CHAPTER XII
THE SUMMONS
"Wretched man!" said Lysbeth wringing her hands, and with a shudder
shaking the dagger from her lap as though it had been a serpent, "you
have killed my son."
"Your pardon, mistress," replied Martin placidly; "but that is not so.
The master ordered me to remove the Heer Adrian, whereon the Heer
Adrian very naturally tried to stab me. But I, having been accustomed
to such things in my youth," and he looked deprecatingly towards the
Pastor Arentz, "struck the Heer Adrian upon the bone of his elbow,
causing the knife to jump from his hand, for had I not done so I
should have been dead and unable to execute the commands of my master.
Then I took the Heer Adrian by the shoulder, gently as I might, and
walked away with him, whereupon he died of rage, for which I am very
sorry but not to blame."
"You are right, man," said Lysbeth, "it is you who are to blame, Dirk;
yes, you have murdered my son. Oh! never mind what he said, his temper
was always fierce, and who pays any heed to the talk of a man in a mad
passion?"
"Why did you let your brother be thus treated, cousin Foy?" broke in
Elsa quivering with indignation. "It was cowardly of you to stand
still and see that great red creature crush the life out of him when
you know well that it was because of your taunts that he lost his
temper and said things that he did not mean, as I do myself sometimes.
No, I will never speak to you again--and only this afternoon he saved
me from the robbers!" and she burst into weeping.
"Peace, peace! this is no time for angry words," said the Pastor
Arentz, pushing his way through the group of bewildered men and
overwrought women. "He can scarcely be dead; let me look at him, I am
something of a doctor," and he knelt by the senseless and bleeding
Adrian to examine him.
"Take comfort, Vrouw van Goorl," he said presently, "your son is not
dead, for his heart beats, nor has his friend Martin injured him in
any way by the exercise of his strength, but I think that in his fury
he has burst a blood-vessel, for he bleeds fast. My counsel is that he
should be put to bed and his head cooled with cold water till the
surgeon can be fetched to treat him. Lift him in your arms, Martin."
So Martin carried Adrian, not to the street, but to his bed, while
Foy, glad of an excuse to escape the undeserved reproaches of Elsa and
the painful sight of his mother's grief, went to seek the physician.
In due course he returned with him, and, to the great relief of all of
them, the learned man announced that, notwithstanding the blood which
he had lost, he did not think that Adrian would die, though, at the
best, he must keep his bed for some weeks, have skilful nursing and be
humoured in all things.
While his wife Lysbeth and Elsa were attending to Adrian, Dirk and his
son, Foy, for the Pastor Arentz had gone, sat upstairs talking in the
sitting-room, that same balconied chamber in which once Dirk had been
refused while Montalvo hid behind the curtain. Dirk was much
disturbed, for when his wrath had passed he was a tender-hearted man,
and his stepson's plight distressed him greatly. Now he was justifying
himself to Foy, or, rather, to his own conscience.
"A man who could speak so of his own mother, was not fit to stop in
the same house with her," he said; "moreover, you heard his words
about the pastor. I tell you, son, I am afraid of this Adrian."
"Unless that bleeding from his mouth stops soon you will not have
cause to fear him much longer," replied Foy sadly, "but if you want my
opinion about the business, father, why here it is--I think that you
have made too much of a small matter. Adrian is--Adrian; he is not one
of us, and he should not be judged as though he were. You cannot
imagine me flying into a fury because the women forgot to set my place
at table, or trying to stab Martin and bursting a blood vessel because
you told him to lead me out of the room. No, I should know better, for
what is the use of any ordinary man attempting to struggle against
Martin? He might as well try to argue with the Inquisition. But then I
am I, and Adrian is Adrian."
"But the words he used, son. Remember the words."
"Yes, and if I had spoken them they would have meant a great deal, but
in Adrian's mouth I think no more of them than if they came from some
angry woman. Why, he is always sulking, or taking offence, or flying
into rages over something or other, and when he is like that it all
means--just nothing except that he wants to use fine talk and show off
and play the Don over us. He did not really mean to lie to me when he
said that I had not seen him talking to Black Meg, he only meant to
contradict, or perhaps to hide something up. As a matter of fact, if
you want to know the truth, I believe that the old witch took notes
for him to some young lady, and that Hague Simon supplied him with
rats for his hawks."
"Yes, Foy, that may be so, but how about his talk of the pastor? It
makes me suspicious, son. You know the times we live in, and if he
should go that way--remember it is in his blood--the lives of every
one of us are in his hand. The father tried to burn me once, and I do
not wish the child to finish the work."
