LYSBETH - H. RIDER HAGGARD (ebook e reader TXT) 📗

locked, since the socket into which the tongue went was empty. Doubtless, while he was on guard there, the porter did not think it necessary to go to the pains of using the great key that hung at his girdle.

The sergeant in charge of the victims opened a low and massive door, which was almost exactly opposite to that of the court-room, by shooting back a bolt and pushing it ajar. Evidently the place beyond at some time or other had been used as a prison, which accounted for the bolt on the outside. A few seconds later and they were locked into the torture-chamber of the Gevangenhuis, which was nothing more than a good-sized vault like that of a cellar, lit with lamps, for no light of day was suffered to enter here, and by a horrid little fire that flickered on the floor. The furnitures of the place may be guessed at; those that are curious about such things can satisfy themselves by examining the mediaeval prisons at The Hague and elsewhere. Let us pass them over as unfit even for description, although these terrors, of which we scarcely like to speak to-day, were very familiar to the sight of our ancestors of but three centuries ago.

Martin sat Foy down upon some terrible engine that roughly resembled a chair, and once more let his blue eyes wander about him. Amongst the various implements was one leaning against the wall, not very far from the door, which excited his especial interest. It was made for a dreadful purpose, but Martin reflected only that it seemed to be a stout bar of iron exactly suited to the breaking of anybody's head.

"Come," sneered the Professor, "undress that big gentleman while I make ready his little bed."

So the soldiers stripped Martin, nor did they assault him with sneers and insults, for they remembered the man's deeds of yesterday, and admired his strength and endurance, and the huge, muscular frame beneath their hands.

"Now he is ready if you are," said the sergeant.

The Professor rubbed his hands.

"Come on, my little man," he said.

Then Martin's nerve gave way, and he began to shiver and to shake.

"Oho!" laughed the Professor, "even in this stuffy place he is cold without his clothes; well we must warm him--we must warm him."

"Who would have thought that a big fellow, who can fight well, too, was such a coward at heart," said the sergeant of the guard to his companions. "After all, he will give no more play than a Rhine salmon."

Martin heard the words, and was seized with such an intense access of fear that he burst into a sweat all over his body.

"I can't bear it," he said, covering his eyes--which, however, he did not shut--with his fingers. "The rack was always my nightmare, and now I see why. I'll tell all I know."

"Oh! Martin, Martin," broke out Foy in a kind of wail, "I was doing my best to keep my own courage; I never dreamt that you would turn coward."

"Every well has a bottom, master," whined Martin, "and mine is the rack. Forgive me, but I can't abide the sight of it."

Foy stared at him open-mouthed. Could he believe his ears? And if Martin was so horribly scared, why did his eye glint in that peculiar way between his fingers? He had seen this light in it before, no later indeed than the last afternoon just as the soldiers tried to rush the stair. He gave up the problem as insoluble, but from that moment he watched very narrowly.

"Do you hear what this young lady says, Professor Baptiste?" said the sergeant. "She says" (imitating Martin's whine) "that she'll tell all she knows."

"Then the great cur might have saved me this trouble. Stop here with him. I must go and inform the Governor; those are my orders. No, no, you needn't give him clothes yet--that cloth is enough--one can never be sure."

Then he walked to the door and began to unlock it, as he went striking Martin in the face with the back of his hand, and saying,

"Take that, cur." Whereat, as Foy observed, the cowed prisoner perspired more profusely than before, and shrank away towards the wall.

God in Heaven! What had happened? The door of the torture den was opened, and suddenly, uttering the words, "/To me, Foy!/" Martin made a movement more quick than he could follow. Something flew up and fell with a fearful thud upon the executioner in the doorway. The guard sprang forward, and a great bar of iron, hurled with awful force into their faces, swept two of them broken to the ground. Another instant, and one arm was about his middle, the next they were outside the door, Martin standing straddle-legged over the body of the dead Professor Baptiste.

They were outside the door, but it was not shut, for now, on the other side of it six men were pushing with all their might and main. Martin dropped Foy. "Take his dagger and look out for the porter," he gasped as he hurled himself against the door.

In a second Foy had drawn the weapon out of the belt of the dead man, and wheeled round. The porter from the wicket was running on them sword in hand. Foy forgot that he was wounded--for the moment his leg seemed sound again. He doubled himself up and sprang at the man like a wild-cat, as one springs who has the rack behind him. There was no fight, yet in that thrust the skill which Martin had taught him so patiently served him well, for the sword of the Spaniard passed over his head, whereas Foy's long dagger went through the porter's throat. A glance showed Foy that from him there was nothing more to fear, so he turned.

"Help if you can," groaned Martin, as well he might, for with his naked shoulder wedged against one of the cross pieces of the door he was striving to press it to so that the bolt could be shot into its socket.

