The First Sir Percy by Baroness Orczy (which ebook reader TXT) 📕

had turned this seething mass of humanity into a horde of scared beasts. Their movements suddenly became more swift; it seemed as if some fearsome goad had been applied to the entire population of the city, and the desire, to get away, to run, to flee had become more insistent.

Those who had swarmed up the steps of the burgomaster’s house ran down again. They had no longer the desire to speak with anyone, or to appeal to the servants to let them pass. They only wanted to run like the others, the few more grave ones gathering their scattered families around them like a mother hen does her chicks.

And, oh, the awful din! It had intensified a thousand-fold, and seemed all of a sudden like hell let loose. So many people shrieked, the women and the children for the most part. And the boatmen down on the water, plying for hire their small craft, already dangerously overloaded with fugitives and their goods. But now everyone on the quay appeared obsessed with the desire to get into the boats. There was scrambling and fighting upon the quay, shrieks of terror followed by ominous splashes in the murky waters. Gilda closed her eyes, not daring to look.

And still the clang of the church bells tolling and the hideous cacophony of a whole population stampeding in a mad panic.

The hall, the doorway, the outside steps were now deserted. Life and movement and din were all out on the quay and in the streets around. The serving-men even had thrown down their sticks and cudgels. Some of them had disappeared altogether, others stood in groups, skulking and wide-eyed. Gilda tried to frame a query. Her pale, anxious face no doubt expressed the words which her lips could not utter, for one of the men in the hall replied in a husky whisper:

“The Spaniards! They are on us!”

She wanted to ask more, for at first it did not seem as if this were fresh news. The Spaniards were at Ede, the town was being evacuated because of them. What had occurred to turn an ordered evacuation into so redoubtable a stampede?

And still no sign of my lord.

VI

Then suddenly the doors of the banqueting-hall were thrown open, and the burgomaster appeared. Had Gilda doubted for a moment that something catastrophic had actually happened, she would have felt her doubts swept aside by the mere aspect of her father. He, usually so grave, so dignified, was trembling like a reed, his hair was dishevelled, his cheeks of a grey, ashen colour. The word “Gilda” was actually on his lips when he stepped across the threshold, and quite a change came over him the moment he caught sight of his daughter. Before he could call to her she was already by his side, and in an instant he had her by the hand and dragged her with him back into the banqueting-hall.

“What has happened?” she asked, in truth more bewildered than frightened.

“The Spaniards!” her father replied briefly. “They are on us.”

“Yes,” she ventured, frowning; “but⁠—”

“Not three leagues away,” he broke in curtly. “Their vanguard will be here by nightfall.”

She looked round her, puzzled to see them all so calm in contrast to the uproar and the confusion without. The Stadtholder was sitting beside the table, his head resting on his hand. He looked woefully ill. Nicolaes Beresteyn was beside him, whispering earnestly.

“What are you going to do, father dear?” Gilda asked in a hurried whisper.

“My fellow-burghers and I are remaining at our posts,” Beresteyn replied quietly. “We must do what we can to save our city, and our presence may do some good.”

“And Nicolaes?” she asked again.

“Nicolaes has his horse ready. He will take you to Utrecht in His Highness’s train.” Then, as Gilda made no comment on this, only gave his hand a closer pressure, he added tentatively: “Unless you would prefer to go with Mynheer van den Poele and his family. He is taking Kaatje and her mother to Amsterdam.”

“I would prefer to remain with you,” she said simply.

“Impossible, my dear child!” he retorted.

“My place is here,” she continued firmly, “and I’ll not go. Oh, can’t you understand?” she pleaded, with a break in her voice. “If you sent me away, I should go mad or die!”

“But, Gilda⁠—” the poor man protested.

“My lord is here,” Gilda suddenly broke in more calmly.

“My lord? What do you mean?”

“I saw him awhile ago. I was up in the attic-chamber, he came through the Joris Poort.”

“Your eyes deceived you. He would be here by now.”

“He should be here,” she asserted. “I cannot understand what has happened. Perhaps the crowd⁠—”

“Your eyes deceived you,” he reiterated, but more doubtfully this time. Then, as just at that moment the Stadtholder rose and caught his eye, Beresteyn called to him, “My daughter says that my lord has returned.”

“Impossible!” burst forth impulsively from Nicolaes.

“Why should it be impossible?” Gilda retorted quickly, and fixed coldly challenging eyes upon her brother. “Why should you say that it is impossible?” she insisted, seeing that Nicolaes now looked shamefaced and confused. “What do you know about my lord?”

“Nothing, nothing!” Nicolaes stammered. “I did not mean that, of course; it only seems so strange⁠—” And he added roughly, “Then why is he not here?”

“The crowd is very dense about the streets,” one of the burghers suggested. “My lord, mayhap hath found it difficult to push his way through.”

“Why should he be coming to Amersfoort?” mused Mynheer Beresteyn.

“He came from the direction of Utrecht,” Gilda replied. “Someone at the camp must have told him that His Highness was here.”

“No one knew I was coming hither,” the Stadtholder broke in impatiently.

“My sister more like hath been troubled with visions,” Nicolaes rejoined with a sneer. “Nor have we the time,” he added, “to wait on my lord’s pleasure. If your Highness is ready, we should be getting to horse.”

“But surely,” Gilda protested with pitiful earnestness, “your Highness will wait to see your messenger. He must be bringing news from