BOOK THE THIRD
THE HARVESTING
CHAPTER XXIII
FATHER AND SON
When Adrian left his mother's house in the Bree Straat he wandered
away at hazard, for so utterly miserable was he that he could form no
plans as to what he was to do or whither he should go. Presently he
found himself at the foot of that great mound which in Leyden is still
known as the Burg, a strange place with a circular wall upon the top
of it, said to have been constructed by the Romans. Up this mound he
climbed, and throwing himself upon the grass under an oak which grew
in one of the little recesses of those ancient walls, he buried his
face in his hands and tried to think.
Think! How could he think? Whenever he shut his eyes there arose
before them a vision of his mother's face, a face so fearful in its
awesome and unnatural calm that vaguely he wondered how he, the
outcast son, upon whom it had been turned like the stare of the
Medusa's head, withering his very soul, could have seen it and still
live. Why did he live? Why was he not dead, he who had a sword at his
side? Was it because of his innocence? He was not guilty of this
dreadful crime. He had never intended to hand over Dirk van Goorl and
Foy and Martin to the Inquisition. He had only talked about them to a
man whom he believed to be a professor of judicial astrology, and who
said that he could compound draughts which would bend the wills of
women. Could he help it if this fellow was really an officer of the
Blood Council? Of course not. But, oh! why had he talked so much? Oh!
why had he signed that paper, why did he not let them kill him first?
He had signed, and explain as he would, he could never look an honest
man in the face again, and less still a woman, if she knew the truth.
So he was not still alive because he was innocent, since for all the
good that this very doubtful innocence of his was likely to be even to
his own conscience, he might almost as well have been guilty. Nor was
he alive because he feared to die. He did fear to die horribly, but to
the young and impressionable, at any rate, there are situations in
which death seems the lesser of two evils. That situation had been
well-nigh reached by him last night when he set the hilt of his sword
against the floor and shrank back at the prick of its point. To-day it
was overpast.
No, he lived on because before he died he had a hate to satisfy, a
revenge to work. He would kill this dog, Ramiro, who had tricked him
with his crystal gazing and his talk of friendship, who had frightened
him with the threat of death until he became like some poor girl and
for fear signed away his honour--oh, Heaven! for very fear, he who
prided himself upon his noble Spanish blood, the blood of warriors--
this treacherous dog, who, having used him, had not hesitated to
betray his shame to her from whom most of all it should have been
hidden, and, for aught he knew, to the others also. Yes if ever he met
him--his own brother--Foy would spit upon him in the street; Foy, who
was so hatefully open and honest, who could not understand into what
degradation a man's nerves may drag him. And Martin, who had always
mistrusted and despised him, why, if he found the chance, he would
tear him limb from limb as a kite tears a partridge. And, worse still,
Dirk van Goorl, the man who had befriended him, who had bred him up
although he was no son of his, but the child of some rival, he would
sit there in his prison cell, and while his face fell in and his bones
grew daily plainer, till at length his portly presence was as that of
a living skeleton, he would sit there by the window, watching the
dishes of savoury food pass in and out beneath him, and between the
pangs of his long-drawn, hideous agony, put up his prayer to God to
pay back to him, Adrian, all the woe that he had caused.
Oh! it was too much. Under the crushing weight of his suffering, his
senses left him, and he found such peace as to-day is won by those who
are about to pass beneath the surgeon's knife; the peace that but too
often wakes to a livelier agony.
When Adrian came to himself again, he felt cold, for already the
autumn evening had begun to fall, and there was a feel in the clear,
still air as of approaching frost. Also he was hungry (Dirk van Goorl,
too, must be growing hungry now, he remembered), for he had eaten
nothing since the yesterday. He would go into the town, get food, and
then make up his mind what he should do.
Accordingly, descending from the Burg, Adrian went to the best inn in
Leyden, and, seating himself at a table under the trees that grew
outside of it, bade the waiting-man bring him food and beer.