Heavens! what a struggle was that. Martin's blue eyes seemed to be starting from his head, his tongue lolled out and the muscles of his body rose in great knots. Foy hopped to him and pushed as well as he was able. It was little that he could do standing upon one leg only, for now the sinews of the other had given way again; still that little made the difference, for let the soldiers on the further side strive as they might, slowly, very slowly, the thick door quivered to its frame. Martin glanced at the bolt, for he could not speak, and with his left hand Foy slowly worked it forward. It was stiff with disuse, it caught upon the edge of the socket.

"Closer," he gasped.

Martin made an effort so fierce that it was hideous to behold, for beneath the pressure the blood trickled from his nostrils, but the door went in the sixteenth of an inch and the rusty bolt creaked home into its stone notch.

Martin stepped back, and for a moment stood swaying like a man about to fall. Then, recovering himself, he leapt at the sword Silence which hung upon the wall and passed its thong over his right wrist. Next he turned towards the door of the court-room.

"Where are you going?" asked Foy.

"To bid /him/ farewell," hissed Martin.

"You're mad," said Foy; "let's fly while we can. That door may give-- they are shouting."

"Perhaps you are right," answered Martin doubtfully. "Come. On to my back with you."

A few seconds later the two soldiers on guard outside the Gevangenhuis were amazed to see a huge, red-bearded man, naked save for a loin- cloth, and waving a great bare sword, who carried upon his back another man, rush straight at them with a roar. They never waited his onset; they were terrified and thought that he was a devil. This way and that they sprang, and the man with his burden passed between them over the little drawbridge down the street of the city, heading for the Morsch poort.

Finding their wits again the guards started in pursuit, but a voice from among the passers-by cried out:

"It is Martin, Red Martin, and Foy van Goorl, who escape from the Gevangenhuis," and instantly a stone flew towards the soldiers.

Then, bearing in mind the fate of their comrades on the yesterday, those men scuttled back to the friendly shelter of the prison gate. When at length Ramiro, growing weary of waiting, came out from an inner chamber beyond the court-room, where he had been writing, to find the Professor and the porter dead in the passage, and the yelling guard locked in his own torture-chamber, why, then those sentries declared that they had seen nothing at all of prisoners clothed or naked.

For a while he believed them, and mighty was the hunt from the clock- tower of the Gevangenhuis down to the lowest stone of its cellars, yes, and even in the waters of the moat. But when the Governor found out the truth it went very ill with those soldiers, and still worse with the guard from whom Martin had escaped in the torture-room like an eel out of the hand of a fish-wife. For by this time Ramiro's temper was roused, and he began to think that he had done ill to return to Leyden.

But he had still a card to play. In a certain room in the Gevangenhuis sat another victim. Compared to the dreadful dens where Foy and Martin had been confined this was quite a pleasant chamber upon the first floor, being reserved, indeed, for political prisoners of rank, or officers captured upon the field who were held to ransom. Thus it had a real window, secured, however, by a double set of iron bars, which overlooked the little inner courtyard and the gaol kitchen. Also it was furnished after a fashion, and was more or less clean. This prisoner was none other than Dirk van Goorl, who had been neatly captured as he returned towards his house after making certain arrangements for the flight of his family, and hurried away to the gaol. On that morning Dirk also had been put upon his trial before the squeaky-voiced and agitated ex-tailor. He also had been condemned to death, the method of his end, as in the case of Foy and Martin, being left in the hands of the Governor. Then they led him back to his room, and shot the bolts upon him there.

Some hours later a man entered his cell, to the door of which he was escorted by soldiers, bringing him food and drink. He was one of the cooks and, as it chanced, a talkative fellow.

"What passes in this prison, friend?" asked Dirk looking up, "that I see people running to and fro across the courtyard, and hear trampling and shouts in the passages? Is the Prince of Orange coming, perchance, to set all of us poor prisoners free?" and he smiled sadly.

"Umph!" grunted the man, "we have prisoners here who set themselves free without waiting for any Prince of Orange. Magicians they must be --magicians and nothing less."

Dirk's interest was excited. Putting his hand into his pocket he drew out a gold piece, which he gave to the man.

"Friend," he said, "you cook my food, do you not, and look after me? Well, I have a few of these about me, and if you prove kind they may as well find their way into your pocket as into those of your betters. Do you understand?"

The man nodded, took the money, and thanked him.

"Now," went on Dirk, "while you clean the room, tell me about this escape, for small things amuse those who hear no tidings."

"Well, Mynheer," answered the man, "this is the tale of it so far as I can gather. Yesterday they captured two fellows, heretics I suppose, who made a good fight and did them much damage in a warehouse. I don't know