LEATHERFACE (continued 3)

"We understand one another, Lenora," he said. And like a feline creature sure of its prey, he drew quite close to her and took her hand, and began gently to stroke it.

"You will have to teach me what to do, father," she rejoined.

"Your heart and wits will tell you that. In a few days you will have entered the van Rycke household. Keep your eyes and ears open, and win the confidence and love of all those around you. Let not a word, a sign, a gesture escape you, and come and tell me at once all that you see and hear. Will you promise to do that, my Lenora?" he added, forcing his harsh voice to tones of gentleness.

"I promise," she replied fervently.

"The Lieutenant-Governor believes that Orange himself has been visiting Ghent lately! Keep your eyes and ears open, Lenora, you may be the means of bringing that arch-traitor to his just punishment. Promise me that you will listen," he urged.

"I promise," she reiterated firmly.

"The Lieutenant-Governor comes to Ghent in a few days' time. Wherever he goes there is always fear for his precious life. If Orange has been in Ghent then he hath hatched a plot against the Duke--on this I would stake my life--promise me that you will be on the watch, Lenora!"

"I promise."

"Upon your soul, my child?"

"Upon my soul!"

"And next to Orange himself, I'd sooner see that masked assassin Leatherface hang than any man in Europe; remember that, little one!"

"I'll not forget."

"The outrage on don Ramon de Linea must not remain unavenged, remember that."

"I'll not forget."

"Then let Orange and his rebels look to themselves!" ejaculated de Vargas with a note of triumph.

He took from the breast pocket of his doublet a piece of silk ribbon to which was attached a flat, yet curiously fashioned and shaped piece of steel.

"Take this, my child," he said significantly, as he held the trinket out to her. "This little bit of metal hath already done more service to our Lord the King, to our country, and to our faith than a whole army of spies."

"What is it, dear?" she asked.

"It is a little talisman," he replied, "that will turn any lock and open any secret drawer by whomsoever lock and drawer have been manufactured. It was made for me by the finest metal-cutter of Toledo--one in fact whose skill was so paramount that we had reluctantly to ... to put him out of harm's way. He was getting dangerous. This pass-key was his masterpiece. I have tested it on the most perfect specimens of the locksmith's art both in Toledo and in Florence. It hath never failed me yet. Take it, my child, and guard it carefully. An I mistake not, you will find use for it in your new home."

Before she could protest he had thrown the ribbon over her head, and she--mechanically but with unaccountable reluctance withal--slipped the trinket into the bosom of her gown.

"Remember, my dear," concluded de Vargas, "that the day after your marriage I must return to Brussels. But if you see or hear anything that may concern the welfare of our Sovereign Lord the King, or of his government, you must come to me at once--do not hesitate--invent a pretext--come away in secret--do anything rather than delay. And remember also that anything you may tell me, I will treat in absolute confidence. Your name will never appear in connection with any denunciation ... I mean," he interrupted himself hastily, "with any service which you may render to the State. Will you remember that also, my child?"

"I will remember," she replied.

It seemed almost as if she were under the potent spell of some wizard. She spoke and acted just as her father directed--and yet he looked so evil at this moment, hypocrisy and lust were so apparent in his jaundiced face, that even Lenora felt a sudden pang of doubt and of fear--doubt as to the purity of her own motives and fear at the terrible companionship which would henceforth exist between herself and her father's friends, men who--like him--were bent on the destruction of a nation and were actuated by blind hatred to oppress an entire people.

De Vargas--vaguely guessing what went on in the girl's mind--made an effort to regain his former bland manner: he strove by gentleness and soft words to lull her suspicions. After all, he was her father and she--a motherless child--had no one now in the world to whom she could cling, on whom she could pour out that wealth of love and tenderness which filled her young heart to overflowing. So now--very soon--she was kneeling close beside him, her head resting against his bosom--the dove nestling near the hawk; and the tears which would not come all the while that her soul was consumed with bitterness, flowed beneficently at last and eased her overburdened heart.

"You will not fail me, little one?" asked de Vargas even in the midst of tender, endearing words.

"Never!" she murmured, "if you turned against me, father dear, whither could I go? I have no one in the world but you."

As her head was bent and her eyes downcast, she could not see the cold and cruel glitter that shone in his face as he heard this simple profession of whole-hearted devotion and faith.

"Tell me what to do and I'll do it," she whispered again.

"Then will God Himself reward you," he rejoined unctuously, "for you will be serving Him and His Church, His anointed and the country of His chosen people."

After which he rose, kissed her and finally with a sigh of intense satisfaction left her to meditate alone, to dream and to pray.

BOOK TWO: DENDERMONDE

CHAPTER VI

A STRANGER IN A STRANGE LAND

I

A week later was the marriage solemnised between donna Lenora de Vargas and Mark van Rycke, son of the High-Bailiff of Ghent.

The religious ceremony took place in the abbey church of St. Bavon in the presence of several members of the Grand Council and of all the high functionaries of the city. Nothing had been spared to make the occasion a magnificent and imposing one. The union between the two young people was known to have the warm approval of the King himself: His Holiness the Pope had sent a special blessing to the bride and bridegroom, whilst the Captain-General had granted the use of a number of picked troops to render the display more gorgeous. Seven hundred and fifty arquebusiers, spearmen and halberdiers lined the route of the bridal procession between the town-house and the church: they were dressed in the heraldic colours of the city of Ghent, one leg blue and the other yellow, and wore enormous hats with huge feathers dyed in the two colours.

The Regent too had graciously lent his court musicians for the occasion and they headed the procession with full orchestra playing the newest motets. The church itself had been magnificently decorated with tapestries, and a huge concourse of people lined the streets in order to view all this pomp and magnificence.

After the religious ceremony a grand banquet was held in the great hall of the Town House at which eighty-four privileged guests were bidden. It was served at separate tables each laid for a dozen guests, and consisted of twenty-five courses--which were both varied and succulent. There were fowls stewed in milk and dressed with sweetmeats and spices, there were pickled partridges and pastries, sausages and omelettes of every kind, whilst huge flagons of iced beer and Rhenish wines added to the conviviality of the entertainment.

Señor de Vargas presided at the chief table, and he had the bride on his right and the bridegroom on his left. The High-Bailiff also sat at this table as did Madame his wife and Messire Laurence van Rycke, and every one remarked that señor de Vargas was in high good-humour and that he bestowed marked evidences of his favour both upon the High-Bailiff and upon the bridegroom.

During the banquet the court musicians discoursed sweet music; in fact everything was done not only with decorum but with liberality: this was the first union between a noted and highly placed Spanish family and an equally distinguished patrician house of Flanders, and in a brief toast, tankard in hand, señor de Vargas expressed the hope that it might prove the precursor of a great many more.

Those present at the feast remarked moreover that the bride was beautiful beyond powers of description, that the bridegroom looked as usual, as if he had been spending half his nights in the taverns, and that Messire Laurence van Rycke looked pale and sick.

But nothing of any grave moment occurred during the length of this exciting and strenuous day. After the banquet the tables were cleared and many more guests arrived to take part in a grand reunion and ball which lasted well into the night. But neither the bride or bridegroom nor any of the grand Spanish seigniors stayed for that: a small procession was formed soon after the conclusion of the banquet, consisting of the parents of bride and bridegroom flanked by a guard of honour, which conducted the young couple from the Town House to the residence of the High-Bailiff, which was to remain their home until such time as a more fitting permanent abode could be provided for them.

II

And now the escort had taken leave of the young people: don Juan de Vargas and the High-Bailiff had to return to their guests at the Town House and Clémence van Rycke had gone to rest. The arquebusiers had gone and the serving men and women--with the exception of Pierre and Jeanne--had gone to watch the illuminations and to listen to the strains of the orchestra which could be heard quite plainly through the open windows of the Town House.

Clémence van Rycke had conducted the bride upstairs to the nuptial-chamber. With her own hands she had drawn a high-backed chair close to the fire and made the young girl sit down. Mark then placed a footstool to her feet and a down cushion to her back.

Lenora accepted all these little attentions without a word, but with a grateful smile. She was far too tired to speak, and when Clémence finally kissed her on the forehead and whispered a motherly: "God bless you, my child!" she could hardly murmur a feeble "Good-night!" in reply.

Then Madame van Rycke went away, and the house seemed suddenly to become very still. Lenora was still in her bridal gown, which was of stiff white brocade, with very high starched collar and hard stomacher that cramped her movements and made her sides ache. Her hair had been combed away from her forehead and only a few unruly curls lay moist against her brow: her delicate skin rebelled against the conventional white and pink unguents which the careful fingers of a highly-trained waiting woman had laid upon her cheeks and lips, and the dark lines of a black pencil round her lashes could not add lustre to her luminous dark eyes which, despite fatigue, shone with marvellous brilliancy.

She sat with hands folded before her, staring into the fire, and the flames in wanton frolic threw a golden glow upon her face and her gown and deep blue shadows all around her. Mark van Rycke--unseen by her--stood at the other end of the monumental hearth, one arm resting against the ledge, his head against his hand, so that his face was completely in shadow and she could not know that he was watching her.