Unconsciously, for he was thinking of other things, in speaking to
him, Adrian had assumed the haughty, Spanish hidalgo manner that was
customary with him when addressing his inferiors. Even then he
noticed, with the indignation of one who dwells upon his dignity, that
this server made him no bow, but merely called his order to someone in
the house, and, turning his back upon him, began to speak to a man who
was loitering near. Soon Adrian became aware that he was the subject
of that conversation, for the two of them looked at him out of the
corners of their eyes, and jerked their thumbs towards him. Moreover,
first one, then two, then quite a number of passers-by stopped and
joined in the conversation, which appeared to interest them very much.
Boys came also, a dozen or more of them, and women of the fish-wife
stamp, and all of these looked at him out of the corner of /their/
eyes, and from time to time jerked /their/ thumbs towards him. Adrian
began to feel uneasy and angered, but, drawing down his bonnet, and
folding his arms upon his breast, he took no notice. Presently the
server thrust his meal and flagon of beer before him with such
clattering clumsiness that some of the liquor splashed over upon the
table.
"Be more careful and wipe that up," said Adrian.
"Wipe it yourself," answered the man, rudely turning upon his heel.
Now Adrian was minded to be gone, but he was hungry and thirsty, so
first, thought he, he would satisfy himself. Accordingly he lifted the
tankard and took a long pull at it, when suddenly something struck the
bottom of the vessel, jerking liquor over his face and doublet. He set
it down with an oath, and laying his hand upon his sword hilt asked
who had done this. But the mob, which by now numbered fifty or sixty,
and was gathered about him in a triple circle, made no answer. They
stood there staring sullenly, and in the fading light their faces
seemed dangerous and hostile.
He was frightened. What could they mean? Yes, he was frightened, but
he determined to brave it out, and lifted the cover from his meat,
when something passed over his shoulder and fell into the dish,
something stinking and abominable--to be particular, a dead cat. This
was too much. Adrian sprang to his feet, and asked who dared thus to
foul his food. The crowd did not jeer, did not even mock; it seemed
too much in earnest for gibes, but a voice at the back called out:
"Take it to Dirk van Goorl. He'll be glad of it soon."
Now Adrian understood. All these people knew of his infamy; the whole
of Leyden knew that tale. His lips turned dry, and the sweat broke out
upon his body. What should he do? Brave it out? He sat down, and the
fierce ring of silent faces drew a pace or two nearer. He tried to bid
the man to bring more meat, but the words stuck in his throat. Now the
mob saw his fear, and of a sudden seemed to augur his guilt from it,
and to pass sentence on him in their hearts. At least, they who had
been so dumb broke out into yells and hoots.
"Traitor!" "Spanish spy!" "Murderer!" they screamed. "Who gave
evidence against our Dirk? Who sold his brother to the rack?"
Then came another shriller note. "Kill him." "Hang him up by the heels
and stone him." "Twist off his tongue," and so forth. Out shot a hand,
a long, skinny, female hand, and a harsh voice cried, "Give us a
keepsake, my pretty boy!" Then there was a sharp wrench at his head,
and he knew that from it a lock of hair was missing. This was too
much. He ought to have stopped there and let them kill him if they
would, but a terror of these human wolves entered his soul and
mastered him. To be trodden beneath those mire-stained feet, to be
rent by those filthy hands, to be swung up living by the ankles to
some pole and then carved piecemeal--he could not bear it. He drew his
sword and turned to fly.
"Stop him," yelled the mob, whereon he lunged at them wildly, running
a small boy through the arm.
The sight of blood and the screech of the wounded lad settled the
question, and those who were foremost came at him with a spring. But
Adrian was swifter than they, and before a hand could be laid upon
him, amidst a shower of stones and filth, he was speeding down the
street. After him came the mob, and then began one of the finest man-
hunts ever known in Leyden.