"Then when they come out of his hand, you are at liberty to cut off
mine," answered Foy hotly. "I have been brought up with Adrian, and I
know what he is; he is vain and pompous, and every time he looks at
you and me he thanks God that he was not made like that. Also he has
failings and vices, and he is lazy, being too fine a gentleman to work
like a common Flemish burgher, and all the rest of it. But, father, he
has a good heart, and if any man outside this house were to tell me
that Adrian is capable of playing the traitor and bringing his own
family to the scaffold, well, I would make him swallow his words, or
try to, that is all. As regards what he said about my mother's first
marriage"--and Foy hung his head--"of course it is a subject on which
I have no right to talk, but, father, speaking as one man to another--
he /is/ sadly placed and innocent, whatever others may have been, and
I don't wonder that he feels sore about the story."
As he spoke the door opened and Lysbeth entered.
"How goes it with Adrian, wife?" Dirk asked hastily.
"Better, husband, thank God, though the doctor stays with him for this
night. He has lost much blood, and at the best must lie long abed;
above all none must cross his mood or use him roughly," and she looked
at her husband with meaning.
"Peace, wife," Dirk answered with irritation. "Foy here has just read
me one lecture upon my dealings with your son, and I am in no mood to
listen to another. I served the man as he deserved, neither less nor
more, and if he chose to go mad and vomit blood, why it is no fault of
mine. You should have brought him up to a soberer habit."
"Adrian is not as other men are, and ought not to be measured by the
same rule," said Lysbeth, almost repeating Foy's words.
"So I have been told before, wife, though I, who have but one standard
of right and wrong, find the saying hard. But so be it. Doubtless the
rule for Adrian is that which should be used to measure angels--or
Spaniards, and not one suited to us poor Hollanders who do our work,
pay our debts, and don't draw knives on unarmed men!"
"Have you read the letter from your cousin Brant?" asked Lysbeth,
changing the subject.
"No," answered Dirk, "what with daggers, swoonings, and scoldings it
slipped my mind," and drawing the paper from his tunic he cut the silk
and broke the seals. "I had forgotten," he went on, looking at the
sheets of words interspersed with meaningless figures; "it is in our
private cypher, as Elsa said, or at least most of it is. Get the key
from my desk, son, and let us set to work, for our task is likely to
be long."
Foy obeyed, returning presently with an old Testament of a very scarce
edition. With the help of this book and an added vocabulary by slow
degrees they deciphered the long epistle, Foy writing it down sentence
by sentence as they learned their significance. When at length the
task was finished, which was not till well after midnight, Dirk read
the translation aloud to Lysbeth and his son. It ran thus:
"Well-beloved cousin and old friend, you will be astonished to see
my dear child Elsa, who brings you this paper sewn in her saddle,
where I trust none will seek it, and wonder why she comes to you
without warning. I will tell you.
"You know that here the axe and the stake are very busy, for at The
Hague the devil walks loose; yes, he is the master in this land.
Well, although the blow has not yet fallen on me, since for a
while I have bought off the informers, hour by hour the sword
hangs over my head, nor can I escape it in the end. That I am
suspected of the New Faith is not my real crime. You can guess it.
Cousin, they desire my wealth. Now I have sworn that no Spaniard
shall have this, no, not if I must sink it in the sea to save it
from them, since it has been heaped up to another end. Yet they
desire it sorely, and spies are about my path and about my bed.
Worst among them all, and at the head of them, is a certain
Ramiro, a one-eyed man, but lately come from Spain, it is said as
an agent of the Inquisition, whose manners are those of a person
who was once a gentleman, and who seems to know this country well.
This fellow has approached me, offering if I will give him three-
parts of my wealth to secure my escape with the rest, and I have
told him that I will consider the offer. For this reason only I
have a little respite, since he desires that my money should go
into his pocket and not into that of the Government. But, by the
help of God, neither of them shall touch it.
"See you, Dirk, the treasure is not here in the house as they
think. It is hidden, but in a spot where it cannot stay.
"Therefore, if you love me, and hold that I have been a good friend
to you, send your son Foy with one other strong and trusted man--
your Frisian servant, Martin, if possible--on the morrow after you
receive this. When night falls he should have been in The Hague
some hours, and have refreshed himself, but let him not come near
me or my house. Half an hour after sunset let him, followed by his
serving man, walk up and down the right side of the Broad Street
in The Hague, as though seeking adventures, till a girl, also
followed by a servant, pushes up against him as if on purpose, and
whispers in his ear, 'Are you from Leyden, sweetheart?' Then he
must say 'Yes,' and accompany her till he comes to a place where
he will learn what must be done and how to do it. Above all, he
must follow no woman who may accost him and does not repeat these
words. The girl who addresses him will be short, dark, pretty, and
gaily dressed, with a red bow upon her left shoulder. But let him
not be misled by look or dress unless she speaks the words.
