The First of the English 18 – Gunter · Verses Across
Literature · Romance
The First of the English 18Book 3 · Chapter 18
18
Literature · Romance
The First of the English 18
Book 3 · Chapter 18
GunterEnglish
“IS IT A DREAM?”
From his interview with his daughter Bodé Volcker comes out a great sadness in his Flemish eyes, and finding Guy waiting for him, breaks forth: “This painter Oliver! What right had such a man to love anything but his country? What right had he, with torture hanging over him, to love my child?”
“The right that all men have to love the beautiful,” sighs Guy, Bodé Volcker’s surprising revelations as Doña de Alvas’ convent yearnings having made him not only romantic, but sad.
“But not the right to sacrifice the beautiful. Oliver’s treachery to Alva put danger upon Mina, and now his death has broken her heart. She cannot even go to her home for fear of Alva’s torture. Alva!” shrieks the merchant, “who has brought this misery upon me and mine. Alva! who has ruined me.”
“Ruined you? How?” queries Chester uneasily. He has been waiting for the merchant, being in need of financial aid, and this talk of ruin makes him anxious.
“How?” echoes Bodé Volcker. “First by destroying my home. Second by destroying my business with his tenth penny tax, and third by taking from me as a forced loan for the Spanish government five hundred thousand crowns.”
“Do you want to get it back again?”
“Heavens and earth! Yes. The money is as good as lost. What wild talk are you jabbering to me?” says the merchant derisively.
“It isn’t wild talk!”
“Not wild talk about Alva’s repaying his debts?”
“No, for I’ll pay them.”
“You—a fighting man—pay five hundred thousand crowns? Your sufferings have made you crazy,” cries Niklaas, who thinks Guy is jeering him.
“Not at all. Advance me ten thousand crowns, stake your life as I stake mine, and I’ll give you your five hundred thousand crowns and vengeance.”
This comes in determined whisper from the Englishman, who has thought this matter over, and concluded that, Oliver being gone, Bodé Volcker, with his Antwerp storehouse, Antwerp ships and Antwerp knowledge, is the man to aid him in this affair, if he has the nerve.
“Stake my life? I’ll stake it a hundred times to gain vantage of the man who has robbed me!”
“Very well, come with me to my room, we must talk very privately of this,” says Guy, who now feels pretty certain that though Bodé Volcker might not risk his life for patriotism, he would risk it a dozen times over to get back his five hundred thousand crowns. But it is not this man’s motives he cares for, but this man’s action.
Arrived at Chester’s room the merchant says: “What do you want?”
“First I want a hundred crowns to pay John Haring, who has helped me get your daughter out of Haarlem.”
“I will—I’ll give Haring a thousand. And I’ll give you my love, my devotion, whatever else you want for saving my Mina from despair and death,” answers the merchant in grateful voice.
“Your life, perhaps.”
“Yes, I’ll give that too, to get vantage of Alva.”
“Then,” says Guy, “listen to me.” And swearing Bodé Volcker very solemnly to secrecy, he tells him everything—everything connected with Alva’s statue, everything connected with Alva’s treasure, for he believes in no half confidences to this man, the risk of whose life he demands for his own selfish purpose.
“Very well. What do you want me to do?” answers the Dutchman, his eyes lighting up as he hears of Alva’s buried treasure, the joy of pirate plunder coming into his merchant’s soul. “Should I not have a little more—interest, at least?”
“Yes, interest—six hundred thousand, or, as your life is worth something—we’ll make it seven hundred and fifty thousand.”
“Very well—to business! What do you want?”
“First, for time presses, I want clearance papers procured as soon as possible from the town of Amsterdam for the Esperanza that I have still at Flushing harbor. Can you procure them?”
“From Amsterdam? Impossible. But I can get you clearance and cargo from Stockholm.”
“That will take two weeks—some nearer port!”
“From Dunquerque? That’ll only take three or four days.”
“From Dunquerque! All right,” answers Chester. “With the Esperanza I shall go, consigned to you, as Captain Andrea Blanco, once more right into the harbor of Antwerp and lay there till I get Alva’s treasures and Alva’s daughter or lose my life. It isn’t known in that town that you came here?”
“No, I was very careful about that,” says Bodé Volcker. “They think I am in France buying Lyons’ silks. I’ll sail with you from Dunquerque myself. That’ll make everything seem very right—Lyons’ silks from a French port.”