From one street to another, round this turn and round that, sped the
quarry, and after him, a swiftly growing pack, came the hounds. Some
women drew a washing-line across the street to trip him. Adrian jumped
it like a deer. Four men got ahead and tried to cut him off. He dodged
them. Down the Bree Straat he went, and on his mother's door he saw a
paper and guessed what was written there. They were gaining, they were
gaining, for always fresh ones took the place of those who grew weary.
There was but one chance for him now. Near by ran the Rhine, and here
it was wide and unbridged. Perhaps they would not follow him through
the water. In he went, having no choice, and swam for his life. They
threw stones and bits of wood at him, and called for bows but, luckily
for him, by now the night was falling fast, so that soon he vanished
from their sight, and heard them crying to each other that he was
drowned.
But Adrian was not drowned, for at that moment he was dragging himself
painfully through the deep, greasy mud of the opposing bank and hiding
among the old boats and lumber which were piled there, till his breath
came to him again. But he could not stay long, for even if he had not
been afraid that they would come and find him, it was too cold. So he
crept away into the darkness.
Half an hour later, as, resting from their daily labours, Hague Simon
and his consort Meg were seated at their evening meal, a knock came at
the door, causing them to drop their knives and to look at each other
suspiciously.
"Who can it be?" marvelled Meg.
Simon shook his fat head. "I have no appointment," he murmured, "and I
don't like strange visitors. There's a nasty spirit abroad in the
town, a very nasty spirit."
"Go and see," said Meg.
"Go and see yourself, you----" and he added an epithet calculated to
anger the meekest woman.
She answered it with an oath and a metal plate, which struck him in
the face, but before the quarrel could go farther, again came the
sound of raps, this time louder and more hurried. Then Black Meg went
to open the door, while Simon took a knife and hid himself behind a
curtain. After some whispering, Meg bade the visitor enter, and
ushered him into the room, that same fateful room where the evidence
was signed. Now he was in the light, and she saw him.
"Oh! come here," she gasped. "Simon, come and look at our little
grandee." So Simon came, whereon the pair of them, clapping their
hands to their ribs, burst into screams of laughter.
"It's the Don! Mother of Heaven! it is the Don," gurgled Simon.
Well might they laugh, they who had known Adrian in his pride and rich
attire, for before them, crouching against the wall, was a miserable,
bareheaded object, his hair stained with mud and rotten eggs, blood
running from his temple where a stone had caught him, his garments a
mass of filth and dripping water, one boot gone and his hose burst to
tatters. For a while the fugitive bore it, then suddenly, without a
word, he drew the sword that still remained to him and rushed at the
bestial looking Simon, who skipped away round the table.
"Stop laughing," he said, "or I will put this through you. I am a
desperate man."
"You look it," said Simon, but he laughed no more, for the joke had
become risky. "What do you want, Heer Adrian?"
"I want food and lodging for so long as I please to stop here. Don't
be afraid, I have money to pay you."
"I am thinking that you are a dangerous guest," broke in Meg.
"I am," replied Adrian; "but I tell you that I shall be more dangerous
outside. I was not the only one concerned in that matter of the
evidence, and if they get me they will have you too. You understand?"
Meg nodded. She understood perfectly; for those of her trade Leyden
was growing a risky habitation.
"We will accommodate you with our best, Mynheer," she said. "Come
upstairs to the Master's room and put on some of his clothes. They
will fit you well; you are much of the same figure."
Adrian's breath caught in his throat.
"Is he here?" he asked.
"No, but he keeps his room."
"Is he coming back?"
"I suppose so, sometime, as he keeps his room. Do you want to see
him?"
"Very much, but you needn't mention it; my business can wait till we
meet. Get my clothes washed and dried as quickly as you can, will you?
I don't care about wearing other men's garments."
A quarter of an hour later Adrian, cleaned and clothed, different
indeed to look on from the torn and hunted fugitive, re-entered the
sitting-room. As he came, clad in Ramiro's suit, Meg nudged her
husband and whispered, "Like, ain't they?"
"Like as two devils in hell," Simon answered critically, then added,
"Your food is ready; come, Mynheer, and eat."