"If he reaches England or Leyden safely with the stuff let him hide
it for the present, friend, till your heart tells you it is
needed. I care not where, nor do I wish to know, for if I knew,
flesh and blood are weak, and I might give up the secret when they
stretch me on the rack.
"Already you have my will sent to you three months ago, and
enclosed in it a list of goods. Open it now and you will find that
under it my possessions pass to you and your heirs absolutely as
my executors, for such especial trusts and purposes as are set out
therein. Elsa has been ailing, and it is known that the leech has
ordered her a change. Therefore her journey to Leyden will excite
no wonder, neither, or so I hope, will even Ramiro guess that I
should enclose a letter such as this in so frail a casket. Still,
there is danger, for spies are many, but having no choice, and my
need being urgent, I must take the risks. If the paper is seized
they cannot read it, for they will never make out the cypher,
since, even did they know of them, no copies of our books can be
found in Holland. Moreover, were this writing all plain Dutch or
Spanish, it tells nothing of the whereabouts of the treasure, of
its destination, or of the purpose to which it is dedicate.
Lastly, should any Spaniard chance to find that wealth, it will
vanish, and, mayhap, he with it."
"What can he mean by that?" interrupted Foy.
"I know not," answered Dirk. "My cousin Brant is not a person who
speaks at random, so perhaps we have misinterpreted the passage." Then
he went on reading:
"Now I have done with the pelf, which must take its chance. Only, I
pray you--I trust it to your honour and to your love of an old
friend to bury it, burn it, cast it to the four winds of heaven
before you suffer a Spaniard to touch a gem or a piece of gold.
"I send to you to-day Elsa, my only child. You will know my reason.
She will be safer with you in Leyden than here at The Hague, since
if they take me they might take her also. The priests and their
tools do not spare the young, especially if their rights stand
between them and money. Also she knows little of my desperate
strait; she is ignorant even of the contents of this letter, and I
do not wish that she should share these troubles. I am a doomed
man, and she loves me, poor child. One day she will hear that it
is over, and that will be sad for her, but it would be worse if
she knew all from the beginning. When I bid her good-bye
to-morrow, it will be for the last time--God give me strength to
bear the blow.
"You are her guardian, as you deal with her--nay, I must be crazy
with my troubles, for none other would think it needful to remind
Dirk van Goorl or his son of their duty to the dead. Farewell,
friend and cousin. God guard you and yours in these dreadful times
with which it has pleased Him to visit us for a season, that
through us perhaps this country and the whole world may be
redeemed from priestcraft and tyranny. Greet your honoured wife,
Lysbeth, from me; also your son Foy, who used to be a merry lad,
and whom I hope to see again within a night or two, although it
may be fated that we shall not meet. My blessing on him,
especially if he prove faithful in all these things. May the
Almighty who guards us give us a happy meeting in the hereafter
which is at hand. Pray for me. Farewell, farewell.--Hendrik Brant.
"P.S. I beg the dame Lysbeth to see that Elsa wears woollen when
the weather turns damp or cold, since her chest is somewhat
delicate. This was my wife's last charge, and I pass it on to you.
As regards her marriage, should she live, I leave that to your
judgment with this command only, that her inclination shall not be
forced, beyond what is right and proper. When I am dead, kiss her
for me, and tell her that I loved her beyond any creature now
living on the earth, and that wherever I am from day to day I wait
to welcome her, as I shall wait to welcome you and yours, Dirk van
Goorl. In case these presents miscarry, I will send duplicates of
them, also in mixed cypher, whenever chance may offer."
Having finished reading the translation of this cypher document, Dirk
bent his head while he folded it, not wishing that his face should be
seen. Foy also turned aside to hide the tears which gathered in his
eyes, while Lysbeth wept openly.
"A sad letter and sad times!" said Dirk at length.
"Poor Elsa," muttered Foy, then added, with a return of hopefulness,
"perhaps he is mistaken, he may escape after all."
Lysbeth shook her head as she answered,
"Hendrik Brant is not the man to write like that if there was any hope
for him, nor would he part with his daughter unless he knew that the
end must be near at hand."
"Why, then, does he not fly?" asked Foy.
"Because the moment he stirred the Inquisition would pounce upon him,
as a cat pounces upon a mouse that tries to run from its corner,"
replied his father. "While the mouse sits still the cat sits also and
purrs; when it moves----"
There was a silence in which Dirk, having fetched the will of Hendrik
Brant from a safe hiding place, where it had lain since it reached his
hands some months before, opened the seals and read it aloud.
