The Laughing Cavalier by Baroness Orczy (best 7 inch ereader .TXT) 📕

stairs to a small room at the back of the house. There was no light visible anywhere inside the building, and Nicolaes, not knowing his way about, stumbled upwards in the dark keeping close to the heels of his friend. The latter had pushed open the door of his room. Here a tallow candle placed in a pewter sconce upon a table shed a feeble, flickering light around. The room by this scanty glimmer looked to be poorly but cleanly furnished; there was a curtained bed in the panelling of the wall, and a table in the middle of the room with a few chairs placed in a circle round it.

On one of these sat a man who appeared to be in the last stages of weariness. His elbows rested on the table and his head was buried in his folded arms. His clothes looked damp and travel-stained; an empty mug of ale and a couple of empty plates stood in front of him, beside a cap made of fur and a pair of skates.

At the sound made by the opening of the door and the entrance of the two men, he raised his head and seeing the Lord of Stoutenburg he quickly jumped to his feet.

“Sit down, Jan,” said Stoutenburg curtly, “you must be dog-tired. Have you had enough to eat and drink?”

“I thank you, my lord, I have eaten my fill,” replied Jan, “and I am not so tired now that I have had some rest.”

“Sit down,” reiterated Stoutenburg peremptorily, “and you too, my good Nicolaes,” he added as he offered a chair to his friend. “Let me just tell you the news which Jan has brought, and which should make you forget even your present just wrath, so glorious, so important is it.”

He went up to a cabinet which stood in one corner of the room, and from it took a bottle and three pewter mugs. These he placed on the table and filled the mugs with wine. Then he drew another chair close to the table and sat down.

“Jan,” he resumed, turning to Beresteyn, “left the Stadtholder’s camp at Sprang four days ago. He has travelled the whole way along the frozen rivers and waterways only halting for the nights. The news which he brings carries for the bearer of such splendid tidings its own glorious reward; Jan, I must tell you, is with us heart and soul and hates the Stadtholder as much as I do. Is that not so, Jan?”

“My father was hanged two years ago,” replied Jan simply, “because he spoke disparaging words of the Stadtholder. Those words were called treason, and my father was condemned to the gallows merely for speaking them.”

Stoutenburg laughed, his usual harsh, mirthless laugh.

“Yes! that is the way justice is now administered in the free and independent United Provinces,” he said roughly; “down on your knees, ye lumbering Dutchmen! lick the dust off the boots of His Magnificence Maurice of Nassau Prince of Orange! kiss his hand, do his bidding! give forth fulsome praise of his deeds!⁠ ⁠… How long, O God? how long?” he concluded with a bitter sigh.

“Only for a few more days, my lord,” said Jan firmly. “The Stadtholder left his camp the same day as I did. But he travels slowly, in his sledge, surrounded by a bodyguard of an hundred picked men. He is sick and must travel slowly. Yesterday he had only reached Dordrecht, today⁠—if my information is correct⁠—he should sleep at Ijsselmunde. But tomorrow he will be at Delft where he will spend two days at the Prinsenhof.”

“At Delft!” exclaimed Stoutenburg as he brought his clenched fist down upon the table. “Thank God! I have got him at last.”

He leaned across nearer still to Nicolaes and in his excitement clutched his friend’s wrists with nervy trembling fingers, digging his nails into the other man’s flesh till Beresteyn could have screamed with pain.

“From Delft,” he murmured hoarsely, “the only way northwards is along the left bank of the Schie, the river itself is choked with ice-floes which renders it impassable. Just before Ryswyk the road crosses to the right bank of the river over a wooden bridge which we all know well. Half a league to the south of the bridge is the molens which has been my headquarters ever since I landed at Scheveningen three weeks ago; there I have my stores and my ammunition. Do you see it all, friend?” he queried whilst a feverish light glowed in his eyes. “Is it not God who hath delivered the tyrant into my hands at last? I start for Ryswyk tonight with you to help me, Nicolaes, with van Does and all my friends who will rally round me, with the thirty or forty men whom they have recruited for placing at my disposal. The molens to the south of the wooden bridge which spans the Schie is our rallying point. In the night before the Stadtholder starts on his way from Delft we make our final preparations. I have enough gunpowder stowed away at the mill to blow up the bridge. We’ll dispose it in its place during that night. Then you Nicolaes shall fire the powder at the moment when the Stadtholder’s escort is half way across the bridge.⁠ ⁠… In the confusion and panic caused by the explosion and the collapse of the bridge our men can easily overpower the Prince’s bodyguard⁠—whilst I, dagger in hand, do fulfil the oath which I swore before the altar of God, to kill the Stadtholder with mine own hand.”

Gradually as he spoke his voice became more hoarse and more choked with passion; his excitement gained upon his hearers until both Nicolaes Beresteyn his friend and Jan the paid spy and messenger felt their blood tingling within their veins, their throats parched, their eyes burning as if they had been seared with living fire. The tallow-candle flickered in its socket, a thin draught from the flimsily constructed window blew its flame