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

Ramiro’s suit, Meg nudged her husband and whispered, “Like, ain’t they?”

“Like as two devils in hell,” Simon answered critically, then added, “Your food is ready; come, Mynheer, and eat.”

So Adrian ate and drank heartily enough, for the meat and wine were good, and he needed them. Also it rejoiced him in a dull way to find that there was something left in which he could take pleasure, even if it were but eating and drinking. When he had finished he told his story, or so much of it as he wished to tell, and afterwards went to bed wondering whether his hosts would murder him in his sleep for the purse of gold he carried, half hoping that they might indeed, and slept for twelve hours without stirring.

All that day and until the evening of the next Adrian sat in the home of his spy hosts recovering his strength and brooding over his fearful fall. Black Meg brought in news of what passed without; thus he learned that his mother had sickened with the plague, and that the sentence of starvation was being carried out upon the body of her husband, Dirk van Goorl. He learned also the details of the escape of Foy and Martin, which were the talk of all the city. In the eyes of the common people they had become heroes, and some local poet had made a song about them which men were singing in the streets. Two verses of that song were devoted to him, Adrian; indeed, Black Meg repeated them to him word by word with a suppressed but malignant joy. Yes, this was what had happened; his brother had become a popular hero and he, Adrian, who in every way was so infinitely that brother’s superior, an object of popular execration. And of all this the man, Ramiro, was the cause.

Well, he was waiting for Ramiro. That was why he risked his life by staying in Leyden. Sooner or later Ramiro would be bound to visit this haunt of his, and then—here Adrian drew his rapier and lunged and parried, and finally with hissing breath drove it down into the wood of the flooring, picturing, in a kind of luxury of the imagination, that the throat of Ramiro was between its point and the ground. Of course in the struggle that must come, the said Ramiro, who doubtless was a skilful swordsman, might get the upper hand; it might be his, Adrian’s throat, which was between the point and the ground. Well, if so, it scarcely mattered; he did not care. At any rate, for this once he would play the man and then let the devil take his own; himself, or Ramiro, or both of them.

On the afternoon of the second day Adrian heard shouting in the streets, and Hague Simon came in and told him that a man had arrived with bad news from Mechlin; what it was he could not say, he was going to find out. A couple of hours went by and there was more shouting, this time of a determined and ordered nature. Then Black Meg appeared and informed him that the news from Mechlin was that everyone in that unhappy town had been slain by the Spaniards; that further the people of Leyden had risen and were marching to attack the Gevangenhuis. Out she hurried again, for when the waters were stormy then Black Meg must go afishing.

Another hour went by, and once more the street door was opened with a key, to be carefully shut when the visitor had entered.

Simon or Meg, thought Adrian, but as he could not be sure he took the precaution of hiding himself behind the curtain. The door of the room opened, and not Meg or Simon, but Ramiro entered. So his opportunity had come!

The Master seemed disturbed. He sat down upon a chair and wiped his brow with a silk handkerchief. Then aloud, and shaking his fist in the air, he uttered a most comprehensive curse upon everybody and everything, but especially upon the citizens of Leyden. After this once more he lapsed into silence, sitting, his one eye fixed upon vacancy, and twisting his waxed moustaches with his hand.

Now was Adrian’s chance; he had only to step out from behind the curtain and run him through before he could rise from his seat. The plan had great charms, and doubtless he might have put it into execution had not Adrian’s histrionic instincts stayed his hand. If he killed Ramiro thus, he would never know why he had been killed, and above all things Adrian desired that he should know. He wanted not only to wreak his wrongs, but to let his adversary learn why they were wreaked. Also, to do him justice, he preferred a fair fight to a secret stab delivered from behind, for gentlemen fought, but assassins stabbed.

Still, as there were no witnesses, he might have been willing to waive this point, if only he could make sure that Ramiro should learn the truth before he died. He thought of springing out and wounding him, and then, after he had explained matters, finishing him off at his leisure. But how could he be sure of his sword-thrust, which might do too much or too little? No, come what would, the matter must be concluded in the proper fashion.

Choosing his opportunity, Adrian stepped from behind the hanging and placed himself between Ramiro and the door, the bolt of which he shot adroitly that no one might interrupt their interview. At the sound Ramiro started and looked up. In an instant he grasped the situation, and though his bronzed face paled, for he knew that his danger was great, rose to it, as might have been expected from a gentleman of his long and varied experience.

“The Heer Adrian called van Goorl, as I live!” he said. “My friend and pupil, I am glad to see you; but, if I might ask, although the times are rough, why in this narrow room do you wave about a naked rapier in that dangerous fashion?”

“Villain,” answered Adrian, “you know why; you have betrayed me and mine, and I am dishonoured, and now I am going to kill you in payment.”