It proved to be a very short document, under the terms of which Dirk
van Goorl and his heirs inherited all the property, real and personal,
of Hendrik Brant, upon trust, (1) to make such ample provision for his
daughter Elsa as might be needful or expedient; (2) to apply the
remainder of the money "for the defence of our country, the freedom of
religious Faith, and the destruction of the Spaniards in such fashion
and at such time or times as God should reveal to them, which," added
the will, "assuredly He will do."
Enclosed in this document was an inventory of the property that
constituted the treasure. At the head came an almost endless list of
jewels, all of them carefully scheduled. These were the first three
items:
"Item: The necklace of great pearls that I exchanged with the Emperor
Charles when he took a love for sapphires, enclosed in a watertight
copper box.
"Item: A coronet and stomacher of rubies mounted in my own gold work,
the best that ever I did, which three queens have coveted, and none
was rich enough to buy.
"Item: The great emerald that my father left me, the biggest known,
having magic signs of ancients engraved upon the back of it, and
enclosed in a chased case of gold."
Then came other long lists of precious stones, too numerous to
mention, but of less individual value, and after them this entry:
"Item: Four casks filled with gold coin (I know not the exact weight
or number)."
At the bottom of this schedule was written, "A very great treasure,
the greatest of all the Netherlands, a fruit of three generations of
honest trading and saving, converted by me for the most part into
jewels, that it may be easier to move. This is the prayer of me,
Hendrik Brant, who owns it for his life; that this gold may prove the
earthly doom of any Spaniard who tries to steal it, and as I write it
comes into my mind that God will grant this my petition. Amen. Amen.
Amen! So say I, Hendrik Brant, who stand at the Gate of Death."
All of this inventory Dirk read aloud, and when he had finished
Lysbeth gasped with amazement.
"Surely," she said, "this little cousin of ours is richer than many
princes. Yes, with such a dowry princes would be glad to take her in
marriage."
"The fortune is large enough," answered Dirk. "But, oh! what a burden
has Hendrik Brant laid upon our backs, for under this will the wealth
is left, not straight to the lawful heiress, Elsa, but to me and my
heirs on the trusts started, and they are heavy. Look you, wife, the
Spaniards know of this vast hoard, and the priests know of it, and no
stone on earth or hell will they leave unturned to win that money. I
say that, for his own sake, my cousin Hendrik would have done better
to accept the offer of the Spanish thief Ramiro and give him three-
fourths and escape to England with the rest. But that is not his
nature, who was ever stubborn, and who would die ten times over rather
than enrich the men he hates. Moreover, he, who is no miser, has saved
this fortune that the bulk of it may be spent for his country in the
hour of her need, and alas! of that need we are made the judges, since
he is called away. Wife, I foresee that these gems and gold will breed
bloodshed and misery to all our house. But the trust is laid upon us
and it must be borne. Foy, to-morrow at dawn you and Martin will start
for The Hague to carry out the command of your cousin Brant."
"Why should my son's life be risked on this mad errand?" asked
Lysbeth.
"Because it is a duty, mother," answered Foy cheerfully, although he
tried to look depressed. He was young and enterprising; moreover, the
adventure promised to be full of novelty.
In spite of himself Dirk smiled and bade him summon Martin.
A minute later Foy was in the great man's den and kicking at his
prostrate form. "Wake up, you snoring bull," he said, "awake!"
Martin sat up, his red beard showing like a fire in the shine of the
taper. "What is it now, Master Foy?" he asked yawning. "Are they after
us about those two dead soldiers?"
"No, you sleepy lump, it's treasure."
"I don't care about treasure," replied Martin, indifferently.
"It's Spaniards."
"That sounds better," said Martin, shutting his mouth. "Tell me about
it, Master Foy, while I pull on my jerkin."
So Foy told him as much as he could in two minutes.
"Yes, it sounds well," commented Martin, critically. "If I know
anything of those Spaniards, we shan't get back to Leyden without
something happening. But I don't like that bit about the women; as
likely as not they will spoil everything."
Then he accompanied Foy to the upper room, and there received his
instructions from Dirk with a solemn and unmoved countenance.
"Are you listening?" asked Dirk, sharply. "Do you understand?"
"I think so, master," replied Martin. "Hear;" and he repeated sentence
by sentence every word that had fallen from Dirk's lips, for when he
chose to use it Martin's memory was good. "One or two questions,
master," he said. "This stuff must be brought through at all hazards?"
"At all hazards?" answered Dirk.
