Lysbeth, a Tale of the Dutch by H. Rider Haggard (red white royal blue TXT) 📗

at the ends of his moustache and cursing his fortune, till presently he felt a hand upon his shoulder.

“Who the devil is that?” he exclaimed, wheeling round to find himself face to face with the draped and majestic form of the Master.

“The devil! That is an ill word upon young lips, my friend,” said the sage, shaking his head in reproof.

“I daresay,” replied Adrian, “but what the—I mean how did you get here? I never heard the door open.”

“How did I get here? Well, now you mention it, I wonder how I did. The door—what have I to do with doors?”

“I am sure I don’t know,” answered Adrian shortly, “but most people find them useful.”

“Enough of such material talk,” interrupted the sage with sternness. “Your spirit cried to mine, and I am here, let that suffice.”

“I suppose that Black Meg fetched you,” went on Adrian, sticking to his point, for the philtre fiasco had made him suspicious.

“Verily, friend Adrian, you can suppose what you will; and now, as I have little time to spare, be so good as to set out the matter. Nay, what need, I know all, for have I not—is this the case? You administered the philtre to the maid and neglected my instructions to offer yourself to her at once. Another saw it and took advantage of the magic draught. While the spell was on her he proposed, he was accepted—yes, your brother Foy. Oh! fool, careless fool, what else did you expect?”

“At any rate I didn’t expect that,” replied Adrian in a fury. “And now, if you have all the power you pretend, tell me what I am to do.”

Something glinted ominously beneath the hood, it was the sage’s one eye.

“Young friend,” he said, “your manner is brusque, yes, even rude. But I understand and I forgive. Come, we will take counsel together. Tell me what has happened.”

Adrian told him with much emphasis, and the recital of his adventures seemed to move the Master deeply, at any rate he turned away, hiding his face in his hands, while his back trembled with the intensity of his feelings.

“The matter is grave,” he said solemnly, when at length the lovesick and angry swain had finished. “There is but one thing to be done. Your treacherous rival—oh! what fraud and deceit are hidden beneath that homely countenance—has been well advised, by whom I know not, though I suspect one, a certain practitioner of the Black Magic, named Arentz——”

“Ah!” ejaculated Adrian.

“I see you know the man. Beware of him. He is, indeed, a wolf in sheep’s clothing, who wraps his devilish incantations in a cloak of seditious doctrine. Well, I have thwarted him before, for can Darkness stand before Light? and, by the help of those who aid me, I may thwart him again. Now, attend and answer my questions clearly, slowly and truthfully. If the girl is to be saved to you, mark this, young friend, your cunning rival must be removed from Leyden for a while until the charm works out its power.”

“You don’t mean—” said Adrian, and stopped.

“No, no. I mean the man no harm. I mean only that he must take a journey, which he will do fast enough, when he learns that his witchcrafts and other crimes are known. Now answer, or make an end, for I have more business to attend to than the love-makings of a foo—of a headstrong youth. First: What you have told me of the attendances of Dirk van Goorl, your stepfather, and others of his household, namely, Red Martin and your half-brother Foy, at the tabernacle of your enemy, the wizard Arentz, is true, is it not?”

“Yes,” answered Adrian, “but I do not see what that has to do with the matter.”

“Silence!” thundered the Master. Then he paused a while, and Adrian seemed to hear certain strange squeakings proceeding from the walls. The sage remained lost in thought until the squeakings ceased. Again he spoke:

“What you have told me of the part played by the said Foy and the said Martin as to their sailing away with the treasure of the dead heretic, Hendrik Brant, and of the murders committed by them in the course of its hiding in the Haarlemer Meer, is true, is it not?”

“Of course it is,” answered Adrian, “but——”

“Silence!” again thundered the sage, “or by my Lord Zoroaster, I throw up the case.”

Adrian collapsed, and there was another pause.

“You believe,” he went on again, “that the said Foy and the said Dirk van Goorl, together with the said Martin, are making preparations to abduct that innocent and unhappy maid, the heiress, Elsa Brant, for evil purposes of their own?”

“I never told you so,” said Adrian, “but I think it is a fact; at least there is a lot of packing going on.”

“You never told me! Do you not understand that there is no need for you to tell me anything?”

“Then, in the name of your Lord Zoroaster, why do you ask?” exclaimed the exasperated Adrian.

“That you will know presently,” he answered musing.

Once more Adrian heard the strange squeaking as of young and hungry rats.

“I think that I will not take up your time any more,” he said, growing thoroughly alarmed, for really the proceedings were a little odd, and he rose to go.

The Master made no answer, only, which was curious conduct for a sage, he began to whistle a tune.

“By your leave,” said Adrian, for the magician’s back was against the door. “I have business——”

“And so have I,” replied the sage, and went on whistling.

Then suddenly the side of one of the walls seemed to fall out, and through the opening emerged a man wrapped in a priest’s robe, and after him, Hague Simon, Black Meg, and another particularly evil-looking fellow.

“Got it all down?” asked the Master in an easy, everyday kind of voice.

The monk bowed, and producing several folios of manuscript, laid them on the table together with an ink-horn and a pen.

“Very well. And now, my young friend, be so good as to sign there, at the foot of the writing.”

“Sign what?” gasped Adrian.

“Explain to him,” said the Master. “He is quite right; a man should know what he puts his name to.”

Then the monk spoke in a low, business-like voice.

