“My son, return to the Netherlands and avenge the wrongs done to your family. I can write no more. Jacob has promised to see that my last words reach you in safety. I do not wonder now at your Protestant leanings. Were I to live my life over again, I would espouse that cause. God bless you. Farewell.
“Anthony Van Straalen.”
Reynold Van Straalen let the letter fall from his hands, and sat as if carved out of stone. When the heart is suddenly stricken with a great grief, it is at first stunned into insensibility, and seems scarcely conscious of life. But presently, like a lava torrent, suffering courses through the throbbing arteries, suffering so exquisite that death alone seems capable of affording relief.
The young man bowed his head upon the table, and bitter, scalding tears coursed unchecked down his cheeks—burning tears, every one of which left a scar upon his heart. Mechanically he opened his friend’s letter.
“My dear Reynold:
“I do not know whether you are aware of the reign of terror which has been instituted since the Iron Duke arrived with the flower of the Spanish army. Death, desolation and panic follow in his wake. He is here for a purpose—to subjugate the
