The Laughing Cavalier, Baroness Orczy [the beginning after the end read novel TXT] 📗

to look on the prisoner and encounters his mocking glance. Smothering a curse he resumes his task of adjusting the rope upon the gibbet, but his fingers are unsteady and his work doth not progress.

“Yes, a foreigner,” continued Lucas volubly, “though it all has remained very mysterious. The Prince’s soldiers spoke of it amongst themselves⁠ ⁠… the foreigner had said something about a guet-apens, a plot against the Stadtholder’s life on his way to the North⁠ ⁠… then one of the officers heard the rumour and carried it to one of his superiors⁠ ⁠… By the evening it had reached the Stadtholder’s ears.”

“Then what happened?” they all asked eagerly.

“Nothing for some hours,” replied Lucas, “but I know that spies were sent round in every direction, and that by midnight there was general talk in the city that the Stadtholder would not continue his journey to the North. When the captain of the guard came to him for orders the Prince said curtly: ‘We do not start tomorrow!’ As soon as I heard of this I made preparations. It was then an hour after midnight. I was still alert and listening: all around me⁠—as I made ready to leave the city⁠—I heard rumours among the soldiers and spies of the Stadtholder, of their knowledge of a lonely spot⁠—a deserted molens⁠—near Ryswyk where they declared many men did lately congregate. I heard too that soon after dawn the Prince’s guard would make straight for the molens, so I put on my snow shoes and started to run, despite the darkness and the fog, for we are all betrayed and the Stadtholder’s soldiers will be on us in a trice.”

Hardly are the words out of Lucas Sparendam’s mouth than the commotion begins, the disbanding; there is a roar and a bustle and a buzz: metal clashing, men rushing, cries of “we are betrayed! sauve qui peut!”

At first there is a general stampede for the places where the arms are kept⁠—the muskets, the swords and cullivers⁠—but these are thrown down almost as soon as they are picked up. They are no use now and worse than useless in a flight. But pistols are useful, in case of pursuit. “Quick, turn, fire!⁠ ⁠… so where are the pistols?⁠ ⁠… Jan, where are those pistols?”

There are not enough to go round: about a dozen were served out last night, and there are forty pairs of hands determined to possess one at least. So they begin to fight for them, tearing one another to pieces, shouting execrations, beating round with bare fists, since the other arms have already been laid down.

Now the confusion becomes worse than any that might reign among a herd of animals who are ready to rend one another: they tear the clothes off one another’s back, the skin off one another’s face: fear⁠—hideous, overwhelming, abject fear, has made wild beasts of these men. The mist envelops them, it is barely light in this basement beneath the molens: lanterns have long ago been kicked into extinction. The hot breath of forty panting throats mingles with the mist, and the heat of human bodies fever-heated with passion, fights against the strength of the frost. The frozen ground yields under the feet, clots of mud are thrown up by the stampede, from the beams up aloft the heavy icicles melt and drip monotonously, incessantly down upon those faces, red and perspiring in an agony of demented fear.

Jan and Piet the Red stand alone beside the prisoner: a sense of duty, of decency hath kept their blood cool. Until they are relieved from their post of guarding this man by orders from their lord, they will not move. Let the others rage and scream and tumble over one another, there must be at least a few soldiers among this rabble.

And the prisoner looks on all this confusion with eyes that dance and sparkle with the excitement of what is yet to come. Torn rags and broken accoutrements soon lie in a litter in the mud, trampled in by forty pairs of feet. There is not one face now that is not streaked with blood, not one throat that is not hoarse with terror⁠—the terror of the unknown.

In vain Jan from his post beside the prisoner shouts, harangues, appeals, threatens! A fight? yes! defeat? why not? but betrayal!⁠ ⁠… no, no, let’s away. The Stadtholder is fiercer than any Inquisitor of Spain⁠ ⁠… his cruelty last February almost turned the nation against him. But now⁠—this second conspiracy⁠—Stoutenburg again! what hope for his followers?

The horrors of last February perpetrated in the Gevangen Poort of ’S Graven Hage still cause many a rough cheek to blanch at their recollection. Men had gone mad who had heard the cries which pierced those stone walls then. One executioner had thrown down his bloody tools and fled from the place like one possessed! Van Dyk and Korenwinder, Slatius and the rest had been in hell ere a merciful death at last released them from the barbaric cruelty of the Prince of Orange.

“No, no! such a fate cannot be risked. We are betrayed! let us fly!”

Suddenly one man starts to run.

“I am for the coast!” he shouts, and incontinently takes to his heels.

“Sauve qui peut!”

Like irresponsible creatures they throw down the very weapons for which they have been fighting. The one man has given the signal for the run. Everything now is thrown aside, there is no thought save for flight.

A splashing of the mud, a general shout, a scramble, a clatter⁠—they run⁠—they run⁠—crying to those who are behind to follow and run too.

In five minutes the dark basement is clear of noise⁠—a litter of broken arms lies in one heap close by, others are scattered all over the ground in the mud, together with torn clothing, rags of leather and of cloth and great red pools that mingle with the melted ice.

The mist surrounds it all, this abandoned battle field wherein fear was the victor over man. The swiftly flying figures are soon swallowed