully. “To rob us, I suppose, for I heard the woman say, ‘Here they are; look for the letter on the girl, Butcher.’”

As he spoke Elsa’s face turned grave, and Adrian saw her glance at the animal she had been riding and slip her arm through its rein.

“Worthy sir,” went on Van Broekhoven, “tell us whom we have to thank.”

“I am Adrian, called Van Goorl,” Adrian replied with dignity.

“Van Goorl!” said the Heer. “Well, this is strange; Providence could not have arranged it better. Listen, wife,” he went on, addressing the stout lady, who all this while had sat still upon the horse, so alarmed and bewildered that she could not speak, “here is a son of Dirk van Goorl, to whom we are charged to deliver Elsa.”

“Indeed,” answered the good woman, recovering herself somewhat, “I thought from the look of him that he was a Spanish nobleman. But whoever he is I am sure that we are all very much obliged to him, and if he could show us the way out of this dreadful wood, which doubtless is full of robbers, to the house of our kinsfolk, the Broekhovens of Leyden, I should be still more grateful.”

“Madam, you have only to accept my escort, and I assure you that you need fear no more robbers. Might I in turn ask this lady’s name?”

“Certainly, young sir, she is Elsa Brant, the only child of Hendrik Brant, the famous goldsmith of The Hague, but doubtless now that you know her name you know all that also, for she must be some kind of cousin to you. Husband, help Elsa on to her mule.”

“Let that be my duty,” said Adrian, and, springing forward, he lifted Elsa to the saddle gracefully enough. Then, taking her mule by the bridle, he walked onwards through the wood praying in his heart that the Butcher and his companions would not find courage to attack them again before they were out of its depths.

“Tell me, sir, are you Foy?” asked Elsa in a puzzled voice.

“No,” answered Adrian, shortly, “I am his brother.”

“Ah! that explains it. You see I was perplexed, for I remember Foy when I was quite little; a beautiful boy, with blue eyes and yellow hair, who was always very kind to me. Once he stopped at my father’s house at The Hague with his father.”

“Indeed,” said Adrian, “I am glad to hear that Foy was ever beautiful. I can only remember that he was very stupid, for I used to try to teach him. At any rate, I am afraid you will not think him beautiful now—that is, unless you admire young men who are almost as broad as they are long.”

“Oh! Heer Adrian,” she answered, laughing, “I am afraid that fault can be found with most of us North Holland folk, and myself among the number. You see it is given to very few of us to be tall and noble-looking like high-born Spaniards—not that I should wish to resemble any Spaniard, however lovely she might be,” Elsa added, with a slight hardening of her voice and face. “But,” she went on hurriedly, as though sorry that the remark had escaped her, “you, sir, and Foy are strangely unlike to be brothers; is it not so?”

“We are half-brothers,” said Adrian looking straight before him; “we have the same mother only; but please do not call me ‘sir,’ call me ‘cousin.’”

“No, I cannot do that,” she replied gaily, “for Foy’s mother is no relation of mine. I think that I must call you ‘Sir Prince,’ for, you see, you appeared at exactly the right time; just like the Prince in the fairy-tales, you know.”

Here was an opening not to be neglected by a young man of Adrian’s stamp.

“Ah!” he said in a tender voice, and looking up at the lady with his dark eyes, “that is a happy name indeed. I would ask no better lot than to be your Prince, now and always charged to defend you from every danger.” (Here, it may be explained, that, however exaggerated his language, Adrian honestly meant what he said, seeing that already he was convinced that to be the husband of the beautiful heiress of one of the wealthiest men in the Netherlands would be a very satisfactory walk in life for a young man in his position.)

“Oh! Sir Prince,” broke in Elsa hurriedly, for her cavalier’s ardour was somewhat embarrassing, “you are telling the story wrong; the tale I mean did not go on like that at all. Don’t you remember? The hero rescued the lady and handed her over—to—to—her father.”

“Of whom I think he came to claim her afterwards,” replied Adrian with another languishing glance, and a smile of conscious vanity at the neatness of his answer. Their glances met, and suddenly Adrian became aware that Elsa’s face had undergone a complete change. The piquante, half-amused smile had passed out of it; it was strained and hard and the eyes were frightened.

“Oh! now I understand the shadow—how strange,” she exclaimed in a new voice.

“What is