“I see,” said Ramiro, “the van Goorl affair again. I can never be clear of it for half an hour even. Well, before you begin, it may interest you to know that your worthy stepfather, after a couple of days’ fasting, is by now, I suppose, free, for the rabble have stormed the Gevangenhuis. Truth, however, compels me to add that he is suffering badly from the plague, which your excellent mother, with a resource that does her credit, managed to communicate to him, thinking this end less disagreeable on the whole than that which the law had appointed.”

Thus spoke Ramiro, slowly and with purpose, for all the while he was so manoeuvring that the light from the lattice fell full upon his antagonist, leaving himself in the shadow, a position which experience taught him would prove of advantage in emergency.

Adrian made no answer, but lifted his sword.

“One moment, young gentleman,” went on Ramiro, drawing his own weapon and putting himself on guard; “are you in earnest? Do you really wish to fight?”

“Yes,” answered Adrian.

“What a fool you must be,” mused Ramiro. “Why at your age should you seek to be rid of life, seeing that you have no more chance against me than a rat in a corner against a terrier dog? Look!” and suddenly he lunged most viciously straight at his heart. But Adrian was watching and parried the thrust.

“Ah!” continued Ramiro, “I knew you would do that, otherwise I should not have let fly, for all the angels know I do not wish to hurt you.” But to himself he added, “The lad is more dangerous than I thought—my life hangs on it. The old fault, friend, too high, too high!”

Then Adrian came at him like a tiger, and for the next thirty seconds nothing was heard in the room but the raspings of steel and the hard breathing of the two men.

At first Adrian had somewhat the better of it, for his assault was fierce, and he forced the older and cooler man to be satisfied with guarding himself. He did more indeed, for presently thrusting over Ramiro’s guard, he wounded him slightly in the left arm. The sting of his hurt seemed to stir Ramiro’s blood; at any rate he changed his tactics and began to attack in turn. Now, moreover, his skill and seasoned strength came to his aid; slowly but surely Adrian was driven back before him till his retreat in the narrow confines of the room became continuous. Suddenly, half from exhaustion and half because of a stumble, he reeled right across it, to the further wall indeed. With a guttural sound of triumph Ramiro sprang after him to make an end of him while his guard was down, caught his foot on a joined stool which had been overset in the struggle, and fell prone to the ground.

This was Adrian’s chance. In an instant he was on him and had the point of his rapier at his throat. But he did not stab at once, not from any compunction, but because he wished his enemy to feel a little before he died, for, like all his race, Adrian could be vindictive and bloodthirsty enough when his hate was roused. Rapidly Ramiro considered the position. In a physical sense he was helpless, for Adrian had one foot upon his breast, the other upon his sword-arm, and the steel at his throat. Therefore if time were given him he must trust to his wit.

“Make ready, you are about to die,” said Adrian.

“I think not,” replied the prostrate Ramiro.

“Why not?” asked Adrian, astonished.

“If you will be so kind as to move that sword-point a little—it is pricking me—thank you. Now I will tell you why. Because it is not usual for a son to stick his father as though he were a farmyard pig.”

“Son? Father?” said Adrian. “Do you mean——?”

“Yes, I do mean that we have the happiness of filling those sacred relationships to each other.”

“You lie,” said Adrian.

“Let me stand up and give me my sword, young sir, and you shall pay for that. Never yet did a man tell the Count Juan de Montalvo that he lied, and live.”

“Prove it,” said Adrian.

“In this position, to which misfortune, not skill, has reduced me, I can prove nothing. But if you doubt it, ask your mother, or your hosts, or consult the registers of the Groote Kerke, and see whether on a date, which I will give you, Juan de Montalvo was, or was not, married to Lysbeth van Hout, of which marriage was born one Adrian. Man, I will prove it to you. Had I not been your father, would you have been saved from the Inquisition with others, and should I not within the last five minutes had run you through twice over, for though you fought well, your swordsmanship is no match for mine?”

“Even if you are my father, why should I not kill you, who have forced me to your will by threats of death, you who wronged and shamed me, you because of whom I have been hunted through the streets like a mad dog, and made an outcast?” And Adrian looked so fierce, and brought down his sword so close, that hope sank very low in Ramiro’s heart.

“There are reasons which might occur to the religious,” he said, “but I will give you one that will appeal to your own self-interest. If you kill me, the curse which follows the parricide will follow you to your last hour—of the beyond I say nothing.”

“It would need to be a heavy one,” answered Adrian, “if it was worse than that of which I know.” But there was hesitation in his voice, for Ramiro, the skilful player upon human hearts, had struck the right string, and Adrian’s superstitious nature answered to the note.

“Son,” went on Ramiro, “be wise and hold your hand before you do that for which all hell itself would cry shame upon you. You think that I have been your enemy, but it is not so; all this while I have striven to work you good, but how can I talk lying thus like a calf before its butcher? Take the swords, both of them, and let me sit up, and I will tell you all my plans for the advantage of us both. Or if you wish it, thrust on and make an end. I will not plead for my life with you; it is not worthy of an hidalgo of Spain. Moreover, what is life to me who have known so many sorrows that I