"You are tired, Madonna?" he asked after a little while, and she replied, pathetically, like a child about to cry:

"Very tired, Messire."

"It has been a long and trying day for you," he continued lightly. "I confess to being very tired myself, and as soon as Jeanne comes to wait on you, I would beg of you that I might take my leave."

Then as she said nothing, but continued to stare into the fire in a listless manner, he added a little impatiently:

"Jeanne will not be long; she attends upon my mother every night, but will be at your service directly. Can you put up with my company, Madonna, till she come?"

"I am at your service, Messire," she rejoined stiffly, "if there is aught you wish to say to me."

"How cold you are, sweetheart," he said good-humouredly. "It would seem as if we were still in the presence of that awe-inspiring duenna of yours: what was her name?--I forget--but by the Mass! I tell you, sweet, that she froze the very marrow in my bones ... and you were so formal in her presence too--brrrr!--it makes me shiver to think of those half-hours spent during the past week in such a freezing atmosphere!"

He laughed--a quaint little laugh--half merry and half shy, and after an instant's hesitation, he drew a low chair forward and sat down in front of the fire, close to her. Even then she did not turn to look at him.

"Had it not been for your eyes, Madonna," he said softly, "I would have sworn that you were fashioned of marble."

Now he was leaning a little forward, his elbow resting on his knee, his hand shading his face from the light of the fire. He was studying her face closely, and thought that he had never seen any woman quite so beautiful. "Laurence was a fool!" he was saying to himself as he took in every detail of the perfect face, the delicate contour of the cheeks, the pearly whiteness of the skin, the exquisite line of chin and throat, and above all those dark, glowing, unfathomable eyes which betrayed all the latent fire and passion which coldness of demeanour strove vainly to conceal. "Laurence was a fool! He would have fallen madly in love with this beautiful creature, and would have made her happy and contented with her lot, whilst the bonds of matrimony would have sat more lightly on him than on me."

He sighed, feeling a little sorry for himself, but nevertheless he stretched out his hand and captured hers--an exquisitely fashioned little hand it was, delicate to the touch and pulsating with life, like a prisoned bird. Mark was a young man--and one who had already got out of life most of the joys which it holds, but just for a moment he felt a curious thrill of unaccustomed pleasure, in holding this perfect thing--donna Lenora's hand. His own hands were strong, yet slender, finely shaped and warm to the touch, but it must be supposed that as he held hers, he must--quite unconsciously--have hurt her, for suddenly he saw that she turned even whiter than she had been before, her eyes closed and quite abruptly she withdrew her hand.

"Do I anger you, Madonna?" he asked.

"Nay, Messire," she replied coldly.

"May I not then hold your hand--for a very little while in mine?"

"If you wish."

But she did not voluntarily put her hand out to him, and he made no second attempt to capture it.

"We do not seem to be getting along very fast," he said quaintly.

She smiled. "Seeing how we came to be together, Messire," she said, "we were not like to have much in common."

"Yet, we shall have to pass our lives together, Madonna."

"Alas!" she sighed.

"I own that the prospect cannot be very alluring for you--it doth not seem to suggest an interminable vista of happiness...."

"Oh!" she murmured as if involuntarily, "I was not thinking of happiness."

"How strange," he retorted gently, "now, whenever I look at you, Madonna, I invariably think of happiness."

"Happiness? With me?"

"With you, sweetheart, if you will but allow me to work for that object. After all, my dear," he added with that whimsical smile of his, "we are both young, you and I; life lies all before us. I own that we have made a sorry beginning, that the first chapter of our book of life hath been ill-writ and by clumsy hands. But suppose we turn over a few pages, do you not think that we might happen on a more romantic passage?"

He drew nearer still to her, so near that as he bent toward her his knee touched the ground and his arm instinctively stretched out behind her, so that at the least movement on her part it would close around her and hold her--as indeed he longed that it should do. She was so very beautiful, and that air of settled melancholy, of childlike helplessness and pathos in her made an irresistible appeal to him.

"Madonna," he whispered, "an you would let me, I should like to make love to you now."

But she, with a quick, impatient jerk suddenly sat bolt upright and freed herself almost roughly from that arm which was nearly encircling her shoulders.

"Love!" she said with cold sarcasm. "You?"

He bit his lip and in his turn drew back: the dour look in his face became more marked and the merry twinkle died out of his eyes: his knee no longer touched the ground, but he remained quite self-possessed and said, still quite good-humouredly:

"Yes, I--your husband as it happens, Madonna. Would love from me be so very distasteful to you then?"

"I have no love for you, Messire, as you well know," she said coldly. "I told you what my feelings were toward yon, the first time that we met--at the Town House, the night of our betrothal."

"Yes," he owned, "you spoke very plainly then."

"And since then I have had no cause to change."

"I am as distasteful to you as I ever was?" he asked with droll consternation.

"Oh!--not distasteful, Messire."

"Come! that's something."

"Enough, methinks."

"Not by a long way, but it is a beginning. To-day I am not altogether distasteful--to-morrow I might e'en be tolerated ... in a week toleration might turn to liking ... and after that, liking to..."

"Never," she broke in firmly, "I should have to forget that which is indelibly writ upon my memory."

"And what is that?"

"That you married me without love and without wooing--bought me like a bundle of goods just because my father is powerful and yours ambitious. A week ago we were betrothed, Messire. Since then how hath your time been passed?"

"In wild, ecstatic half-hours spent in the presence of your duenna and sitting opposite to the chilliest bride in Christendom," he said whimsically.

"And the rest of the time in the taverns of Ghent," she retorted hotly, "and places of ill-repute."

"Who told you that?" he asked quietly.

"Oh! your reputation is well known: how could it fail to reach mine ears."

"Evil tongues always make themselves heard, Madonna," he said, still speaking very quietly, although now he sat quite apart from her, with his long legs stretched out before him and his hands clasped between his knees. "I would you had not listened."

"I would I had not heard," she assented, "for then I should not have added one more humiliation to all those which I have had to endure."

"And I another regret," he said with a short sigh. "But even if evil tongues spoke true, Madonna," he continued more lightly, "the shame of my conduct would sit on me and not on you. They call me a ne'er-do-well in the city--and have it seems done so in your hearing! Well! let me plead guilty for the past and lay my contrition at your feet."

Once more the more gentle mood overcame him. The house was so still and there was something quite unaccountably sweet in this sentimental dalliance with this exquisitely beautiful woman who was his wife--sentimental indeed, for though she appeared cold and even cruelly sarcastic, he felt the strength of a fine nature in her. Here was no mere doll, mere puppet and slave of man content to take her lot as her family or her husband chose to shape it--content to endure or accept a husband's love without more return than passive obedience and meaningless kisses. At the back of his mind he still thought Laurence a fool, and felt how well suited two such warm natures would have been to one another, but for the moment a strange desire seized him, to win a kind look from this beautiful woman on his own account, to see her smile on him, willingly and confidingly, to win her friendship and her trust, even though no warmer feeling should ever crop up between him and her.

"Madonna," he said, and once again he dropped his knee to the ground and leaned toward her so that her warm breath touched his hand, which he placed upon hers, "there are many men in the world who ne'er do well because they have been left to the companionship of those who do equally badly. Will you deign to believe that all the evil that is in me lies very much on the surface? They call me wild and extravagant--even my mother calls me careless and shallow--but if you smiled on me, Madonna, methinks that something which lies buried deep down in my heart would stir me to an effort to become worthy of you."

His voice--habitually somewhat rough and always slightly ironical--was wonderfully gentle now. Instinctively, perhaps even against her will, Lenora turned her head slowly round and looked at him. He had never before looked so straight and closely into her eyes; and, as she bore his scrutinising glance, the warm blood slowly mounted to her cheeks. Her face was partly in shadow, only the outline of her small head was outlined by the ruddy glow of the fire, and the tiny ear shone, transparent and crimson, like a shell, with the golden tendrils of her fair hair gently stirring in the draught from the wide, open hearth.

As she was excited and perhaps a little frightened, her breath came and went rapidly, and her lips were slightly parted showing a faint glimmer of pearly teeth beyond. Mark felt a sudden rush of blood to his head; to be alone with this adorable woman so close to him, to feel her panting like a young creature full of life and passion, slightly leaning against his arm, to look into those wonderful, dark eyes and know that she was his, was indeed more than man could endure in cold blood.

The next moment he had caught her with irresistible masterfulness in both his arms and drawn her down to him as he knelt, whilst his eager lips sought hers with a mad longing for a kiss. But with an agonised cry of horror, she pushed him away with all her feeble might. For a moment she struggled in his arms like a wild creature panting for liberty and murmuring mad, incoherent words: "Let me go! Let me go! I hate you!"--the next, she was already free, and he had struggled to his feet. Now he stood at some little distance from her, looking down on her with a scared gaze and passing his hand mechanically backwards and forwards across his brow.

