country and seeking to cut off communication between the towns and cities. These reckless soldiers had but little love for officers of the army or navy, and would have considered it a huge joke to run across a solitary officer and hang him to the limb of a tree.
Both Colonel Van Straalen and the butler were well mounted, and they rode over the French border without encountering any opposition.
The first day and night passed without incident. As they journeyed through Holland, Alva’s footprints were clearly defined in the desolate towns and the ruins of comfortable homes. What had once been a thrifty and populous country was rapidly becoming a wasted and ruined region.
The travellers avoided the main road and followed a circuitous route to avoid observation. The country roads were rough, and their progress was necessarily slow. Toward sunset of the second day a sound of horses’ feet in their rear startled them. Looking back they espied a party of soldiers. The fugitives urged their horses forward, but the jaded beasts could not respond. The soldiers gained on them, and a shot rang out on the still air.
“I am wounded, Master Colonel,” said the butler. “Press forward without me.”
“Never, Jacob. Keep in the saddle a few moments longer, if possible. Our only safety lies in leaving the highway.”