"And if we cannot bring it through, it must be hidden in the best way
possible?"
"Yes."
"And if people should try to interfere with us, I understand that we
must fight?"
"Of course."
"And if in the fighting we chance to kill anybody I shall not be
reproached and called a murderer by the pastor or others?"
"I think not," replied Dirk.
"And if anything should happen to my young master here, his blood will
not be laid upon my head?"
Lysbeth groaned. Then she stood up and spoke.
"Martin, why do you ask such foolish questions? Your peril my son must
share, and if harm should come to him as may chance, we shall know
well that it is no fault of yours. You are not a coward or a traitor,
Martin."
"Well, I think not, mistress, at least not often; but you see here are
two duties: the first, to get this money through, the second, to
protect the Heer Foy. I wish to know which of these is the more
important."
It was Dirk who answered.
"You go to carry out the wishes of my cousin Brant; they must be
attended to before anything else."
"Very good," replied Martin; "you quite understand, Heer Foy?"
"Oh! perfectly," replied that young man, grinning.
"Then go to bed for an hour or two, as you may have to keep awake
to-morrow night; I will call you at dawn. Your servant, master and
mistress, I hope to report myself to you within sixty hours, but if I
do not come within eighty, or let us say a hundred, it may be well to
make inquiries," and he shuffled back to his den.
Youth sleeps well whatever may be behind or before it, and it was not
until Martin had called to him thrice next morning that Foy opened his
eyes in the grey light, and, remembering, sprang from his bed.
"There's no hurry," said Martin, "but it will be as well to get out of
Leyden before many people are about."
As he spoke Lysbeth entered the room fully dressed, for she had not
slept that night, carrying in her hand a little leathern bag.
"How is Adrian, mother?" asked Foy, as she stooped down to kiss him.
"He sleeps, and the doctor, who is still with him, says that he does
well," she answered. "But see here, Foy, you are about to start upon
your first adventure, and this is my present to you--this and my
blessing." Then she untied the neck of the bag and poured from it
something that lay upon the table in a shining heap no larger than
Martin's fist. Foy took hold of the thing and held it up, whereon the
little heap stretched itself out marvellously, till it was as large
indeed as the body garment of a man.
"Steel shirt!" exclaimed Martin, nodding his head in approval, and
adding, "good wear for those who mix with Spaniards."
"Yes," said Lysbeth, "my father brought this from the East on one of
his voyages. I remember he told me that he paid for it its weight in
gold and silver, and that even then it was sold to him only by the
special favour of the king of that country. The shirt, they said, was
ancient, and of such work as cannot now be made. It had been worn from
father to son in one family for three hundred years, but no man that
wore it ever died by body-cut or thrust, since sword or dagger cannot
pierce that steel. At least, son, this is the story, and, strangely
enough, when I lost all the rest of my heritage--" and she sighed,
"this shirt was left to me, for it lay in its bag in the old oak
chest, and none noticed it or thought it worth the taking. So make the
most of it, Foy; it is all that remains of your grandfather's fortune,
since this house is now your father's."
Beyond kissing his mother in thanks, Foy made no answer; he was too
much engaged in examining the wonders of the shirt, which as a worker
in metals he could well appreciate. But Martin said again:
"Better than money, much better than money. God knew that and made
them leave the mail."
"I never saw the like of it," broke in Foy; "look, it runs together
like quicksilver and is light as leather. See, too, it has stood sword
and dagger stroke before to-day," and holding it in a sunbeam they
perceived in many directions faint lines and spots upon the links
caused in past years by the cutting edge of swords and the points of
daggers. Yet never a one of those links was severed or broken.
"I pray that it may stand them again if your body be inside of it,"
said Lysbeth. "Yet, son, remember always that there is One who can
guard you better than any human mail however perfect," and she left
the room.
Then Foy drew on the coat over his woollen jersey, and it fitted him
well, though not so well as in after years, when he had grown thicker.
Indeed, when his linen shirt and his doublet were over it none could
have guessed that he was clothed in armour of proof.
"It isn't fair, Martin," he said, "that I should be wrapped in steel
and you in nothing."
Martin smiled. "Do you take me for a fool, master," he said, "who have
seen some fighting in my day, private and public? Look here," and,
opening his leathern jerkin, he showed that he was clothed beneath in
a strange garment of thick but supple hide.
"Bullskin," said Martin, "tanned as we know how up in Friesland. Not
as good as yours, but will turn most cuts or arrows. I sat up last
night making one for you, it was almost finished before, but the steel
is cooler and better for those who can afford it. Come, let us go and
eat; we should be at the gates at eight when they open."