"Your pardon, Madonna," he murmured, "I did not understand that you could hate me so."

The fire was burning low, and the two candles in tall sconces at the further end of the room threw but a fitful light upon that hunched up young figure in the big, high-backed chair, cowering there half frightened at her own violence, tired out with emotion, her nerves quivering after the final, tense moment which had left her exhausted and almost unconscious.

Mark could only see her dimly; the stiff folds of her wedding gown and the high starched collar were alone visible in the gloom; she had hidden her face in the cushion of the chair. Presently a sob rose to her throat, and then another, and soon she was crying just like a tired child. Mark felt that he had been a brute and was seized with an infinite pity for her.

"Madonna," he said gently, "I think I can hear Jeanne's footstep in the corridor. May I call to her to come and attend on you?"

"I thank you, Messire," murmured Lenora, who was making a great effort to swallow her tears.

"Then I pray you dry your eyes," he pleaded, "I would be so ashamed if Jeanne saw that I had made you cry."

She looked up and even in the gloom he thought that he could see a swift smile pass across her face.

"To-morrow an you desire," he continued more lightly, "your old dragon Inez shall be here to wait on you, until then I trust that you will not feel too lonely, away from those you care for. My mother is an angel. You will love her, I think, and my brother Laurence is learned and well-read ... my father too is kind. We will all strive, Madonna, to make you somewhat more contented with your lot."

"You mistake, Messire," she stammered, "I..."

But already he had bowed before her and bidden her a formal good-night. She had meant to give him her hand and to ask his forgiveness, for indeed she had behaved like an ill-tempered child--a bad beginning for the role which she had sworn to play--but he had gone, and before she could call him back he was speeding down the corridor and anon she heard him loudly calling to Jeanne.

III

Lenora did not see her husband during the whole of the next day, and on the one occasion when she ventured to ask after him--with well-feigned indifference lest any one guessed that all was not well between them--Clémence van Rycke sighed, Messire the High-Bailiff gave a forced laugh and Laurence van Rycke frowned with obvious anger. And in the evening--when she retired to her room and felt strangely irritable and hurt at being left in such solitude--she questioned Inez, who had been allowed to come and wait on her and who had a marvellous faculty for gleaning all the gossip that was going about the town.

"They do say, my angel," said the old woman with that complacency which characterises your true gossip, "that Messire Mark van Rycke hath spent his whole day in the tavern opposite. It is known as the 'Three Weavers,' and many Spanish officers are quartered in there now."

"Heaven protect us!" ejaculated Lenora involuntarily, "I trust they did not quarrel."

"Quarrel, my saint?" retorted Inez with a spiteful little laugh, for she had no liking for these Netherlanders. "Nay! Messire van Rycke would not dare quarrel with a Spanish officer. No! no! it seems that the tapperij of the 'Three Weavers' was most convivial all the day. It is always frequented by Spanish officers, although the inn-keeper is said to be an abominable heretic: there was much gambling and heavy drinking there, so they say, and even now..."

And as if to confirm the old woman's say, there came from the house opposite and through the open windows loud noise of gay laughter and hilarious song. A deep flush rose to Lenora's face.

"Close that window, Inez," she said peremptorily, "the night hath turned chilly."

She went to sit by the fire, and curtly dismissed the gossiping old woman. She knew all that she had wanted to know, and the flush of shame deepened on her cheek. There had been times during the past week when a vague hope had stirred in her heart that mayhap life did hold a small measure of happiness for her. There were times when she did not altogether dislike Mark van Rycke, when that winning merriment and good-humour which always lurked in his eyes provoked a response in her own ... and others, when certain notes of gentleness in his voice caused a strange thrill in her heart and brought tears into her eyes, which were not altogether tears of sorrow. She had also felt deeply remorseful at her conduct last night at the cruel words: "I hate you!" which she had flung so roughly in his face: indeed she could scarcely sleep all night, for she was persistently haunted by the dazed look in those merry, grey eyes of his which had just for one brief moment flashed tender reproach on her.

But now she felt nothing but shame--shame that she should ever have thought tenderly of a man who could so wrong her, who had so little thought of her that he could spend his whole day in a tavern whilst his young girl-bride was left to loneliness and boredom in a house where she was a total stranger. She thought him vindictive and cruel: already she had thought so last night when he went away hurriedly without waiting for the apology which was hovering on her lips. Now she was quite sure that she hated him, and the next time she told him so, she certainly would not regret it.

But somehow she felt more forlorn than she had been before that dotard Inez had filled her ears with gossip. The house as usual was very still, but Lenora knew that the family had not yet gone to rest. Awhile ago she thought that she had heard footsteps and a murmur of voices in the hall below. A desire for company seized the young girl, and she racked her brain for an excuse to go down to her mother-in-law, who she knew was kind and who perhaps would cheer and comfort her a little and give her kind pity in her loneliness.

CHAPTER VII

THE REBELS

I

At this same hour in the small withdrawing-room which adjoined the dining-hall in Messire van Rycke's house, five men were sitting round the gate-legged table in the centre of the room. At the top of the table sat Clémence van Rycke, in a tall chair covered with crimson velvet; opposite to her sat a man who was dressed in rough clothes of dark-coloured buffle, and whose ruff was of plain, coarse linen; he wore a leather belt to which was fastened a heavy wallet, and high, tough boots that reached above his knee. His black hat and mantle lay on a chair close by. In fact, his clothes--more than ordinarily sombre and plain--were such as the serving man of a poor burgher might wear; nevertheless this man had round his neck a crimson ribbon to which was attached a gold pendant in the shape of a dead wether--which is the badge worn by the Knights of the Golden Fleece.

When this man spoke the others listened to him with marked deference, and Laurence van Rycke stood all the time beside his chair and served him with wine. In appearance he was spare of build and tall, he wore full beard and moustache and hair brushed away from an unusually high forehead. His eyes were prominent and very keen and astute as well as frank and kindly in expression, and his eyebrows were fully and markedly arched.

Clémence van Rycke was the only woman present. The other three men were all dressed in dark clothes, and their black mantles hung over the backs of their chairs. The room in which these half-dozen people were assembled was narrow and oak-panelled; at the end of it there was a low and very wide window recess, across which heavy curtains of crimson velvet had been drawn; at the side a door gave on the dining-hall; this door was open and the hall beyond was in complete darkness.

The whole room was only dimly lighted by one thick wax candle which burned in a tall sconce that stood on a bracket in an angle of the room, and threw a fitful light on the grave faces of the men sitting around the table.

"The High-Bailiff hath business at the Town House," Clémence van Rycke was saying in reply to the stranger who sat opposite to her. "He will not be home until midnight. My son Mark, too, is from home," she added more curtly. "Your Highness can discuss your plans with these gentlemen in all security. And if you wish me to retire..."

She half rose as if she meant to go, but a word from the stranger kept her in her place.

"I entreat you to stay with us, mevrouw," he said; "we would wish you to hear all that we have to say. Of a truth we have no more loyal adherents than mevrouw van Rycke and her son, and what we should have done in this city without their help I do not know."

He turned at the same time to Laurence and stretched out his hand to him. The young man at once bent the knee and kissed the gracious hand.

"The little that we have done, Monseigneur," said Clémence softly, "hath been done with great gladness seeing that it was in your service."

"Not only mine, mevrouw," rejoined the stranger. "I am but the instrument of God's will, an humble follower of His cause. What you have done was done for Him and for the cause of liberty, of justice and of right."

"May God's blessing rest upon your Highness' enterprise," murmured Clémence fervently. "For God and William of Orange is our cry. Your cause is the cause of God."

"Alas!" said the Prince, with a sigh of utter weariness and dejection, "you know how little success I have had in this city ... promises! promises! promises I have in plenty, and a couple of thousand young men from the town have rallied to my standard. A poor result indeed after all my efforts! So much tyranny!" he exclaimed bitterly, "such wanton oppression! the dastardly outrages at Mons and at Mechlin! and only two thousand men among thirty, willing to take up arms to defend their liberty, their ancient privileges, their very homes!"

He leaned his elbows on the table and buried his head in his hands. Clémence van Rycke was silent as were the men; their hearts echoed all the bitterness which had surged up in William of Orange's heart.

"Yet your Highness refuses to take me with you," said Laurence with gentle reproach.

"Only for the moment, Messire," rejoined the Prince, "only for the moment. Never fear but I will send for you as soon as I have need of you. Can I afford to reject so devoted a champion? But for the moment you can do so much more for me by staying quietly at home than if you followed me on my recruiting campaign. I have not yet exhausted the resources and enthusiasm of this city--of that I feel confident, I shall try again--for another week. There are still several likely houses that I have not visited, and whose cordial invitation I have received..."

"Beware of treachery, your Highness!" broke in Clémence van Rycke suddenly.

"Nay, Madonna," he said, whilst that same winning smile lit up the sombre dejection of his face, "but have I not told you that my dragon is on the watch? Not a step am I allowed to take in this city without his permission. He allowed me to come to this house to-night, because he knew that I desired to express my gratitude to you personally. But I can assure you," he added, laughing softly to himself, "I had to fight for the permission."

