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

what between fighting, fire and fury there seemed to be no moisture left in him. Then, his burning thirst satisfied at last, he went to where Foy lay unconscious and began to pour water, little by little, into his mouth, which, senseless as he was, he swallowed mechanically and presently groaned a little. Next, as well as he could, Martin examined his comrade’s wounds, to find that what had made him insensible was a cut upon the right side of the head, which, had it not been for his steel-lined cap, must certainly have killed him, but as it was, beyond the shock and bruise, seemed in no way serious.

His second hurt was a deep wound in the left thigh, but being on the outside of the limb, although he bled much it had severed no artery. Other injuries he had also upon the forearms and legs, also beneath the chain shirt his body was bruised with the blows of swords and daggers. But none of these were dangerous.

Martin stripped him as tenderly as he might and washed his wounds. Then he paused, for both of them were wearing garments of flannel, which is unsuitable for the dressing of hurts.

“You need linen,” said a woman’s voice, speaking from the next den. “Wait awhile and I will give you my smock.”

“How can I take your garment, lady, whoever you may be,” answered Martin, “to bind about the limbs of a man even if he is wounded?”

“Take it and welcome,” said the unknown in sweet, low tones, “I want it no more; they are going to execute me to-night.”

“Execute you to-night?” muttered Martin.

“Yes,” replied the voice, “in the court-room or one of the cellars, I believe, as they dare not do it outside because of the people. By beheading—am I not fortunate? Only by beheading.”

“Oh! God, where art Thou?” groaned Martin.

“Don’t be sorry for me,” answered the voice, “I am very glad. There were three of us, my father, my sister, and I, and—you can guess—well, I wish to join them. Also it is better to die than to go through what I have suffered again. But here is the garment. I fear that it is stained about the neck, but it will serve if you tear it into strips,” and a trembling, delicate hand, which held the linen, was thrust between the oaken bars.

Even in that light, however, Martin saw that the wrist was cut and swollen. He saw it, and because of that tender, merciful hand he registered an oath about priests and Spaniards, which, as it chanced, he lived to keep very thoroughly. Also, he paused awhile wondering whether if all this was of any good, wondering if it would not be best to let Foy die at once, or even to kill him.

“What are you thinking about, sir?” asked the lady on the other side of the bars.

“I am thinking,” answered Martin, “that perhaps my young master here would be better dead, and that I am a fool to stop the bleeding.”

“No, no,” said the sweet voice, “do your utmost and leave the rest to God. It pleases God that I should die, which matters little as I am but a weak girl; it may please Him that this young man shall live to be of service to his country and his faith. I say, bind up his wounds, good sir.”

“Perhaps you are right,” answered Martin. “Who knows, there’s a key to every lock, if only it can be found.” Then he set to work upon Foy’s wounds, binding them round with strips of the girl’s garment dipped in water, and when he had done the best he could he clothed him again, even to the chain shirt.

“Are you not hurt yourself?” asked the voice presently.

“A little, nothing to speak of; a few cuts and bruises, that’s all; this bull’s hide turned their swords.”

“Tell me whom you have been fighting,” she said.

So, to while away the time while Foy still lay senseless, Martin told her the story of the attack upon the shot tower, of how they had driven the Spaniards down the ladder, of how they had drenched them with molten lead, and of their last stand in the courtyard when they were forced from the burning building.

“Oh! what a fearful fight—two against so many,” said the voice with a ring of admiration in it.

“Yes,” answered Martin, “it was a good fight—the hottest that ever I was in. For myself I don’t much care, for they’ve paid a price for my carcase. I didn’t tell you, did I, that the mob set on them as they haled us here and pulled four wounded men and those who carried them to bits? Oh! yes, they have paid a price, a very good price for a Frisian boor and a Leyden burgher.”

“God pardon their souls,” murmured the unknown.

“That’s as He likes,” said Martin, “and no affair of mine; I had only to do with their bodies and—” At this moment Foy groaned, sat up and asked for something to drink.

Martin gave him water from the pitcher.

“Where am I?” he asked, and he told him.

“Martin, old fellow,” said Foy in an uncertain voice, “we are in a very bad way, but as we have lived through this”—here his characteristic hopefulness asserted itself—“I believe, I believe that we shall live through the rest.”

“Yes, young sir,” echoed the thin, faint notes out of the darkness beyond the bars, “I believe, too, that you will live through the rest, and I am praying that it may be so.”

“Who is that?” asked Foy drowsily.

“Another prisoner,” answered Martin.

“A prisoner who will soon be free,” murmured the voice again through the blackness, for by now night had fallen, and no light came from the hole above.

Then Foy fell into sleep or stupor, and there was silence for a long while, until they heard the bolts and bars of the door of the dungeon creaking, and the glint of a lantern appeared floating on the gloom. Several men tramped down the narrow gangway, and one of them, unlocking their cage, entered, filled the jug of water from a leathern jack, and threw down some loaves of black bread and pieces of stockfish, as food is thrown to dogs. Having examined the pair of them he grunted and went away, little knowing how near he had been to death, for the heart of Martin was mad. But he let him go. Then the door of the next cell was opened, and a man said, “Come out. It is time.”