So Adrian ate and drank heartily enough, for the meat and wine were
good, and he needed them. Also it rejoiced him in a dull way to find
that there was something left in which he could take pleasure, even if
it were but eating and drinking. When he had finished he told his
story, or so much of it as he wished to tell, and afterwards went to
bed wondering whether his hosts would murder him in his sleep for the
purse of gold he carried, half hoping that they might indeed, and
slept for twelve hours without stirring.
All that day and until the evening of the next Adrian sat in the home
of his spy hosts recovering his strength and brooding over his fearful
fall. Black Meg brought in news of what passed without; thus he
learned that his mother had sickened with the plague, and that the
sentence of starvation was being carried out upon the body of her
husband, Dirk van Goorl. He learned also the details of the escape of
Foy and Martin, which were the talk of all the city. In the eyes of
the common people they had become heroes, and some local poet had made
a song about them which men were singing in the streets. Two verses of
that song were devoted to him, Adrian; indeed, Black Meg repeated them
to him word by word with a suppressed but malignant joy. Yes, this was
what had happened; his brother had become a popular hero and he,
Adrian, who in every way was so infinitely that brother's superior, an
object of popular execration. And of all this the man, Ramiro, was the
cause.
Well, he was waiting for Ramiro. That was why he risked his life by
staying in Leyden. Sooner or later Ramiro would be bound to visit this
haunt of his, and then--here Adrian drew his rapier and lunged and
parried, and finally with hissing breath drove it down into the wood
of the flooring, picturing, in a kind of luxury of the imagination,
that the throat of Ramiro was between its point and the ground. Of
course in the struggle that must come, the said Ramiro, who doubtless
was a skilful swordsman, might get the upper hand; it might be his,
Adrian's throat, which was between the point and the ground. Well, if
so, it scarcely mattered; he did not care. At any rate, for this once
he would play the man and then let the devil take his own; himself, or
Ramiro, or both of them.
On the afternoon of the second day Adrian heard shouting in the
streets, and Hague Simon came in and told him that a man had arrived
with bad news from Mechlin; what it was he could not say, he was going
to find out. A couple of hours went by and there was more shouting,
this time of a determined and ordered nature. Then Black Meg appeared
and informed him that the news from Mechlin was that everyone in that
unhappy town had been slain by the Spaniards; that further the people
of Leyden had risen and were marching to attack the Gevangenhuis. Out
she hurried again, for when the waters were stormy then Black Meg must
go afishing.
Another hour went by, and once more the street door was opened with a
key, to be carefully shut when the visitor had entered.
Simon or Meg, thought Adrian, but as he could not be sure he took the
precaution of hiding himself behind the curtain. The door of the room
opened, and not Meg or Simon, but Ramiro entered. So his opportunity
had come!
The Master seemed disturbed. He sat down upon a chair and wiped his
brow with a silk handkerchief. Then aloud, and shaking his fist in the
air, he uttered a most comprehensive curse upon everybody and
everything, but especially upon the citizens of Leyden. After this
once more he lapsed into silence, sitting, his one eye fixed upon
vacancy, and twisting his waxed moustaches with his hand.
Now was Adrian's chance; he had only to step out from behind the
curtain and run him through before he could rise from his seat. The
plan had great charms, and doubtless he might have put it into
execution had not Adrian's histrionic instincts stayed his hand. If he
killed Ramiro thus, he would never know why he had been killed, and
above all things Adrian desired that he should know. He wanted not
only to wreak his wrongs, but to let his adversary learn why they were
wreaked. Also, to do him justice, he preferred a fair fight to a
secret stab delivered from behind, for gentlemen fought, but assassins
stabbed.
Still, as there were no witnesses, he might have been willing to waive
this point, if only he could make sure that Ramiro should learn the
truth before he died. He thought of springing out and wounding him,
and then, after he had explained matters, finishing him off at his
leisure. But how could he be sure of his sword-thrust, which might do
too much or too little? No, come what would, the matter must be
concluded in the proper fashion.