"Is that not insolence?" exclaimed one of the others hotly. "Were we not to be trusted with the care of your sacred person?"

"You all, seigniors, and Messire van Rycke and his mother," rejoined the Prince; "but there are others in this house. Do not blame my devoted Leatherface," he continued earnestly; "but for him I should not be here now. No man could be more watchful, no man more brave or more resourceful. Countless times did he save me from the assassin's dagger and the poisoner's cup. If my life is necessary for the cause of freedom and justice, then have freedom and justice in Leatherface their truest and most efficient champion."

"Amen to that," rejoined Clémence van Rycke with fervour. "I only wish I knew who he was, that I might pray more personally for him."

"Ah! we none of us know who he is, Madonna," said William of Orange more lightly. "He is Leatherface, and that is enough for us. And this reminds me that he begged me to be back at my lodgings by ten o'clock, so I have not much time to spend in this pleasing gossip. Shall we to serious business now?"

"At your Highness' service," replied Laurence, and the others also murmured a quick assent.

II

"Well then, seigniors, having decided on our coup we have only the details to consider. You have all assured me that the Duke of Alva will come to Ghent within the next few days, and that our two thousand recruits are ready to carry out the orders which we have framed for them."

"The numbers will be doubled within the next few days," interposed one of the grave seigniors with conviction. "Your Highness' presence in the town--though only known to a very few loyalists--hath wrought miracles already."

"The wave of enthusiasm is spreading," asserted another.

"Well! if we had more men," quoth the Prince cheerily, "our plan would, of a surety, be more certain of success. I cannot say that I altogether approve of the plan--for as you know, I am a soldier and have no great mind for plots and conspiracies; but those on whose judgment I place infinite confidence--men such as Messire Paul Buys, pensionary of Leyden, Marnix of Tholouse, Marnix of St. Aldegonde and others, all approve of it, and I have therefore given it mine assent."

He sank his voice yet lower to a whisper, and he leaned right across the table as did the other men so that their ears were quite close to his mouth.

"The Duke of Alva comes to Ghent in about a week's time," he continued. "The idea is to seize his person and hold him a prisoner here and an hostage whilst we demand the withdrawal of all the Spanish troops from the Netherlands and the abolition of the Spanish Inquisition."

"To seize the person of the Duke of Alva!" murmured Clémence van Rycke, and so great was the terror which the tyrant inspired in every Flemish heart, that even those who already knew of this daring plot were appalled at the magnitude of such an outrage.

"Why not?" quoth William of Orange earnestly. "Less than a hundred years ago the town of Brüges held the Archduke Maximilian King of the Romans a prisoner within her walls, until he swore to dismiss all foreign troops from the Netherlands within four days, and gave hostages for his fidelity. What Brüges did then, cannot Ghent do now? With Alva a prisoner in our hands, we can dictate our terms to the King. It is a bold coup, seigniors, I own, but it hath every chance of success."

A murmur of approval went round the table. Clémence alone was silent. She was old and feeble, perhaps she had seen more than one bold coup fail, and terrible reprisals follow such failures; but Laurence was full of eagerness and enthusiasm.

"It cannot fail," he asserted vehemently. "Are there not two thousand men in the city who are devoted to your Highness heart and soul, and who are ready to give their lives for your cause? Two thousand, and within three days there will be five! more than enough for such a bold coup. It will and must succeed! One lucky hazard, and we may win all that we have fought for, lived for, died for, for over a century."

"It cannot fail!" came with fervent conviction from every one of the others.

"Ghent can do what Brüges hath done!" they affirmed.

"With the tyrant a prisoner in our hands, we can dictate terms as Brüges did an hundred years ago."

"Well said, seigniors," rejoined William of Orange, "and your approval--you who know this city so much better than I do--hath given me further encouragement. And now," he added with serious earnestness, "you will want to know why I convened this meeting, which by Mevrouw van Rycke's graciousness I have been able to do, and you will wish to hear what role hath been assigned to each of you in the great event which we are preparing."

"Let me but offer my life..." interposed Laurence eagerly.

"Nay! not your life, I hope, Messire," quoth the Prince with a smile, "your forethought and prudence and your united co-operation are what we want. Ye are risking your lives, seigniors, in this enterprise, that I'll not deny--but ye are men and know which you value most, your life or the very existence of your nation which is threatened with complete destruction."

"For Orange, for faith and for liberty!" said one of the men simply, and the others merely murmured: "Tell us what we must do."

"You must be wary and alert above all things, seigniors, for I have chosen you for a very arduous task in connection with this enterprise, and you must recognise that however carefully we organise it, there will always be one weak link in the chain which we are forging for the capture of that abominable tyrant, the Duke of Alva."

"One weak link?"

"Yes. We do not and cannot know for certain on which date Alva proposes to come to Ghent. The dates of his visits to Flemish towns are always kept a secret until the very moment of departure."

"He dreads assassination," interposed one man with a sneer.

"On the last occasion of the Duke's visit to Ghent," said Clémence van Rycke, "my husband was only apprised of it by courier two hours before his arrival. The courier had started from Brussels a bare half-hour before the Lieutenant-Governor and his cortège left the city."

"Precisely, and even then the High-Bailiff was in advance of every one else with the news," nodded the Prince, "and that is where our difficulty lies. How to collect together a couple of thousand men at perhaps an hour's notice--men who are scattered in different portions of this city and probably engaged in their usual avocations."

"Where will their leaders be?"

"Each at the different points where our secret stores of arms are kept. There are four of these points and four captains whom I have appointed to command five hundred men each. Having distributed the arms, the captains will lead their respective companies to the Waalpoort, where a crowd is sure to collect as soon as the rumour has spread to the town that the Lieutenant-Governor is coming. Our men will mix with the crowd, and at a given signal--when the Duke's cortège crosses the bridge--they will rush the bodyguard, scatter confusion among the escort, and in the mêlée seize the person of Alva. During the inevitable tumult that will ensue among the soldiers and the populace, our valuable hostage shall be conveyed in absolute secrecy to Het Spanjaard's Kasteel, where of course we can easily keep him a close prisoner whilst we negotiate with the King. But this of course is for the future, seigniors," he added, "and my concern now is to explain to you the method which I and my councillors have devised for the calling together of our stalwarts as soon as the Duke's coming visit is announced. Have I your close attention, seigniors?"

He had indeed. The four men round the table bent forward more eagerly still so as not to lose one word of their noble chief's commands. But before they could formulate the words of loyalty and of enthusiasm which hovered on their lips, a soft sound like the beating of a bird's wing against the window-pane froze those whispered words upon their lips.

Every head was immediately turned to the window, every face became rigid and pale, every brow was contracted with the effort to strain the faculty of hearing to its tensest point. It seemed as if six pairs of glowing eyes would pierce the folds of the velvet curtain which hung before the window.

III

The Prince was the first to recover himself.

"It is Leatherface," he whispered, "come to give me warning."

He rose and would have gone to the window, but Clémence van Rycke caught him by the arm and clung convulsively to him. "Not you, Monseigneur," she entreated, "not you--it might be a traitor."

Then the tapping was repeated and Laurence went cautiously up to the window, and after an instant's hesitation, he suddenly drew the curtains aside with a resolute gesture. Then he unfastened the tall casement and threw it open.

The night was of an inky blackness, and as the lattice flew open a gust of wind and heavy driving rain nearly extinguished the light of the candle, but in the framework of the window a man's head and shoulders detached themselves from out the gloom. The head and shoulders were closely enveloped in a hood and cape, and the face was hidden by a mask, and all were dripping with wet.

"Leatherface!" murmured the Prince, and Clémence van Rycke gave a sigh of relief.

"There is a light in the window above," whispered the man with the mask, "and a shadow has crossed behind the windows of the corridor. Someone is astir overhead--and the civic business at the Town House is drawing to an end."

"We have nearly finished," murmured the Prince in reply. "And I'll come away at once. Is the street clear?"

"Quite--and will be for another ten minutes till the night-watchman comes round. I saw him just now, he is very drunk and might make trouble."

"I come, friend," rejoined the Prince, "and as soon as may be."

The hooded head disappeared in the gloom; Laurence closed the window and drew the curtains together again.

"I envy that man," he said, and Clémence murmured a fervent: "God bless him!"

IV

Then the Prince turned once more to his friends.

"You see," he said with his grave smile, "how carefully my dragon guards me. There is evidently no time for lengthy explanations, and I must be as brief as I can."

He now opened the wallet at his belt and took out from it a small packet of papers.

