The First of the English: A Novel
crazy. In an instant he has taken the soft, exquisite, patrician
fingers in his, and has rectified the mistake of Anglo-Saxon fervor and
impetuosity.
But just the same, this kiss on the lips has done his business, and
also that of the lady, though at present she doesn’t know it. She says
hurriedly: “I have told the Countess de Mansfeld of your service to me.
She would have begged your attendance at the fête, but I had presumed
you were not in the costume of ceremony. I see my mistake. You are
gallantly arrayed. Will you not join in our festival?”
“I beg you not,” answers Guy more hurriedly, for he knows in the
glittering throng he will have no such chance of a tête-à-tête as he
has now.
“Ah, you fear your being absent without leave from Romero’s Sicilians.
They are quartered at Middelburg, I believe. That accounts for your
coming by ship. But,” the lady goes on earnestly, “I have thought about
that. If you are questioned in Antwerp, say that you have come as their
Eletto from the officers to demand when their back pay and arrears
shall be made good. For since the Queen of England stole from us eight
hundred thousand crowns, you know no soldier in Brabant, Flanders nor
Friesland has had pay. Make such a statement as that, and it will
probably save you from any further questioning on the subject of
written leave of absence from Romero.”
“Egad!” thinks Guy, “I wonder what she would say if she knew I had had
a great hand in stealing that eight hundred thousand crowns.” But he
goes on very earnestly, for the lady has apparently forgotten her
embarrassment and her eyes are looking straight into his: “Many thanks
for your kind suggestion, Doña Hermoine. I will remember it if
questioned by provost marshal. But,” here his eyes make hers droop
before his, “I am more pleased than you can imagine at your
suggestion—not that it may save me from arrest, but that it shows me
that while away from me you had mind of me.”
“In that case permit me to show you that I thought of you more than you
even now imagine,” answers the girl, blushing at the admiration with
which the young gentleman is regarding her. “I also wrote a
missive—this. After you have rejoined your command, at the first
convenient opportunity present this at headquarters, and I think it
will insure you a colonelcy.” With this she hands him a note, at which
he starts astounded, for it is addressed to “Don Fernando Alvarez de
Toledo, Duke of Alva, Viceroy of Spain.”
“Who the devil can she be?” thinks Guy, but he has no time to waste on
queries; surprises come fast upon him. The girl says hurriedly: “The
Countess de Mansfeld and her guests await me. This fête is in my
honor;” then adds in a faltering tone that gives Guy one great gasp of
hope: “To remain longer would invite comment,” touching a silver
hand-bell on the table.
And he, hearing this knell of parting joy, knowing that it may mean
death to him to see her more, and dominated by that wild passion which
comes but once in a man’s life-time, and makes him know that she, of
all the beings of this earth, is the one for whom, if necessary, he
would die, mutters agitatedly: “Then there is but time to thank you
with my whole heart for your kindness to an unknown one; to tell you—”
but his eyes are speaking faster than his lips, and with an affrighted
“Madre Mia!” she draws fluttering back, as he, made desperate by
approaching footsteps, whispers three words: “I love you!”
To which she gasps: “No! no! you don’t know who I am!”
And he, dropping on one knee, whispers: “Were you the Queen of Spain
I’d tell you that I loved you!” and presses on her jeweled hand the
kiss of truth and devotion eternal.
But the servitor is entering, and she speaks, haughty and commanding,
as if she were the Queen of Spain: “Order an ensign to escort Captain
Guido with all due honor from the Citadel.”
A quick rush of silk and flutter of laces and she is at the door of the
room, but turns as if regretful of her going.
And he, gazing at her, his heart in his eyes, sees a picture that he
never forgets; for the girl stands in graceful attitude of fairest
youth, arrayed in laces, silks and glittering gems, with bare white
neck and snowy maiden bosom; one little Andalusian foot in fairy web of
Brussels and tiny slipper of velvet advanced from under her short
petticoat of lace and silk, and one white hand draping the tapestry of
the door above her, the other motioning farewell.
He makes hurried steps towards her and whispers: “Is it eternal?”
“Eternal? How solemn!” she tries to laugh, “Remember me by this!” and,
taking from her white finger a ring set with one bright flaming ruby,
drops it into his astonished hand, and flits from view.
And as he turns away he gives one great, deep-drawn breath of hope. For
in her eyes has come something that has answered to his words: “Were
you the Queen of Spain I love you!”
CHAPTER III.
THE SIX DRUNKARDS OF BRUSSELS.
A moment after, as Chester presses the ring upon his little finger, a
young Spaniard, almost a boy, with dark fiery eyes and ornamented by an
incipient mustache that he attempts to curl fiercely, in full uniform
with breastplate and plumed steel cap, enters the apartment and says
briskly: “I am the officer deputed to escort you from the Citadel,
señor. Permit me to present myself as Ensign José de Busaco, of
Mondragon’s Arquebusiers.”
“And in return,” answers Guy, throwing on his boat cloak and preparing
to follow the young man, “I beg to announce myself as the Capitan Guido
Amati, of Romero’s Musketeers.”
