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

“Bah!” exclaimed Heemskerk hotly. “You would not emulate that abominable assassin!”

“Why not call me a justiciary?” Stoutenburg retorted dryly. “The Archduchess would load me with gifts. Spain would proclaim me a hero. Assassin or executioner⁠—it only depends on the political point of view. But doubt me not for a single instant, Heemskerk. Maurice of Nassau will die by my hand.”

“That is why you intend to remain here?”

“Yes. Until I have found out his every future plan.”

“But how can you do it? You dare not show yourself abroad.”

“That is my business,” replied Stoutenburg quietly, “and my secret.”

“I respect your secret,” answered Heemskerk, with a shrug of the shoulders. “It was only my anxiety for your personal safety and for your comfort that brought me hither tonight.”

“And De Berg’s desire to learn what I have spied,” Stoutenburg retorted, with a sneer.

“De Berg is ready to cross the Ijssel, and Isembourg to start from Kleve. De Berg proposes to attack Arnheim. He wishes to know what forces are inside the city and how they are disposed, and if the Stadtholder hath an army wherewith to come to their relief or to offer us battle, with any chance of success.”

“You can tell De Berg to send you or another back to me here when the crescent moon is forty-eight hours older. I shall have all the information then that he wants.”

“That will be good news for him and for Isembourg. There has been too much time wasted as it is.”

“Time has not been wasted. The frosts have in the meanwhile made the Veluwe a perfect track for men and cannon.”

“For Nassau’s men and Nassau’s cannon, as well as for our own,” Heemskerk rejoined dryly.

“A week hence, if all’s well, Maurice of Nassau will be too sick to lead his armies across the Veluwe or elsewhere,” said Stoutenburg quietly, and looked up with such a strange, fanatical glitter in his deep-sunk eyes that the younger man gave an involuntary gasp of horror.

“You mean⁠—” he ejaculated under his breath; and instinctively drawing back some paces away from his friend, stared at him with wide, uncomprehending eyes.

“I mean,” Stoutenburg went on slowly and deliberately, “that De Berg had best wait patiently a little while longer. Maurice of Nassau will be a dying man ere long.”

His harsh voice, sunk to a strange, impressive whisper, died away in a long-drawn-out sigh, half of impatience, wholly of satisfaction. Heemskerk remained for a moment or two absolutely motionless, still staring at the man before him as if the latter were some kind of malevolent and fiend-like wraith, conjured up by devilish magic to scare the souls of men. Nor did Stoutenburg add anything to his last cold-blooded pronouncement. He seemed to be deriving a grim satisfaction in watching the play of horror and of fear upon Heemskerk’s usually placid features.

Thus for a space of a few moments the old molen appeared to sink back to its habitual ghost-haunted silence, whilst the hovering spirits of Revenge and Hate called up by the sorcery of a man’s evil passions held undisputed sway.

“You mean⁠—” reiterated Heemskerk after awhile, vaguely, stupidly, babbling like a child.

“I mean,” Stoutenburg gave impatient answer, “that you should know me well enough by now, my good Heemskerk, to realize that I am no swearer of futile oaths. Last year, when I was over in Madrid, I cultivated the friendship of one Francis Borgia. You have heard of him, no doubt; they call him the Prince of Poets over there. He is a direct descendant of the illustrious Cesare, and I soon discovered that most of the secrets possessed by his far-famed ancestor were known to my friend the poet.”

“Poisons!” Heemskerk murmured, under his breath.

“Poisons!” the other assented dryly. “And other things.”

With finger and thumb of his right hand, he extracted a couple of tiny packets from a secret pocket of his doublet, toyed with them for awhile, undid the packets and gazed meditatively on their contents. Then he called to his friend. “They’ll not hurt you,” he said sardonically. “Look at this powder, now. Is it not innocent in appearance? Yet it is of incalculable value to the man who doth not happen to possess a straight eye or a steady hand with firearms. For add but a pinch of it to the charge in your pistol, them aim at your enemy’s head, and if you miss killing him, or if he hold you at his mercy, you very soon have him at yours. The fumes from the detonation will cause instant and total blindness.”

Despite his horror of the whole thing, Heemskerk had instinctively drawn nearer to his friend. Now, at these words, he stepped back again quickly, as if he had trodden upon an adder. Stoutenburg, with his wonted cynicism, only shrugged his shoulders.

“Have I not said that it would not hurt you?” he said, with a sneer. “In itself it is harmless enough, and only attains its useful properties when fired in connection with gunpowder. But when used as I have explained it to you, it is deadly and unerring. I saw it at work once or twice in Spain. The Prince of Poets prides himself on its invention. He gave me some of the precious powder, and I was glad of it. It may prove useful one day.”

He carefully closed the first packet and slipped it back into the secret receptacle of his doublet; then he fell to contemplating the contents of the second packet⁠—half a dozen tiny pillules, which he kept rolling about in the palm of his hand.

“These,” he mused, “are of more proved value for my purpose. Have not De Berg,” he added, with a sardonic grin, as he looked once more on his friend, “and the Archduchess, too, heard it noised abroad that Maurice of Nassau hath of late suffered from a mysterious complaint which already threatens to cut him off in his prime, and which up