"I am going to entrust these papers to Messire Laurence van Rycke," he said, "they contain the names and places of abode and of business of every one of those two thousand men who have actually tendered me their oath of allegiance, and have sworn to give me unconditional support. I propose that Messire van Rycke keep these lists, because it will undoubtedly be his father, the High-Bailiff, who will learn sooner than any one else in the town the day and hour of the Duke of Alva's visit to Ghent. As soon as this is known to him, Messire van Rycke will then go to each of you, seigniors, and give you each a list of five hundred names, at the head of which will be noted the rallying point where these men will have to meet their captain and receive their arms. You in your turn will then each go and beat up the five hundred men whose names will have been given you, and order them to go to their respective rallying points. All this plan," added the Prince, "has been very carefully thought out, and it seems to me simple and easy of execution. But if any of you, seigniors, can think of a better one, I am, of course, always ready to take advice. You know your own city, better than I do--you might devise something still more practical than what I propose."

"Nay!" interposed one of the men, "meseems that nothing could be more simple, and I for one do vote unconditionally for the acceptance of His Highness' plan."

The others all gave their assent--hastily now, for again that gentle tapping was heard against the window-pane, only rather more firmly, more urgently this time. But no one went to the window to see what the tapping meant; obviously the faithful watcher outside scented some still hidden danger. The Prince at once by rising gave the signal that the conference was at an end. As he did so he handed the packet of papers to Laurence van Rycke who received it on bended knee.

"It is a treasure, Messire," said William of Orange earnestly, "which involves the lives of many and even, perhaps, the whole existence of this city. Where will you keep it?"

It was Clémence van Rycke who replied:

"This room," she said, "is mine own private withdrawing-room; that bureau there hath a wonderful lock which defies the cleverest thief; it contains my most valuable jewels. The papers will be safer there than anywhere."

"Let me see you lock them up in there, mevrouw," rejoined the Prince graciously, "I entrust them to you and to Laurence with utmost confidence."

Clémence then handed a key to her son and he locked the packet up in the tall bureau of carved and inlaid mahogany and satin-wood which stood in an angle of the narrow room close to the window and opposite to the door.

"I am meeting some friends and adherents to-morrow," said William of Orange finally, "at the house of Messire the Procurator-General whom of a truth God will bless for his loyalty--and I pray you, seigniors, as many of you as can do so to meet me there at this same hour. But should we not meet again, do you understand all that you have to do?"

The men nodded in silence, whereupon the Prince took formal leave of them and of his host and hostess. He said kind and grateful words to Clémence van Rycke, who, with tears in her eyes, kissed the gracious hand which was held out to her. She then escorted her noble guest out of the room and across the dining-hall, the others following closely behind. All were treading as noiselessly as they could. The door which gave from the dining-room on the hall and staircase beyond was wide open: the room itself was in absolute darkness, and only a tiny light flickered in the hall, which made the shadows round corners and in recesses appear all the more dense.

"Will your Highness grope your way to the front door," whispered Clémence van Rycke, "or shall my son bring a lanthorn to guide you?"

"No, no," said William of Orange hurriedly, "that small light yonder is quite sufficient. I can see my way, and we must try not to wake your hall-porter."

"Oh! nothing will rouse him save a very severe shaking, and the bolts and bars have been left undone, as my husband will be coming home late to-night."

"And, if I am not mistaken," quoth the Prince, "my devoted friend Leatherface is waiting for me outside to see me safely to my lodgings. He is always mistrustful of hidden traps or hired assassins for me. Farewell, seigniors!" he added lightly, "remember my instructions in case we do not meet again."

"But to-morrow..." interposed Laurence van Rycke.

"Aye! to-morrow," said William of Orange, "at this hour at the house of Messire Deynoot, the Procurator-General: those of you, seigniors, who care to come will be welcome."

"Not one of us would care to stay away," rejoined Laurence with earnest conviction.

CHAPTER VIII

THE WATCHER IN THE NIGHT

I

Lenora, thinking that Mevrouw van Rycke was still astir, and pining for motherly comfort and companionship, had crept softly down the stairs candle in hand, when all of a sudden she paused in the vast hall. Everything was so still and so weird that any noise, even that of a mouse skimming over a carpet, would have made itself felt in the absolute silence which lay over the house, and Lenora's ear had most certainly heard--or rather felt, a noise--the sound of people moving and speaking somewhere, not very far from where she stood ... listening ... every sense on the alert.

With a sudden instinct, half of fear and half of caution, she blew out the candle and then groped her way, with hands outstretched, hardly daring to breathe. The tiny, flickering light which came from an iron lamp fixed to a bracket at the foot of the stairs made the hall seem yet more vast and strange; but one small, elvish ray caught the polished brass handle of the dining-room door, and this glimmer of metal seemed to attract Lenora toward it. After awhile her eyes became a little more accustomed to the gloom, she tip-toed up to that door-handle which so attracted her, and placing both her hands upon it, she crouched there--beside the door--listening.

In effect there were people moving and talking not far from where she crouched--no doubt that they were in the small withdrawing-room beyond, and that the door of communication between the two rooms was open. Lenora--motionless, palpitating, her heart beating so that it nearly choked her, felt that all her faculties must now be merged into those of hearing, and, if possible, seeing what was going on in this house, and at this hour of the night when the High-Bailiff was from home.

Whether any thought of conspiracy or of State secrets had at this time entered her head it were impossible to say, whether she thought of Ramon's murderer or of her oath to her father just then, who can tell? Certainly not the girl herself--she only listened--listened with all her might, and anon she heard the scraping of a chair against the tiled floor, then the iron rings of a curtain sliding along the rod, finally the whistling sound of a gust of wind rushing through an open window. This moment she chose as her opportunity. She turned the handle of the door very gently, and quite noiselessly it responded to her touch. Then she pushed the door wide open and waited--listening.

The door into the withdrawing-room was wide open just as she had conjectured, the wind was blowing the feeble light about which flickered in that room, and there were men in there who moved stealthily and spoke in whispers. Lenora crept forward--furtive as a mouse. The darkness in the dining-hall was impenetrable, and she in her house-dress of dark woollen stuff made no noise as she glided along, keeping well within the gloom, her hands stretched out before her to feel the objects that might be in her way.

At last she came within range of the open door and had a view of the little room beyond. She saw the table in the centre, the men sitting around it, and Clémence van Rycke in a high-back chair at its further end. Just now they all had their faces turned toward the window, where in the open casement the head and shoulders of a man were dimly visible to Lenora for one instant and then disappeared.

After that she heard the men talking together and heard what they said: she saw that one man appeared to be the recipient of great marks of respect, and that the others called him "Your Highness." She was now listening as if her very life depended on what she heard--crouching in the angle of the dining-room as closely as her unwieldy farthingale would allow. She heard the man whom the others called "Your Highness," and who could be none other than the Prince of Orange, explain to the others a plan for massing together two thousand men in connection with a forthcoming visit of the Duke of Alva to Ghent, she heard the word "Leatherface" and a great deal about a packet of papers. She heard the Prince speak about a meeting to-morrow in the house of the Procurator-General, and finally she saw Laurence van Rycke take a packet of papers from the Prince's hand and lock it up in the bureau that stood close to the window.

Indeed she could not for a moment be in doubt as to the meaning of what she saw and heard.

Here was a living proof of that treachery, that underhand conspiracy of which her father had so often spoken to her of late! Here were these Netherlanders, living under the beneficent and just laws of their Sovereign Lord and Master King Philip of Spain--the man who in every born Spaniard's eyes was greater, nobler, more just and more merciful than any other monarch alive, who next to His Holiness himself was surely anointed by God Himself and placed upon the mightiest throne on earth so that he might administer God's will upon all his subjects--and here were these traitors plotting and planning against the Government of that high and noble monarch, plotting against his representative, the Lieutenant-Governor whom he had himself put in authority over them.

To a girl born and bred in the atmosphere of quasi-worship which surrounded Philip's throne, the revolt of these Netherlanders was the most heinous outrage any people could commit. She understood now the hatred and loathing which her father had for them--she hated them too, since one of these vile conspirators had foully murdered her cousin Ramon in the dark.

"Leatherface!"--the man in the room below whom the others called "Your Highness" spoke of Leatherface as his friend!

A Prince consorting with a hired assassin! and Lenora felt that her whole soul was filled with loathing for all these people. Was not the man who had killed Ramon--foully, surreptitiously and in the dark--was he not even now just outside this very house--the house which was to be her home for life--waiting mayhap for some other unsuspecting Spanish officer whom he could murder in the same cowardly and treacherous way?--and were not all these people in that room yonder, execrable assassins too?--had she not heard them speaking of armed conspirators?--and could she not see even now in her mind's eye the unsuspecting Duke of Alva falling into their abominable trap?

But horror-struck as she was, she never stirred. Truth to tell, a sudden fear held her now--the fear that she might be detected ere she had done her best to save the Duke from this infamous plot. What she would do presently, she did not know as yet--for the moment all that she needed was safety from discovery and the privacy of her own room where she could pray and think.

