The Silent Prince/Chapter 25

by Hattie Arnold Clark

CHAPTER XXV.

DOÑA ISIDORE

Through the rest of that long night Colonel Van Straalen did not dare to close his eyes in slumber. The thought that some living being was in his vicinity disquieted him. He stirred the fire again and sat down before the glowing embers. He thought of Katharine La Tour. Should he ever see her sweet face again? Yes, perhaps in far off years, when she had become a Sister of some Order, as far removed from him as heaven from earth. “By all that was right and true, she should have been mine!”’ he said half aloud. But now! She was his as a dream might be, something intangible, something he possessed but could not hold. Her sweet face seemed to mock him from out the firelight, like a ghost of the past, and the echo of her musical laugh seemed borne to his ears on the night wind. He realized as never before the power of love, and his heart grew sick as he set this ecstasy over against the misery and loneliness which stretched before him like a desert. With the first streak of dawn, he hastily dug a grave and laid the body of the faithful servant to rest. Then mounting his horse he retraced his way to the road which he had left the night previous. The country was yet wrapped in repose. Not a breath stirred the leaves of the trees, not a sound broke the stillness. Then the sun awoke, the birds carolled their matins, the trees rustled, and the officious chanticleer announced that another day was born.

As the young officer rode through the desolated towns and villages, these words came unbidden to his lips:

"The hunting tribes of air and earth,

Respect the brethren of their birth;

Man only mars kind Nature’s plan,

And turns the fierce pursuit on man."

All nature was at peace. Only the slow circling of vultures, whose heavy movements bespoke satiety, told of the terrible carnage which they had eagerly witnessed.

Entering Brussels the next morning, Reynold was surprised to find that some event of importance was being celebrated. In the Great Square three thousand Spanish troops were drawn up in battle array about a scaffold. In this Square all the great public events were celebrated, from brilliant tournaments to ghastly executions. It was evident that an execution had just taken place, for tears, groans and execrations rose from the mass of human beings who crowded about the scaffold. Two heads were placed on pikes and exposed to the public gaze,

“Who are these unfortunate victims?” asked the young officer to a man standing by his side.

“You must be a stranger in Brussels to ask such a question!” was the reply.

“I am.”

“Then I will tell you. Yonder is the foulest act which tyranny has dared to inflict on this suffering people. Counts Egmont and Horn, both devoted Catholics and loyal soldiers, have been beheaded by the order of the Duke of Alva.”

“What crime had they committed?” asked Reynold, in dismay.

“None. Alva has always been jealous of Egmont since his brilliant military victories at St. Quentin and Gravelines. These victories were gained contrary to Alva’s advice. He has hated Egmont ever since. Count Horn was Egmont’s most intimate friend, so he had to die. The Prince of Orange would share the same fate, if Alva could only induce him to return to the Netherlands.”

“Accursed be the day when the Spaniards set foot upon this soil!” said another bystander.

From the outskirts of the throng came the sound of a woman’s voice, low and sweet, singing a hymn:

"The Spaniards are come,
 And the night's dark and dreary;
Now watch all ye pious,
 Steadfast and unweary.
Despond not, my people.
 The Lord is your stay;
He hears the afflicted
 And soon breaks the day!"

The voice ended in a mournful wail. Colonel Van Strallen started to find the singer, but a detaining hand was laid on his arm.

"Come away at once, my friend. You are attracting too much attention. Yonder poor woman is past help. It is crazy Margaret, who haunts the Square every time there is a public execution. Poor woman. Her husband and father were executed, and her babe sickened and died."

As they passed near the poor creature, Reynold noticed that she was young, and would have been beautiful had not sorrow and madness wasted her frame.

"The time is so long, Seigneurs!" she said plaintively, as her eye fell on their compassionate faces. "Will not the good Lord come soon and redeem His people, as He has promised?"

"Yes, poor woman, I hope so, I believe so!" said Reynold. "This nation will not always submit to the rule of tyranny."

"Despond not, my people,
 The Lord is your stay;
He hears the afflicted
 And soon breaks the day!

These words rang in his ears, not as the feeble plaint of a suffering woman, but as a prophecy of victory.

“Colonel Van Straalen, we must hasten,” said his companion. “ You are in great danger of being recognized, and if so, your arrest would speedily follow.”

“How does it happen that you know me?” said Reynold.

“I am Conrad Chenoweth!” was the whispered reply. “Let us talk no more until we are safely in my quarters,”

They threaded the streets of Brussels in silence, until they came to the part inhabited by the poorer classes. They entered a long, dark alley, which had many crooked turns, and paused before one of the poorest houses. The advocate knocked gently three times. The door was opened cautiously by a stout Flemish woman. On seeing Conrad she bade him enter. They both went inside and the door was securely bolted.

“Gretchen,” said Conrad, “I have brought a dear friend, who, like myself, is a fugitive. Can you give him shelter? He is a Protestant.”

“Yes, Heer Chenoweth. I will gladly shelter any of the persecuted followers of the reformed faith, and any of your friends are thrice welcome. I have not forgotten when we lived in Antwerp how your good father took care of us in our sickness and trouble, and never would accept a riksdaler from us in payment for his services. As long as I have a shelter, you and your friends can share it.”

“I thank you for your generosity, my good woman,” said Colonel Van Straalen. “I hope to execute my mission here as soon as possible and then join the army of our noble Prince.”

As soon as the two young men were alone, Reynold said eagerly, "Conrad, have you found Hilvardine yet? I know she is the lodestone which keeps you as well as myself from immediately joining the army of the Prince.”

“Alas, no!” said his friend. “She was abducted from her home and brought to Brussels at the instigation of the Chancellor of Brabant, but farther than that I can learn nothing. All clue to her whereabouts is carefully concealed. I have haunted the premises of the Chancellor, have made myself on good terms with some of the servants in his household, but either they cannot or will not divulge the secret.”

“Then nothing remains for us except to try and interest Doña Isidore de Cisneros in the case,” said Reynold.

“I know the lady well by sight,” said Conrad, “but she is inaccessible.”

“I am assured that this will find a way to her heart,” said Reynold, producing General Berlaymont’s letter, and relating the conversation which had passed between himself and his commanding officer.

Conrad’s face brightened perceptibly. “Who knows but what a woman’s wit will unravel the mystery. Let us wait upon this lady this evening.”

About eight o’clock they started on their errand. The streets were in semi-darkness, for the great gloomy houses were but dimly lighted, in order not to attract attention. A Spanish patrol was the only sign of life in the deserted streets. They succeeded in avoiding this officer of the law, and ascended the steps of an elegant mansion.

The butler informed them that Doña de Cisneros was within and at leisure. They gave the servant their names, and were ushered into the reception room to await her appearance.

A rustle of draperies announced her coming, and directly the lady was in the room. Certainly General Berlaymont had not exaggerated when he pronounced her beauty unusual, even in a land famous for its beautiful women. She was in the flower of youth, and certainly no artist could do justice to the creamy softness of her skin, the dark lustre of her hair, and the elusive depths of her black eyes. Altogether she was a brilliant and charming Spanish lady.

Both gentlemen arose and saluted her, “This is Doña Isidore de Cisneros?” said Reynold.

“Yes, Seigneur. To what am I indebted for the honor of your acquaintance?” she added, with a delightful accent.