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

“A law unto yourself,” she retorted, faced him with absolute composure, neither defiant nor afraid, her nerves quiescent, her voice perfectly steady, “and mayhap unto your cringing sycophants. But above your will, my lord, is that of God; and neither death nor life are your slaves.”

“Ay! But methinks they are, myn engel,” he answered drily. “Yours in any case.”

“No human being, my lord, can lose the freedom to die.”

“You think not?” he sneered. “Well, we shall see.”

He let go her hand, then quietly turned and walked to the window, threw open the casement once more, then beckoned to her. Strangely stirred, she followed, moved almost mechanically by something she could not resist.

At a sign from him she looked out upon the busy scene on the quay below⁠—the enemy soldiers in possession, their bivouac fires, their comings and goings, the unfortunate citizens running hither and thither at their bidding, fetching and carrying, hustled, pushed, beaten, ordered about with rough words or the persuasive prod of pike or musket. A scene, alas, which already as a child had been familiar to her. A peaceable town in the hands of ruthless soldiery; the women fleeing from threatened insults, children clinging to their mother’s skirts, men standing by, grim and silent, not daring to protest lest mere resentment brought horrible reprisals upon the city.

Gilda looked out for awhile in silence, her heart aching with the misery which she beheld, yet could not palliate. Then she turned coldly inquiring eyes on the prime mover of it all.

“I have seen a reign of terror such as this before, my lord,” she said. “I was at Leyden, as you well know, and I have not forgotten.”

“A reign of terror, you call it, mejuffrouw?” he retorted coolly. “Nay, you exaggerate. What is this brief occupation? Tomorrow we go, remember. Is there a single house demolished at this hour, a single citizen murdered? You are too young to recollect Malines of Ghent, the reign of Alva over these recalcitrant countries. I have been lenient so far. I have spared fire and sword. Amersfoort still stands. It will stand tomorrow, even after my soldiers have gone,” he went on speaking very slowly, “if⁠—”

“If what, my Lord?” she asked, for he had paused.

The moment had come, then, the supreme hour when that dreaded “either⁠—or” would be put before her. Even now he went on with that same sinister quietude which seemed like the voice of some relentless judge, sent by the King of Darkness to sway her destiny.

“If,” Stoutenburg concluded drily, “you mejuffrouw, will accompany me. Oh,” he added quickly, seeing that at once she had resumed that air of defiance which irritated even whilst it amused him. “I do not mean as an unwilling slave, pinioned to my chariot-wheel or strapped into a saddle, nor yet as a picturesque corpse, with flowing hair and lilies ’twixt your lifeless hands. No, no, fair one! I offer you the safety of your native city, the immunity of your fellow-citizens, in exchange for a perfectly willing surrender of your live person into my charge.”

She looked on him for awhile, mute with horror, then murmured slowly:

“Are you a devil, that you should propose such an execrable bargain?”

He laughed and shrugged his shoulders.

“I am what you and my native land have made me,” he replied. “As to that, the Stadtholder never offered to bargain with me for my father’s life.”

“Who but a prince of darkness would dream of doing so?” she retorted.

“Call me that, an you wish, fair one,” he put in lightly; “and come back to the point.”

“And the point is, my Lord?”

“That I will respect this city if you come tomorrow, willing and submissive, with me.”

“That, never!” she affirmed hotly.

“In that case,” he riposted coldly, “my soldiers will have a free hand ere they quit the town, to sack it at their pleasure. Pillage, arson, will be rewarded; looting will be deemed a virtue, as will murder and outrage. Even your father⁠—”

“Enough, my lord!” she exclaimed, with passionate indignation. “Tell me, I pray, which of the unclean spirits of Avernus did suggest this infamy to you?” Then, as he met her burning glance with another careless shrug and a mocking laugh, she turned to Nicolaes, and cried out to him, almost with entreaty: “Klaas! You at least are not a party to such hideous villainy!”

But he, sullen and shamefaced, only threw her an angry look.

“You make it very difficult for us, Gilda,” he said moodily, “by your stupid obstinacy.”

“Obstinacy?” she retorted, puzzled at the word. Then reiterated it once or twice. “Obstinacy⁠—obstinacy? My God, hath the boy gone mad?”

“What else is it but obstinacy?” he rejoined vehemently. “You know that, despite all he says, Stoutenburg hath never ceased to love you. And now that he is master here you are lucky indeed to have him as a suitor. He means well by you, by us all, else I were not here. Think what it would mean to me, to father, to everyone of us, if you were Stoutenburg’s wife. But you jeopardize my future and the welfare of us all by those foolish tantrums.”

She gazed on him in utter horror⁠—on this brother whom she loved; could scarcely believe her ears that it was he⁠—really he⁠—who was uttering such odious words. She felt her gorge rising at this callous avowal of a wanton and insulting treachery. And he, feeling the contempt which flashed on him from her glowing eyes, avoided her glance, tried to shift his ground, to argue his point with the sophistry peculiar to a traitor, and sank more deeply every moment into the mire of dishonour.

“It is time you realized, Gilda,” he said, “that our unfortunate country must sooner or later return to her true allegiance. The Stadtholder is sick. His arbitrary temper hath alienated some of his staunchest friends. The Netherlands are the unalienable property of Spain; though two rebel princes have striven to wrest them from their rightful master, the