After Laurence had locked the papers in the bureau it was obvious that the meeting was at an end. She had only just time to flit like a dark ghost through the dining-hall and to reach the stairs, before she heard unmistakable signs that the Prince and his friends were taking leave of their host and hostess. Gathering her wide gown together in her hands, she crept up the stairs as fast as she could. Fortunately she was well out of the range of the small light at the foot of the stairs, before the five men and Clémence van Rycke came out into the hall. She heard their few words of farewell and heard the Prince arranging for the meeting the next evening at the house of Messire Deynoot.

After that she felt that further delay would inevitably spell detection. Even now someone must have opened the front door, for a gust of wind and heavy rain driving into the house told the listener quite clearly that the Prince and his friends were leaving the house: anon Clémence and Laurence would be going up to their own apartments.

As swiftly, as furtively as a mouse, Lenora made her way up the stairs: and now there she sat once more in the vast bedchamber, quivering with excitement and with horror, listening for footsteps outside her door. She heard Clémence van Rycke's shuffling footsteps passing down the corridor, and Laurence's more firm ones following closely in their wake: a few whispered words were spoken by mother and son, then doors were closed and all was still once more.

II

The fire had burnt low, only the last dying embers of the charred pine logs threw a wide glowing band across the centre of the room. Lenora sitting by the fire had scarcely moved for a quarter of an hour or even more. Anon she heard the opening and shutting of the front door.

It was the High-Bailiff returning home--not knowing, of a truth, that his house had just been used as a meeting-place for conspirators. The hall-porter slept between two doors in the outer lobby. Lenora heard him scrambling out of bed, and the High-Bailiff's voice bidding him close everything up for the night. Then came the pushing home of bars and bolts and the rattle of chains, and finally the sound of the High-Bailiff's heavy footsteps across the hall and up the stairs.

After that silence once more.

Lenora, however, still sat on for awhile staring into the glow. Vaguely she wondered if Mark would be staying out all night, or whether he had been home all along, knowing perhaps, and perhaps not caring about, what was going on in his father's house; keeping aloof from it all: or like Laurence, up to his neck in all this treachery and abominable rebellion!

Another quarter-of-an-hour went by: the clock of St. Bavon had chimed the half after eleven, and now the quarter before midnight. Lenora felt that at last she might slip downstairs with safety.

Quickly now she took off her stuff gown and heavy farthingale which had so impeded her movements awhile ago, and groped in the press for a clinging robe which would envelop her closely and glide noiselessly upon the tiled floors.

There is absolutely no doubt that all through this time Lenora acted almost unconsciously. She never for one moment paused to think: she was impelled by a force which she herself could not have defined--a force which can best be described as a blind instinct. Obedience! She had been born and bred in obedience and a sense of sacred duty to her King as Sovereign Lord, to her faith and to her father.

In the convent at Segovia she had learned the lesson of obedience so absolutely that it never entered her mind to question the decrees of those three all-potent arbiters of her destiny. And when--as now--the hour came when the most sacred oath she had ever spoken had to be fulfilled, she would have thought it a deadly sin to search her own heart, to study her feelings, to argue with herself about it. She would as soon have thought of arguing with God.

On Ramon's death-bed she had sworn to her father that she would act and work for her country and for her King in the way that her father would direct.

The time had come, and she did what she believed to be her duty without question and without false shame.

She knew that the knowledge which she already possessed was of paramount importance to the Government: the Prince of Orange was in Ghent--who but he would be called "your Highness"?--and moving about among his friends surreptitiously and at dead of night? Who but he would speak of the mysterious Leatherface as being on the watch for him? The Prince of Orange was in Ghent and was conspiring against the State. There had been talk of the Duke of Alva's visit to Ghent and of two thousand men being secretly armed. What other purpose save that of murder and bloodshed could be served by such secret plottings and the levying of troops in this illegal manner? The Prince of Orange was in Ghent and would on the morrow continue his underhand and treasonable machinations in the house of Messire Deynoot, Procurator-General of Ghent.

That was the extent of Lenora's knowledge, and what could she do with such a secret in her possession--she, a helpless girl, a stranger in the midst of all these enemies of her people and of her race? Could she, having gleaned so much information, quietly go to bed and sleep and let events shape their course?--and detach herself, as it were, from the destinies of her own country which her father had in a measure entrusted to her stewardship? Could she above all be false to her oath at the very moment when God gave her an opportunity of fulfilling it and of working for her country and her King in a manner which was given to very few women to do? Indeed she did not pause to think. Any thought save that of obedience would be treason to the King and sinful before God. The hour for thought would come later, and with it mayhap regret. Then so be it. Whatever suffering she would have to endure in the future, in her sentiment and in her feelings, she was ready to accept unquestioningly, just as she was prepared to fulfil her duty unquestioningly now. She knew a good deal, but surely not enough. She had seen Laurence van Rycke lock up a packet of papers in the bureau, and she had in her possession tied with a ribbon around her neck, the precious pass-key which her father had given her on the very morning when he told her how Ramon had come by his death--the curiously-fashioned piece of steel made by the metal-worker of Toledo--who had been put out of the way, because his skill had made him dangerous--and which would turn any lock or open any secret drawer.

She had no light now and did not know how to use the tinder, but in the wall of the corridor outside her door there was a little niche wherein stood a statue of the Virgin, and in front of the statute a tiny light was kept burning day and night: this would do in lieu of a candle. She would take it, she thought, and carry it into the withdrawing-room with her: it would help to guide her to the bureau where the papers were.

Yes! she was quite prepared for what she had to do, and there was no reason to wait any longer. And yet for some unaccountable reason she suddenly felt strangely inert: there were still a few dying embers in the grate, and she could see quite distinctly the high-backed chair in which she had sat last night, and the low one wherein Mark had half sat, half kneeled close beside her: the memory of that brief interview which she had had with him came upon her with a rush. It had been the only interview between them since the blessing of the Church had made them man and wife. It had ended disastrously it is true. Her words: "I hate you!" had been cruel and untrue, and overwhelming regret suddenly held her in its grip once again--as it had done all the day.

Closing her eyes for a moment--for they felt hot and heavy--she could almost believe that Mark was still there--his merry grey eyes looking deeply earnest, trying to read her innermost thoughts. His personality--so strange, so baffling even--seemed still to linger in this dimly-lighted room, and she almost could hear his voice--rugged, yet at times so sweet and tender--echoing softly along the rafters.

And all of a sudden she realised the full horror of what she was doing--of what she must do now or else become false and perjured--a traitor to her race and to her King. No longer was she a blind and unconscious tool of Fate--she was she herself--a woman who lived and thought and suffered: and before her at this moment there was nothing but an interminable vista of sorrow and suffering and regret.

Whether duty ruled her or sentiment, she--the innocent handmaid of Fate--could reap nothing but remorse in the future; her heart, her very youth, must inevitably be crushed between those two potent factors which were struggling even now for mastery over her soul.

Indeed was there ever a woman--a mere girl--confronted with so appalling, so intricate a puzzle? The lives of men were in her hands--the Prince of Orange, the High-Bailiff, Mark, Laurence, Clémence on the one side, on the other the Duke of Alva, her own father, her kindred, all those whom she had clung to and loved throughout her life.

And knowing that she never could solve such an awful problem by herself Lenora fell on her knees and prayed: she prayed with all the fervour, but also with all the simplicity of primitive faith--the faith that is willing and eager to leave everything in God's hands, to trust to guidance and help from above when life has become a hopeless and inextricable tangle--the faith which hath for its principle loyalty and obedience and which accepts suffering in its cause, and glories in it like in a martyr's crown.

III

After a few minutes Lenora felt more calm. Her deep and fervent religious sentiment had risen triumphant over every doubt. While she prayed so earnestly, so unquestioningly, it had been made clear to her that the issue of the mighty problem which was putting her very soul on the rack must remain in mightier hands than hers. She could not be the arbiter of men's lives and of the destinies of the State; all that she could do was to obey her father and fulfil her oath; beyond that, God must decide; He had shown her the way how to obtain the knowledge which she now possessed, and since her father was now back in Brussels, she must find a means of placing that knowledge in his hands. Her father of a surety was kind and just and God would Himself punish whom He willed.

With this calmer state of mind her resolution became more firm. She felt the pass-key safely in her bosom, then stealthily she slipped out of her room: the tiny light was flickering dimly at the foot of the Virgin's statue; Lenora lifted it carefully and with it in her hand prepared to go downstairs.

Scarce a sound broke the silence of the night: only the patter of the rain against the leaded panes of the windows and an occasional gust of wind that came roaring down the huge chimneys and shook the frames of windows and doors. Before descending the stairs Lenora paused once more to listen. Down the corridor she could hear Clémence van Rycke in her bedchamber still moving about, and Laurence's footstep on the tiled floor of his room.

And then the girl--shading the tiny light with her hand--began to descend.

She paused for a moment upon the landing and peeped into the vast hall below. It was fortunate that she had the tiny light, as the small lamp at the foot of the stairs had since been extinguished; but the little wick she held only threw out a faint glimmer a yard or two in front of her, and beyond this small circle there was nothing but impenetrable darkness.