“It is time and I am ready,” answered the thin voice. “Good-bye, friends, God be with you.”

“Good-bye, lady,” answered Martin; “may you soon be with God.” Then he added, by an afterthought, “What is your name? I should like to know.”

“Mary,” she replied, and began to sing a hymn, and so, still singing the hymn, she passed away to her death. They never saw her face, they never learned who she might be, this poor girl who was but an item among the countless victims of perhaps the most hideous tyranny that the world has ever known—one of Alva’s slaughtered sixty thousand. But many years afterwards, when Foy was a rich man in a freer land, he built a church and named it Mary’s kirk.

The long night wore away in silence, broken only by the groans and prayers of prisoners in dens upon the same floor, or with the solemn rhythm of hymns sung by those above, till at length the light, creeping through the dungeon lattices, told them that it was morning. At its first ray Martin awoke much refreshed, for even there his health and weariness had brought sleep to him. Foy also awoke, stiff and sore, but in his right mind and very hungry. Then Martin found the loaves and the stockfish, and they filled themselves, washing down the meal with water, after which he dressed Foy’s wounds, making a poultice for them out of the crumb of the bread, and doctored his own bruises as best he could.

It must have been ten o’clock or later when again the doors were opened, and men appeared who commanded that they should follow them.

“One of us can’t walk,” said Martin; “still, perhaps I can manage,” and, lifting Foy in his arms as though he had been a baby, he passed with the jailers out of the den, down the stair, and into the court-room. Here, seated behind a table, they found Ramiro and the little, squeaky-voiced, red-faced Inquisitor.

“Heaven above us!” said the Inquisitor, “what a great hairy ruffian; it makes me feel nervous to be in the same place with him. I beg you, Governor Ramiro, instruct your soldiers to be watching and to stab him at the first movement.”

“Have no fear, noble sir,” answered Ramiro, “the villain is quite unarmed.”

“I daresay, I daresay, but let us get on. Now what is the charge against these people? Ah! I see, heresy like the last upon the evidence of—oh! well, never mind. Well, we will take that as proved, and, of course, it is enough. But what more? Ah! here it is. Escaped from The Hague with the goods of a heretic, killed sundry of his Majesty’s lieges, blew up others on the Haarlemer Meer, and yesterday, as we know for ourselves, committed a whole series of murders in resisting lawful arrest. Prisoners, have you anything to say?”

“Plenty,” answered Foy.

“Then save your trouble and my time, since nothing can excuse your godless, rebellious, and damnable behaviour. Friend Governor, into your hands I deliver them, and may God have mercy on their souls. See, by the way, that you have a priest at hand to shrive them at last, if they will be shriven, just for the sake of charity, but all the other details I leave to you. Torment? Oh! of course if you think there is anything to be gained by it, or that it will purify their souls. And now I will be going on to Haarlem, for I tell you frankly, friend Governor, that I don’t think this town of Leyden safe for an honest officer of the law; there are too many bad characters here, schismatics and resisters of authority. What? The warrant not ready? Well, I will sign it in blank. You can fill it in. There. God forgive you, heretics; may your souls find peace, which is more, I fear, than your bodies will for the next few hours. Bah! friend Governor, I wish that you had not made me assist at the execution of that girl last night, especially as I understand she leaves no property worth having; her white face haunts my mind, I can’t be rid of the look of those great eyes. Oh! these heretics, to what sorrow do they put us orthodox people! Farewell, friend Governor; yes, I think I will go out by the back way, some of those turbulent citizens might be waiting in front. Farewell, and temper justice with mercy if you can,” and he was gone.

Presently Ramiro, who had accompanied him to the gate, returned. Seating himself on the further side of the table, he drew his rapier and laid it before him. Then, having first commanded them to bring a chair in which Foy might sit, since he could not stand because of his wounded leg, he told the guard to fall back out of hearing, but to be ready should he need them.

“Not much dignity about that fellow,” he said, addressing Martin and Foy in a cheerful voice; “quite different from the kind of thing you expected, I daresay. No hooded Dominican priests, no clerks taking notes, no solemnities, nothing but a little red-faced wretch, perspiring with terror lest the mob outside should catch him, as for my part I hope they may. Well, gentlemen, what can you expect, seeing that, to my knowledge, the man is a bankrupt tailor of Antwerp? However, it is the substance we have to deal with, not the shadow, and that’s real enough, for his signature on a death warrant is as good as that of the Pope, or his gracious Majesty King Philip, or, for the matter of that, of Alva himself. Therefore, you are—dead men.”

“As you would have been had I not been fool enough to neglect Martin’s advice out in the Haarlemer Meer and let you escape,” answered Foy.

“Precisely, my young friend, but you see my guardian angel was too many for you, and you did neglect that excellent counsel. But, as it happens, it is just about the Haarlemer Meer that I want to have a word with you.”

Foy and Martin looked at each other, for now they understood exactly why they were there, and Ramiro, watching them out of the corners of his eyes, went on in a low