Choosing his opportunity, Adrian stepped from behind the hanging and
placed himself between Ramiro and the door, the bolt of which he shot
adroitly that no one might interrupt their interview. At the sound
Ramiro started and looked up. In an instant he grasped the situation,
and though his bronzed face paled, for he knew that his danger was
great, rose to it, as might have been expected from a gentleman of his
long and varied experience.
"The Heer Adrian called van Goorl, as I live!" he said. "My friend and
pupil, I am glad to see you; but, if I might ask, although the times
are rough, why in this narrow room do you wave about a naked rapier in
that dangerous fashion?"
"Villain," answered Adrian, "you know why; you have betrayed me and
mine, and I am dishonoured, and now I am going to kill you in
payment."
"I see," said Ramiro, "the van Goorl affair again. I can never be
clear of it for half an hour even. Well, before you begin, it may
interest you to know that your worthy stepfather, after a couple of
days' fasting, is by now, I suppose, free, for the rabble have stormed
the Gevangenhuis. Truth, however, compels me to add that he is
suffering badly from the plague, which your excellent mother, with a
resource that does her credit, managed to communicate to him, thinking
this end less disagreeable on the whole than that which the law had
appointed."
Thus spoke Ramiro, slowly and with purpose, for all the while he was
so manoeuvring that the light from the lattice fell full upon his
antagonist, leaving himself in the shadow, a position which experience
taught him would prove of advantage in emergency.
Adrian made no answer, but lifted his sword.
"One moment, young gentleman," went on Ramiro, drawing his own weapon
and putting himself on guard; "are you in earnest? Do you really wish
to fight?"
"Yes," answered Adrian.
"What a fool you must be," mused Ramiro. "Why at your age should you
seek to be rid of life, seeing that you have no more chance against me
than a rat in a corner against a terrier dog? Look!" and suddenly he
lunged most viciously straight at his heart. But Adrian was watching
and parried the thrust.
"Ah!" continued Ramiro, "I knew you would do that, otherwise I should
not have let fly, for all the angels know I do not wish to hurt you."
But to himself he added, "The lad is more dangerous than I thought--my
life hangs on it. The old fault, friend, too high, too high!"
Then Adrian came at him like a tiger, and for the next thirty seconds
nothing was heard in the room but the raspings of steel and the hard
breathing of the two men.
At first Adrian had somewhat the better of it, for his assault was
fierce, and he forced the older and cooler man to be satisfied with
guarding himself. He did more indeed, for presently thrusting over
Ramiro's guard, he wounded him slightly in the left arm. The sting of
his hurt seemed to stir Ramiro's blood; at any rate he changed his
tactics and began to attack in turn. Now, moreover, his skill and
seasoned strength came to his aid; slowly but surely Adrian was driven
back before him till his retreat in the narrow confines of the room
became continuous. Suddenly, half from exhaustion and half because of
a stumble, he reeled right across it, to the further wall indeed. With
a guttural sound of triumph Ramiro sprang after him to make an end of
him while his guard was down, caught his foot on a joined stool which
had been overset in the struggle, and fell prone to the ground.
This was Adrian's chance. In an instant he was on him and had the
point of his rapier at his throat. But he did not stab at once, not
from any compunction, but because he wished his enemy to feel a little
before he died, for, like all his race, Adrian could be vindictive and
bloodthirsty enough when his hate was roused. Rapidly Ramiro
considered the position. In a physical sense he was helpless, for
Adrian had one foot upon his breast, the other upon his sword-arm, and
the steel at his throat. Therefore if time were given him he must
trust to his wit.
"Make ready, you are about to die," said Adrian.
"I think not," replied the prostrate Ramiro.
"Why not?" asked Adrian, astonished.
"If you will be so kind as to move that sword-point a little--it is
pricking me--thank you. Now I will tell you why. Because it is not
usual for a son to stick his father as though he were a farmyard pig."
"Son? Father?" said Adrian. "Do you mean----?"