The house was very still, and Lenora was absolutely without fear. From the church towers of the city, both near and far, there came the sound of bells striking the midnight hour. She waited till the last echo of the chimes had died away, then she continued her way down.

IV

Lenora now entered the dining-hall and carefully closed the door behind her. Light in hand she stood for a moment in the very angle of the room from whence she had watched the plotters an hour ago. Nothing had been deranged.

Then she went into the withdrawing-room, and placed the light upon the centre table. She looked around her mutely challenging the dumb objects--the chairs that stood about in disorder, the curtains which were not closely drawn, the bureau that was in the corner--to tell her all that she had failed to hear. In this spot a vile conspiracy had been hatched against the Duke of Alva--two thousand men were implicated in it--but in what way it threatened the Duke's life she did not know--nor yet who were all these men who had sat around this table and hatched treason against the King and State.

The tiny wick only shed a very feeble glimmer of light on the top of the table: it made the shadows on the ceiling dance a weird rigadoon and grow to fantastic proportions. But Lenora's eyes were growing well-accustomed to the gloom. Quickly now she drew the pass-key from between the folds of her kerchief and went up to the bureau. The ribbon round her neck was in the way so she took it off; with trembling, unerring fingers she groped for the lock and having found it she inserted the pass-key into it. After a little adjustment, a little tugging and pulling, she found that the lock yielded quite smoothly to the pressure. The flap came down and displayed the interior of the bureau, consisting of a number of wide pigeon-holes, in each of which there was a small iron box such as the rich matrons of Flanders used for putting away their pearls and other pieces of jewellery. On the top of one of these boxes there was a packet of papers, tied round with a piece of orange-coloured ribbon. Without a moment's hesitation Lenora took it. She unfolded one of the papers and laid it out flat upon the table, smoothing it out with her hand. She drew the light a little nearer and examined the writing carefully: it was just a list of names--fifty in all--with places of abode all set out in a double column, and at the bottom was written in a bold hand:

"All the above to Afsemble without any delay in the Barn which is fituated in the North-Weft angle of the Cemetery at the back of the Chapel of St. Jan ten Dullen."

Having satisfied herself that the other papers in the packet also contained lists of names and brief orders as to place of assembly, she tied them all up together again with the orange-coloured ribbon. Then she closed the bureau, turned the pass-key in the lock and slipped it, together with the packet, into the bosom of her gown.

Then she turned to go.

V

Light in hand she went tip-toeing across the dining-room; but close to the threshold she paused. She had distinctly heard a furtive footstep in the hall. At once she extinguished the light. Then she waited. Her thoughts had flown to Laurence van Rycke. Perhaps he felt anxious about the papers, and was coming down in order to transfer them to some other place of safety. The supposition was terrifying. Lenora felt as if an icy hand had suddenly gripped her heart and was squeezing her very life out of it. In this deathlike agony a few seconds went by--indeed they seemed to the unfortunate girl like an eternity of torment. She had slipped close to the wall right against the door, so that the moment it was opened from the outside, and someone entered the room, she could contrive to slip out. All might yet be well, if whoever entered did not happen to carry a light.

Then suddenly she heard the steps again, and this time they approached the dining-room door. Lenora's heart almost ceased to beat: the next moment the door was opened and someone stood upon the threshold--just for a second or two ... without moving, whilst Lenora with senses as alert as those of some feline creature in defence of its life--waited and watched for her opportunity.

But that opportunity never came, for the newcomer--whoever he was--suddenly stepped into the room and immediately closed the door behind him and turned the key in the lock. Lenora was a prisoner, at the mercy of a man whose secrets she had stolen, and whose life hung upon all that she had seen and heard this night.

The intruder now groped his way across the room and anon Lenora heard him first draw aside the curtains from before the window, and then proceed to open two of the casements. The window gave on the Nieuwstraate, almost opposite the tavern of the "Three Weavers," at the entrance of which there hung an iron street-lamp. The light of this came slanting in through the open casements and Lenora suddenly saw that it was Mark who was standing there.

Even at this instant he turned and faced her. He showed no sign however of surprise, but exclaimed quite pleasantly: "By the stars, Madonna! and who would have thought of meeting you here?"

The tension on Lenora's nerves had been so acute that her self-control almost gave way with the intensity of her relief when she recognised Mark and heard the sound of his voice. Her hands began to shake so violently that the tiny lamp nearly dropped out of them.

She had been so startled that she could not as yet either speak or move, but just stood there close to the wall, like a pale, slim ghost only faintly illumined by the slanting light of the street-lamp, her soft, white gown clinging round her trembling limbs. Her face, bosom and arms were scarce less white than her gown, and in the dim, mysterious light her luminous, dark eyes shone with a glow of excitement still vaguely tinged with dread.

He thought that never in life had he seen anything quite so beautiful, so pure, so desirable, and yet so pathetic as this young girl, whom but forty hours ago he had sworn to love, to protect and to cherish. Just now she looked sadly helpless, despite the fact that gradually a little air of haughtiness replaced her first look of fear.

"Madonna," he said gently, "are you indeed yourself, or are you your own wraith? If not, why are you wandering about alone at this hour of the night?"

"I came to fetch my prayer-book," she said, trying to speak lightly and with a steady voice. "I thought that I had left it here to-day and missed it when I went to rest."

"You found the book, I hope," he said, without the slightest trace of irony.

"No," she replied coldly. "Inez must have put it away. Will you be so good as to unlock that door."

"I will with pleasure, Madonna. I locked it when I came in, because I didn't want old Pierre to come shuffling in after me, as he so often does when I go late to bed. But," he added, putting out his hand, "may I take this lamp from you. Your hand does not appear to be oversteady and if the oil were to drip it would spoil your gown."

"The draught blew it out," she retorted, "and I would be glad if you would relight it. I am going back to my room."

"Precisely," he rejoined dryly as he took the lamp from her and put it on the table, "and with your leave I would escort you thither."

"I thank you," she rejoined coldly, "I can find my way alone."

"As you please," he said with perfect indifference.

Now that her eyes were more accustomed to the semi-darkness she could see him more distinctly, and she stared at him in amazement. His appearance was certainly very different to what it habitually was--for he usually dressed himself with great care: but now he had on dark clothes, made of thick woollen stuff, which clung closely to his tall figure: he wore no ruff, and had on very high boots which reached high above his knees. Both his clothes and boots were bespattered with mud, and strangely enough looked also wet through. Somehow the appearance appeared unreal. It was Mark--and yet it was not. His face, too, looked flushed, and the lines round his eyes were more deeply marked than they had ever seemed to be before.

The recollection of all the abominable gossip retailed about him by Inez and others took possession of her mind. She had been told by all and sundry that Mark van Rycke had spent most of his day at the "Three Weavers," and now the flush on his face, the curious dilation of the pupils of his eyes, seemed to bear mute testimony to all that she had heard.

Here, then, she already saw the hand of God guiding her future--and showing her the small glimmer of comfort which He vouchsafed her in the midst of her perplexities. Life in this house and with this man--who cared less than nothing for her--would anyhow be intolerable--then obviously the way was clear for her to go back to her father. She wished no harm to these people--none to this poor, drunken wretch, who probably had no thought of rebellion or of heresy, none to Laurence, who loved her, or to Clémence, who had been kind to her. But she despised them--aye! and loathed them, and was grateful to God for allowing her to keep her promise to her father within the first few hours of her married life.

How terrible would have been the long and weary watching! the irresolution, the temptation, mayhap, to be false to her oath through sheer indolence or superacute sentiment!

So now all that she had to do was to go straight back to her father, tell him all that she knew and then go--go back to the dear old convent at Segovia--having done more than a woman's share in the service of her country--and then to rest after that--to spend her life in peace and in prayer--away from all political intrigues--forgetting that she had ever been young and felt a vague yearning for happiness.

VI

Mark had made no sign or movement while Lenora stood there before him, gathering her strength together for what she felt might prove a struggle. In some unaccountable way she felt a little afraid of him--not physically of course, but, despite the fact that she had so impulsively judged him just now--afraid of that searching glance of his which seemed to lay her innermost thoughts like an open book before his eyes. She put this strange timidity of hers down to the knowledge that he had certain lawful rights over her as her lord and husband and that she would have to obtain his consent before she could think of going to Brussels on the morrow.

"Messire," she said abruptly, "during this day which you have seen fit to spend among your habitual boon companions, making merry no doubt, I have been a great deal alone. Solitude begets sober reason--and I have come to the conclusion that life under present conditions would be a perpetual martyrdom to me."

She paused and he rejoined quietly: "I don't think I quite understand, Madonna. Under what conditions would your life become a martyrdom?"

"Under those of a neglected wife, Messire," she said. "I have no mind to sit at home--an object of suspicion to your kinsfolk and of derision to your servants, while the whole town is alive with the gossip that Messire Mark van Rycke spent the first day of his marriage in the taverns of Ghent and left his bride to pine in solitude."

"But methought, Madonna," he retorted, "that it was solitude that you craved for. Both last night and even a moment ago you told me very plainly that you had no desire for my company."