“This is the information of Adrian, called Van Goorl, as taken down from his own lips, wherein, among other things, he deposes to certain crimes of heresy, murder of the king’s subjects, an attempted escape from the king’s dominions, committed by his stepfather, Dirk van Goorl, his half-brother, Foy van Goorl, and their servant, a Frisian known as Red Martin. Shall I read the papers? It will take some time.”

“If the witness so desires,” said the Master.

“What is that document for?” whispered Adrian in a hoarse voice.

“To persuade your treacherous rival, Foy van Goorl, that it will be desirable in the interests of his health that he should retire from Leyden for a while,” sneered his late mentor, while the Butcher and Black Meg sniggered audibly. Only the monk stood silent, like a black watching fate.

“I’ll not sign!” shouted Adrian. “I have been tricked! There is treachery!” and he bent forward to spring for the door.

Ramiro made a sign, and in another instant the Butcher’s fat hands were about Adrian’s throat, and his thick thumbs were digging viciously at the victim’s windpipe. Still Adrian kicked and struggled, whereon, at a second sign, the villainous-looking man drew a great knife, and, coming up to him, pricked him gently on the nose.

Then Ramiro spoke to him very suavely and quietly.

“Young friend,” he said, “where is that faith in me which you promised, and why, when I wish you to sign this quite harmless writing, do you so violently refuse?”

“Because I won’t betray my stepfather and brother,” gasped Adrian. “I know why you want my signature,” and he looked at the man in a priest’s robe.

“You won’t betray them,” sneered Ramiro. “Why, you young fool, you have already betrayed them fifty times over, and what is more, which you don’t seem to remember, you have betrayed yourself. Now look here. If you choose to sign that paper, or if you don’t choose, makes little difference to me, for, dear pupil, I would almost as soon have your evidence by word of mouth.”

“I may be a fool,” said Adrian, turning sullen; “yes, I see now that I have been a fool to trust in you and your sham arts, but I am not fool enough to give evidence against my own people in any of your courts. What I have said I said never thinking that it would do them harm.”

“Not caring whether it would do them harm or no,” corrected Ramiro, “as you had your own object to gain—the young lady whom, by the way, you were quite ready to doctor with a love medicine.”

“Because love blinded me,” said Adrian loftily.

Ramiro put his hand upon his shoulder and shook him slightly as he answered:

“And has it not struck you, you vain puppy, that other things may blind you also—hot irons, for instance?”

“What do you mean?” gasped Adrian.

“I mean that the rack is a wonderful persuader. Oh! it makes the most silent talk and the most solemn sing. Now take your choice. Will you sign or will you go to the torture chamber?”

“What right have you to question me?” asked Adrian, striving to build up his tottering courage with bold words.

“Just this right—that I to whom you speak am the Captain and Governor of the Gevangenhuis in this town, an official who has certain powers.”

Adrian turned pale but said nothing.

“Our young friend has gone to sleep,” remarked Ramiro, reflectively. “Here you, Simon, twist his arm a little. No, not the right arm; he may want that to sign with, which will be awkward if it is out of joint: the other.”

With an ugly grin the Butcher, taking his fingers from Adrian’s throat, gripped his captive’s left wrist, and very slowly and deliberately began to screw it round.

Adrian groaned.

“Painful, isn’t it?” said Ramiro. “Well, I have no more time to waste, break his arm.”

Then Adrian gave in, for he was not fitted to bear torture; his imagination was too lively.

“I will sign,” he whispered, the perspiration pouring from his pale face.

“Are you quite sure you do it willingly?” queried his tormentor, adding, “another little half-turn, please, Simon; and you, Mistress Meg, if he begins to faint, just prick him in the thigh with your knife.”

“Yes, yes,” groaned Adrian.

“Very good. Now here is the pen. Sign.”

So Adrian signed.

“I congratulate you upon your discretion, pupil,” remarked Ramiro, as he scattered sand on the writing and pocketed the paper. “To-day you have learned a very useful lesson which life teaches to most of us, namely, that the inevitable must rule our little fancies. Let us see; I think that by now the soldiers will have executed their task, so, as you have done what I wished, you can go, for I shall know where to find you if I want you. But, if you will take my advice, which I offer as that of one friend to another, you will hold your tongue about the events of this afternoon. Unless you speak of it, nobody need ever know that you have furnished certain useful information, for in the Gevangenhuis the names of witnesses are not mentioned to the accused. Otherwise you may possibly come into trouble with your heretical friends and relatives. Good afternoon. Brother, be so good as to open the door for this gentleman.”

A minute later Adrian found himself in the street, towards which he had been helped by the kick of a heavy boot. His first impulse was to run, and he ran for half a mile or more without stopping, till at length he paused breathless in a deserted street, and, leaning against the wheel of an unharnessed waggon, tried to think. Think! How could he think? His mind was one mad whirl; rage, shame, disappointed passion, all boiled in it like bones in a knacker’s cauldron. He had been fooled, he had lost his love, and, oh! infamy, he had betrayed his kindred to the hell of the Inquisition. They would be tortured and burnt. Yes, even his mother and Elsa might be burned, since those devils respected neither age nor sex, and their blood would be upon his head. It was true that he had signed under compulsion, but who would believe that, for had they not taken down his talk word for word? For once Adrian saw himself as he was; the cloaks of vanity and self-love were stripped from his soul, and he knew what others would think when they came to learn the story. He thought of suicide; there was water, here was steel, the deed would not be difficult.