"Yes, I do mean that we have the happiness of filling those sacred
relationships to each other."
"You lie," said Adrian.
"Let me stand up and give me my sword, young sir, and you shall pay
for that. Never yet did a man tell the Count Juan de Montalvo that he
lied, and live."
"Prove it," said Adrian.
"In this position, to which misfortune, not skill, has reduced me, I
can prove nothing. But if you doubt it, ask your mother, or your
hosts, or consult the registers of the Groote Kerke, and see whether
on a date, which I will give you, Juan de Montalvo was, or was not,
married to Lysbeth van Hout, of which marriage was born one Adrian.
Man, I will prove it to you. Had I not been your father, would you
have been saved from the Inquisition with others, and should I not
within the last five minutes had run you through twice over, for
though you fought well, your swordsmanship is no match for mine?"
"Even if you are my father, why should I not kill you, who have forced
me to your will by threats of death, you who wronged and shamed me,
you because of whom I have been hunted through the streets like a mad
dog, and made an outcast?" And Adrian looked so fierce, and brought
down his sword so close, that hope sank very low in Ramiro's heart.
"There are reasons which might occur to the religious," he said, "but
I will give you one that will appeal to your own self-interest. If you
kill me, the curse which follows the parricide will follow you to your
last hour--of the beyond I say nothing."
"It would need to be a heavy one," answered Adrian, "if it was worse
than that of which I know." But there was hesitation in his voice, for
Ramiro, the skilful player upon human hearts, had struck the right
string, and Adrian's superstitious nature answered to the note.
"Son," went on Ramiro, "be wise and hold your hand before you do that
for which all hell itself would cry shame upon you. You think that I
have been your enemy, but it is not so; all this while I have striven
to work you good, but how can I talk lying thus like a calf before its
butcher? Take the swords, both of them, and let me sit up, and I will
tell you all my plans for the advantage of us both. Or if you wish it,
thrust on and make an end. I will not plead for my life with you; it
is not worthy of an hidalgo of Spain. Moreover, what is life to me who
have known so many sorrows that I should seek to cling to it? Oh! God,
who seest all, receive my soul, and I pray Thee pardon this youth his
horrible crime, for he is mad and foolish, and will live to sorrow for
the deed."
Since it was no further use to him, Ramiro had let the sword fall from
his hand. Drawing it towards him with the point of his own weapon,
Adrian stooped and picked it up.
"Rise," he said, lifting his foot, "I can kill you afterwards if I
wish."
Could he have looked into the heart of his new-found parent as stiff
and aching he staggered to his feet, the execution would not have been
long delayed.
"Oh! my young friend, you have given me a nasty fright," thought
Ramiro to himself, "but it is over now, and if I don't pay you out
before I have done with you, my sweet boy, your name is not Adrian."
Ramiro rose, dusted his garments, seated himself deliberately, and
began to talk with great earnestness. It will be sufficient to
summarise his arguments. First of all, with the most convincing
sincerity, he explained that when he had made use of him, Adrian, he
had no idea that he was his son. Of course this was a statement that
will not bear a moment's examination, but Ramiro's object was to gain
time, and Adrian let it pass. Then he explained that it was only after
his mother had, not by his wish, but accidentally, seen the written
evidence upon which her husband was convicted, that he found out that
Adrian van Goorl was her child and his own. However, as he hurried to
point out, all these things were now ancient history that had no
bearing on the present. Owing to the turbulent violence of the mob,
which had driven him from his post and fortress, he, Ramiro, was in
temporary difficulties, and owing to other circumstances, he, Adrian,
was, so far as his own party and people were concerned, an absolutely
dishonoured person. In this state of affairs he had a suggestion to
make. Let them join forces; let the natural relationship that existed
between them, and which had been so nearly severed by a sword thrust
that both must have regretted, become real and tender. He, the father,
had rank, although it suited him to sink it; he had wide experience,
friends, intelligence, and the prospect of enormous wealth, which, of
course, he could not expect to enjoy for ever. On the other side, he,
the son, had youth, great beauty of person, agreeable and
distinguished manners, a high heart, the education of a young man of
the world, ambition and powers of mind that would carry him far, and
for the immediate future an object to gain, the affection of a lady
whom all acknowledged to be as good as she was charming, and as
charming as she was personally attractive.