"Last night I was overwrought and would have made amends to you for my thoughtlessness at once, only that you left me incontinently without a further word. As for now, Messire, surely you cannot wonder that I have no mind for your society after a day's carouse has clouded your brain and made your glance unsteady."

She thought herself very brave in saying this, and more than half expected an angry retort from him. Instead of which he suddenly threw back his head and burst into an immoderate and merry laughter. She gazed at him horrified and not a little frightened--thinking indeed that his brain was overclouded--but he, as soon as he had recovered his composure, asked her with grave attempt at seriousness: "You think that I am drunk, Madonna? Ye gods!" he exclaimed not without a touch of bitterness, "hath such a farce ever been enacted before?"

"A farce to you perhaps," she said earnestly, "but a tragedy to me. I have been rendered wretched and unhappy, Messire, and this despite your protestations of chivalry. I did not seek you, Messire. This marriage was forced upon me. It is ungenerous and cowardly to make me suffer because of it."

"Dastardly and abominable," he assented gravely. "Indeed, Madonna, you do me far too much honour even to deign to speak with me. I am not worthy that you should waste a thought on me--but since you have been so kind thus far, will you extend your generosity to me by allowing me to give you my most solemn word--to swear to you if need be that I am not the drunken wretch whom evil tongues have thus described to you. There," he added more lightly, "will you not deign to sit here a moment? You are tired and overwrought; let me get you a cup of wine, and see if some less strenuous talk will chase all those black thoughts from your mind."

He took her hand and then with gentle yet forceful pressure led her to the wide hearth and made her sit in the big chair close beside it.

"Alas! there are not even embers in the grate," he said, "I fear me, you must be cold."

From somewhere out of the darkness--she could not see from where--he brought a footstool for her feet; then he pulled a low chair forward for himself and sat down at some little distance from her, in his favourite attitude, with one elbow on his knee and his face shaded by his hand. She remained silent for a moment or two, for she suddenly felt an extraordinary sense of well-being; just the same as she had felt last night, and once or twice before in his presence. And she felt deeply sorry for him too. After all, perhaps he had no more desired this marriage than she had--and no doubt the furrows on his face came from anxiety and care, and she marvelled what it was that troubled him.

"There," he asked gaily, "are you better now, Madonna?"

"Better, I thank you," she replied.

"Then shall I interpret the thoughts which were coursing behind that smooth brow of yours, when first I startled you by my presence here?"

"If you will."

He waited a moment, then said dryly: "You desired to convey to me your wish to return to your father.... Oh! only for a little while," he added hastily, seeing that she had made a quick, protesting gesture, "but that was in your mind, was it not?"

She could not deny it, and murmured: "Yes."

"Such a wish, Madonna," he rejoined, gravely, "is as a command to me. In the late morning the horses will be at your disposal. I will have the honour to accompany you to Brussels."

"You, Messire!" she exclaimed, "you would..."

"I would do anything to further your wishes, Madonna; this I would have you believe. And a journey to Brussels is such a small matter...."

"As you say," she murmured. For such are the contradictions of a woman's heart that all of a sudden she did not wish to go away. All thoughts of rebellion and conspiracies were unaccountably thrust into the background of her mind, and ... she did not wish to go away....

"There is no hurry," she continued timidly. "I would not like to put you to inconvenience."

"Oh!" he rejoined airily, "there is no inconvenience which I would not gladly bear in order to gratify your wish."

"I shall have to pack my effects...."

"Jeanne will help Inez, and a few things are easily packed. Your effects shall follow in an ox-wagon; they will be two days on the way; so I pray you take what is required for your immediate needs and is easily stowed in your saddle-bow. We shall have to make an early start, if you desire to be in Brussels by nightfall."

"Oh! there is no hurry," she protested.

"Ah? Then in that case I could escort you as far as Alost, and send a courier thence to your father, to meet you there the next day."

She bit her lip and could have cried with vexation. At the present moment she hated him for so obviously wishing to be rid of her. She had quite forgotten that she had ever wanted to go.

"I shall be too tired to make an early start in the morning," she said quite piteously. "Why it is close on early morning now."

She leaned a little forward in order to listen, for just then the chimes of St. Bavon rang the half-hour after midnight. She still looked a small, pale, slim ghost with one side of her exquisite face in shadow, the other but faintly illumined by the light from without. Her vexation, her indecision, were so plainly expressed in her eyes, that he must indeed have been vastly dull or vastly indifferent not to have read her thoughts. Nevertheless, he said with the same calm airiness as before:

"A few hours' rest will revive you, Madonna. And if we only go as far as Alost to-morrow, we need not start before midday."

At this her pride was aroused. His indifference now amounted to insolence. With a vigorous effort she swallowed her tears, for they were very near the surface, and then she rose abruptly, with the air and manners of a queen, looking down in her turn with haughty indifference on that abominable Netherlander whom she had never hated so thoroughly as she did at this moment.

"I thank you, Messire," she said coldly, "I pray you then to see that all arrangements be complete for my journey as early as may be. I would wish to be in Brussels by nightfall, and half a dozen leagues or so does not frighten me."

She rose with all that stateliness which was a part of herself and suited her tall, graceful figure so admirably; as she did so she gave him a curt nod such as she would have bestowed on a serving man. He too rose to his feet but he made no attempt to detain her. On the contrary, he at once busied himself with his tinder box, and relighted the little lamp. Then he went to the door, unlocked it and held it open for her to pass through.

As she did so she took the lamp from him, and for one moment their hands met. His were burning hot and hers quite cold--his fingers lingered upon the satiny softness of hers.

But she sailed past him without bestowing another glance upon him, with little head erect and eyes looking straight out before her. In one hand she held the lamp, with the other she was holding up the heavy folds of her trailing gown, her tiny feet in velvet shoes made no sound as she glided across the hall. Soon she was a mere silhouette with the light just playing faintly with the loose curls round her head and touching the lines of her shoulders and arms and one or two folds of her gown. She mounted the stairs slowly as if she was infinitely weary; Mark watched the graceful, ghostlike form gliding upwards until the gloom had swallowed it up.

Then he turned back into the room.

VII

The first thing that Mark did when he was alone was to close the door; then he struck a light and lit a candle. With it in his hand he went into the withdrawing-room and--having peered closely into the four corners of the room, as if he half-expected to see some night-prowler there--he placed the candle on the table, drew a bunch of keys from the inner pocket of his doublet, and going up to the bureau proceeded to unlock it just as Lenora had done.

He gave one quick glance at the interior of the bureau, then he put up the flap and once more turned the key in the lock.

Having done this he stood for awhile quite still, his chin buried in his hand, his broad shoulders bent, a deep, double furrow between his brows. From time to time a deep sigh escaped his lips, and his merry grey eyes almost disappeared beneath the heavy frown. Then he seemed to shake himself free from his obsession, he straightened out his tall figure and threw back his head with a movement of pride and of defiance.

He took up the candle and started to go out of the room, but on the threshold he paused again and looked behind him. The table, the chairs, the bureau seemed in a strange weird way to be mocking him--they looked so placid and so immovable--so stolid in the face of the terrible calamity which had just fallen on this house.

And suddenly Mark with a violent gesture threw the heavy candlestick to the ground. The flame flickered as it fell and the taper rolled about gently for a while from side to side until it landed close to his feet. He smothered a curse and put his heel upon the taper, crushing the wax into a shapeless mass; then with a curious groan, half of pain half of bitter irony, he passed his hand once or twice across his brow.

Slowly the glow of wrath faded from his eyes, a look of wonderful tenderness, coupled with gentle good-humour and kindliness softened the rugged lines of his face. A whimsical smile played round the corners of his lips.

"She must be wooed and she must be won," he murmured. "Mark, you lumbering fool, can you do it? You have less than twenty-four hours in which..."

He sighed again and laughed softly to himself, shaking his head dubiously the while. Then he went out of the room and closed the door softly behind him.

CHAPTER IX

A DIVIDED DUTY

I

Strange and conflicting were the feelings which ran riot through Lenora's soul when she once more found herself alone in her own room. Mortification held for a time undisputed sway--a sense of injury--of having gone half-way to meet she knew not what and having been repulsed. She was quite sure that she hated her husband now, far more bitterly than she had ever hated any one before--at the same time she felt relieved that he at any rate had no part in the treachery which was being hatched under his father's roof.

One thing, however, gave her an infinite sense of relief. She was going back to her father on the morrow. She would leave this house where she had known nothing but sorrow and humiliation since first she entered it; above all she would never see those people again on whom she had been spying!

Yes! Spying!

There was no other word for it; hideous as it was it expressed what Lenora had done. Oh! there was no sophistry about the girl. She was too proud, too pure to try and palliate what she had done, by shirking to call it by its name. She had done a task which had been imposed on her by her King, her country, and her father. She had sworn to do it--sworn it on the deathbed of the only man who had ever loved her, the only man whose voice and touch had thrilled her, the companion of her childhood, her accepted lover and her kinsman.