The First Sir Percy, Baroness Orczy [most important books to read TXT] 📗

“ ’Twas but yesterday we had the order,” one of the burghers urged. “And⁠—”

“ ’Twas yesterday it should have been obeyed,” the Stadtholder broke in roughly. “You would then have saved me a perilous journey, for the country already is infested with spies and vedettes, outposts of the Spanish armies.”

“We are all ready to guard your Highness with our lives,” the burgomaster said quietly.

“ ’Tis your wits I want, mynheer,” the prince riposted dryly, “not your blood. Indeed, I do fear that Amersfoort is threatened, though I know not if De Berg will spend his forces on you, or, rather, concentrate them on Arnheim. But you must be prepared,” he added with stern emphasis.

“You are not in a position to defend yourselves, and I cannot detach any of my troops to come to your assistance if you are attacked. Therefore, my orders were: ‘Evacuate the town.’ You, mynheer burgomaster, must issue your proclamation at once. Let everyone go who can, taking women and children with them. Those who remain do so at their risk. Some of you can go north to Amsterdam, others west to Utrecht. Let De Berg find an empty shell when he comes.”

Only those who had ever had the sorry task of abandoning a home in the face of an advancing enemy can have any conception of what this peremptory order meant to these burghers⁠—fathers of families for the most part, who after the terrible privations which they had suffered for over half a century, had begun but a few years ago to reconstitute their country and their homes, to resume their interrupted industries, their commerce, their splendid art, to reestablish the wealth and power which had been their birthright, and which the tyranny of a bigoted and jealous overlord had wilfully wrested from them.

Now it meant laying aside spindles and looms once again, lathes, chisels, or books, in order to buckle on swords which threatened to rust in their scabbards, and to don steel helmets. It meant leaving the women to weep, the children fatherless.

Anxious eyes searched the Stadtholder’s drawn, moody face; more than one mind reverted to memories of this peerless and fearless commander, the hero of Turnhout and Ostend. Would he have spoken in those days of “evacuation” and of “helplessness”? Would he have dreaded Spinola or the hosts of the Archduchess?

Ah, that subtle, insidious disease had indeed done its work! What mysterious poison was it that had shaken this great man’s nerve, made him gloomy and fretful, weakened that indomitable will which had once made the tyrant of Madrid quake for the future of his kingdom?

“De Berg would not dare⁠—” one of the burghers hazarded timidly.

“He may not,” His Highness answered. “In which case it might be safe for you all to return to your homes a few days hence. But some of those who fled from Ede believe that De Berg intends to detach some of his troops and with them push on as far as the Zuyder Zee, leaving it to others to join Isembourg, who is coming up from Kleve, and with his help capture Nijmegen first and then Arnheim.”

“Marquet by now,” observed Beresteyn, “must be well on the way to Arnheim, and De Keysere close to Nijmegen. They can intercept Isembourg and cut him off from Ede and De Berg. Your Highness’s messenger⁠—”

“Our messenger,” the prince broke in curtly, “failed to deliver our messages. Marquet is not on his way to Arnheim, and De Keysere was still at Wageningen when the first fugitives from Ede ran terror-stricken into our camp.”

The words were scarce out of his mouth when the sound of a low, quickly suppressed cry came from the rear of the little group that had gathered around His Highness. Few heard it, or guessed whence it had come. Only Mynheer Beresteyn, turning swiftly, caught his daughter’s eyes fixed with a set expression upon him. With an almost imperceptible glance he beckoned to her, and she pushed her way through to his side, and slid her cold little hand into his firm grasp. Encouraged by her father’s nearness, it was Gilda who uttered the word of protest which had risen to more than one pair of lips.

“Impossible, your Highness!” she said resolutely.

“Impossible!” Maurice of Nassau retorted curtly. “Why impossible, mejuffrouw?”

“Because my lord is a brave man, as full of resource as he is of courage. He undertook to deliver your Highness’s commands to Messire Marquet and Mynheer de Keysere. He is not a man to fail.”

She looked brave and determined, without a trace of self-consciousness, even though the rigid education meted out to girls in these times forbade their raising a voice in the councils of their lords. But in this case she had been voicing what was in more than one mind, and when she looked around her with a kind of timid defiance, she only encountered kindly glances.

Her father pressed her hand in tender encouragement. The Stadtholder himself appeared gracious and indulgent. It was only her brother’s gaze that was unendurable, for it was charged with sarcasm, not unmixed with malevolence. Did Nicolaes hate her, then? A sickening sense of horror filled the poor girl’s soul at the thought. Klaas, her little brother, whom she had loved and mothered, though he was her elder.

Ofttimes had she stood between his childish peccadillos and his father’s wrath. And now⁠—she could not even bear to meet his glance. She knew that he triumphed, and that he rejoiced in his triumph, even though he must know that she was wounded to the quick. His warning was ringing in her ear, his warning which had, in truth, proved prophetic: “The orders to Marquet will reach that commander too late!”

As in a dream, she listened to the Stadtholder’s words. The whole situation appeared unreal⁠—impossible.

“Your defense of your husband,” the prince was saying, “does you honour, mejuffrouw. But this is not a time for sentiment, but for facts. And these it is our duty