"She hates me," broke in Adrian.
"Ah!" laughed Ramiro, "there speaks the voice of small experience. Oh!
youth, so easily exalted and so easily depressed! Joyous, chequered
youth! How many happy marriages have I not known begin with such hate
as this? Well, there it is, you must take my word for it. If you want
to marry Elsa Brant, I can manage it for you, and if not, why, you can
leave it alone."
Adrian reflected, then as his mind had a practical side, he put a
question.
"You spoke of the prospect of enormous wealth; what is it?"
"I will tell you, I will tell you," whispered his parent, looking
about him cautiously; "it is the vast hoard of Hendrik Brant which I
intend to recover; indeed, my search for it has been at the root of
all this trouble. And now, son, you can see how open I have been with
you, for if you marry Elsa that money will legally be your property,
and I can only claim whatever it may please you to give me. Well, as
to that question, in the spirit of the glorious motto of our race,
'Trust to God and me,' I shall leave it to your sense of honour,
which, whatever its troubles, has never yet failed the house of
Montalvo. What does it matter to me who is the legal owner of the
stuff, so long as it remains in the family?"
"Of course not," replied Adrian, loftily, "especially as I am not
mercenary."
"Ah! well," went on Ramiro, "we have talked for a long while, and if I
continue to live there are affairs to which I ought to attend. You
have heard all I have to say, and you have the swords in your hand,
and, of course, I am--only your prisoner on parole. So now, my son, be
so good as to settle this matter without further delay. Only, if you
make up your mind to use the steel, allow me to show you where to
thrust, as I do not wish to undergo any unnecessary discomfort"--and
he stood before him and bowed in a very courtly and dignified fashion.
Adrian looked at him and hesitated. "I don't trust you," he said; "you
have tricked me once and I daresay that you will trick me again. Also
I don't think much of people who masquerade under false names and lay
such traps as you laid to get my evidence against the rest of them.
But I am in a bad place and without friends. I want to marry Elsa and
recover my position in the world; also, as you know well, I can't cut
the throat of my own father in cold blood," and he threw down one of
the swords.
"Your decision is just such as I would have expected from my knowledge
of your noble nature, son Adrian," remarked Ramiro as he picked up his
weapon and restored it to the scabbard. "But now, before we enter upon
this perfect accord, I have two little stipulations to make on my
side."
"What are they?" asked Adrian.
"First, that our friendship should be complete, such as ought to exist
between a loving father and son, a friendship without reservations.
Secondly--this is a condition that I fear you may find harder--but,
although fortune has led me into stony paths, and I fear some doubtful
expedients, there was always one thing which I have striven to cherish
and keep pure, and that in turn has rewarded me for my devotion in
many a dangerous hour, my religious belief. Now I am Catholic, and I
could wish that my son should be Catholic also; these horrible errors,
believe me, are as dangerous to the soul as just now they happen to be
fatal to the body. May I hope that you, who were brought up but not
born in heresy, will consent to receive instruction in the right
faith?"
"Certainly you may," answered Adrian, almost with enthusiasm. "I have
had enough of conventicles, psalm-singing, and the daily chance of
being burned; indeed, from the time when I could think for myself I
always wished to be a Catholic."
"Your words make me a happy man," answered Ramiro. "Allow me to unbolt
the door, I hear our hosts. Worthy Simon and Vrouw, I make you parties
to a solemn and joyful celebration. This young man is my son, and in
token of my fatherly love, which he has been pleased to desire, I now
take him in my arms and embrace him before you," and he suited the
action to the word.
But Black Meg, watching his face in astonishment from over Adrian's
shoulder, saw its one bright eye suddenly become eclipsed. Could it be
that the noble Master had winked?