“Of the Middelburg garrison, I presume,” remarks the ensign, as they
leave the house together. “I suppose you have run up for a little
roistering at Antwerp. Middelburg is a desperately sleepy place; I was
quartered there three years ago. Brabant is slow also now since we
smashed Louis of Nassau up at Jemmingen. I cut ten German throats
there,” adds the boy very fiercely and very proudly.
“Diablo! You are a fighter,” mutters Guy.
“Pooh! these German burghers and townspeople were nothing against us
Spanish veterans,” replies Ensign de Busaco. “We killed eight thousand,
you remember, and lost only eight men. That was Alva’s generalship. He
has put up a big monument to himself over there,” and the boy points
across the great enceinte of the citadel through which they are passing
on their way to the main gate leading to the city.
Following his gesture in the gloom Chester can see the pedestal of that
great statue made of the cannon taken at Jemmingen, which the
pacificator and ravager of the Netherlands is erecting to his own honor
and glory, greatly to the disgust of Philip of Spain, who does not care
to have his generals too famous.
“Jake Yongling has made a great figure of the Viceroy. It is sixteen
feet high, and with the pedestal nearly thirty. Here’s the last one of
the arms,” continues the boyish warrior, giving a careless kick to the
representation in iron of his general, lying on the ground. Then he
whispers mysteriously: “They say this statue has a secret. What does
the Duke with his tenth penny tax, eh; where does he put the money?”
But, passing this, they are soon at the great military causeway that
leads to the drawbridge across the moat that gives egress to the
Esplanade of the city. Above the massive archway of its heavy gate,
chiseled in stone, is a shield with a royal castle with three towers,
on each a raven, and each guarded by a wolf—the arms of Alva; beneath,
the collar of the Golden Fleece, from which hangs, as if in mockery of
this country conquered by blood and fire, a representation of the Lamb
of God. This decoration is easily revealed to Guy as he passes by
flaming flambeaux, some of which are held in the hands of the guard and
others stuck in the niches in the wall.
The military etiquette of the place compels Chester’s attendant to
report to the officer of the day.
To do this they enter a guard-room, well lighted by a dozen burning
candles, and while the young ensign is making his report and receiving
order for the lowering of the drawbridge, Chester carelessly looking
over a number of military placards on the dingy wall, sees one that,
sound as are his nerves, causes him a quiver, for it reads as follows:
LARGESS!
THREE THOUSAND CAROLUS GUILDERS!
Whereas, a certain Englishman named Guy Stanhope Chester, and
better known among the inhabitants of these Netherlands as De
Eersteling der Engelschen (The First of the English), who has been
disowned and disavowed by his Queen, Elizabeth of England, on March
twenty-first of the year 1571, resisted arrest by our own armed
Spanish galley, Santa Cruz, and has since been acting against the
weal of these provinces of Spain, killing and murdering the
soldiers and sailors of Philip Rex, this will be warranted for any
governor of our towns or garrisons to make payment of the above sum
to any one delivering the body or head of said named Guy Stanhope
Chester, whom we hereby proclaim as pirate and outlaw, by order of
(Signed) ALVA, Viceroy.
(Countersigned) Juan de Vargas, President of the Council.
This is posted up among various military orders pertaining to the
Citadel, and one or two other proclamations of outlawry or taxes. After
the first emotion Guy reads it calmly, and is relieved that the
description attached to the proclamation is faulty in several
particulars.
“All right, Captain Guido! I’ve got the order!” says the young ensign,
clapping him on the shoulder. Then he continues: “Ah! you’re reading
about the First of the English,” and as they turn away together he runs
on vivaciously: “Three thousand Carolus guilders! That would be an
addition to my pay. Wouldn’t I like to get my hands on him! Three
thousand guilders! We’d have a banquet, wouldn’t we, Señor Capitan,
bought by the pirate’s head!”
Here the young Spaniard is cut short in his speech by the necessity of
giving the countersign and passing himself and his companion through
the gates, as the drawbridge is lowered. This is easily accomplished,
as a strong detachment of the garrison are under arms, and a portion of
the troops have just moved out to reinforce the Spanish guard in the
town and to give as much assistance as possible in protecting the
property of the government that is endangered upon the wharves and
quays of Antwerp by the flood, which is apparently still rising; the
town being still lighted up and the church bells still ringing out
their alarms.
“Here I must leave you,” says De Busaco, after they have passed the
drawbridge and the last line of sentries; “What inn will you lodge at?
the Red Lion? That has the best wine, I think.”
“No,” answers Guy shortly, for he has considered this point; “I shall
rest at the Painted House. It is more quiet.”
“Is it?” laughs the young man. “You don’t know what’s going to happen
there to-morrow. Par Dios! half the burghers of the city will be there
to see it, and half the officers of the garrison. You have not heard
the news? The great painter, the Raphael of the Netherlands, Frans
Floris, has accepted the wager of the ‘Six Drunkards of Brussels’ that
he will drink them all under the table at one sitting. Sapristi! from
stories about him, I believe he’ll do it. I shall come in to see it; I
pray I may meet you there!”
“Very well, come in and drink a flagon with me!” says Chester, thinking
that being seen with this Spanish officer will be additional passport
to him in this city of his enemies, with a price set on his head. At
this young De Busaco, for the two have chatted together quite jovially
as they have passed along, and have grown to be rather en comrade,