“And afterwards if it is discovered you’ll lose your life.”
“That’s all right,” says the Dutchman. “Antwerp’s commerce is going to the dogs and I’m going to leave it with whatever money I can gather together. That seven hundred and fifty thousand crowns will help me.”
So all the arrangements are made and every little detail settled, even to Mina’s remaining quietly in Delft, which is the best place for the poor girl at present.
“She has no heart for anything,” mutters Bodé Volcker, then grinding his teeth, adds: “But I’ll have revenge upon the man who would have sent her to the lash and Spin-house, and because I am her father, robbed me of five hundred thousand crowns.”
This very night Guy takes a purse of gold to John Haring, of Horn, and putting it into the man’s hands says: “This is your reward for the danger and trouble that have come to you for my sake!”
“Donder en Bliksem!” ejaculates the Holland fisherman. “This is more money than I ever saw before. I don’t want anything for doing a kind act.”
“You’ve a wife and children, take it for them and for your expenses returning to the North, where I wish you to go for me on a special errand.”
So it is arranged that Haring departs at once for North Holland, taking orders with him to Dalton to bring the Dover Lass straight to Flushing, and, not finding Guy and the Esperanza there, to sail the ship at once to the South Beveland shore and anchor in the Krom Vliet. There will not be any great risk in this, nearly all the Spanish galleys having gone to Amsterdam to help the Haarlem leaguer.
The next morning Haring leaves for the North, and Guy and Bodé Volcker take boat to Flushing, where the Esperanza is lying.
Guy has left some ten men on board this ship, and they are sufficient to navigate it to Dunquerque, where he takes cargo from Bodé Volcker’s agents at that place and obtains proper clearance papers to Antwerp.
Setting sail from this port they make Flushing, to find to Chester’s delight the Dover Lass already there, Haring has traveled so rapidly, Dalton has obeyed his orders so promptly, and the Dover Lass, the ice having all melted in Enkhuysen harbor, is so fleet under favorable breezes.
“By all the mermaids!” cries his first officer, on seeing his captain, “we thought you dead—drowned at that cursed Diemerdyk fight. This is glorious news.”
“I’ve got better for you,” laughs Guy.
“What’s that?”
“Money to pay off the crew!” At which the British tars set up a wild cheer and become very happy indeed.
Then drawing upon Bodé Volcker’s money bags Chester makes settlement with his mariners.
The next morning taking many of the crew who had gone with him to Antwerp before, and the Dover Lass accompanying him as far as Krom Vliet and anchoring there, just off the South Beveland shore, Guy proceeds to Antwerp, passes the guard boat off Lillo, and hauls up to the city docks, more impatient to get at Alva’s daughter than Alva’s treasure.
He knows he must make quick work of this. During his fights and skirmishes his face has become known to many Spanish soldiers, and though most of these are up in Holland, a few are here on sick leave. Fortunately these are mostly confined to bed and chamber, as only the desperately wounded come from the front, Spain having need of every man to carry on the siege of Haarlem—but still with ten thousand crowns upon his head, “The First of the English” is now in fearful jeopardy.
Letting no time pass Chester, disguised as completely as possible as Captain Andrea Blanco, goes up to the merchant’s house to make arrangements for unloading his cargo. They are in earnest conversation, Guy charging Bodé Volcker, who has now gone into this business of stealing Alva’s treasure with heart and soul, to discover all about the house of the Spanish woman, Señora Sebastian, when great and sudden joy comes to his soul.
He hears the voice of the Countess de Pariza in the salesroom just off the little counting room where he is holding converse with the merchant. This voice he has always before considered harsh, unpleasant and uninviting, but now it seems to him as sweet as an angel’s, as it says: “I have called to price and buy some white French muslin for my charge, Doña de Alva. You need not measure many yards, the lady Hermoine soon goes to Spain to enter a religious house.”
“Shall I deliver the goods at the Citadel for your ladyship?” asks the obsequious clerk.
“No, I’ll take them with me. The weather has been so pleasant that Doña Hermoine and I are now located for the summer at the country house near Sandvliet. Be quick, young man, the State barge is waiting.”
These words knock all thought of Alva’s treasure out of Guy’s mind.
“Give me some further details,” whispers the merchant, “about the house of the Spanish woman.”
“I’ve told you where it is. To-morrow I’ll talk with you. Which is the quickest way to Sandvliet?”
“The quickest way is on horseback, but it is not the safest.”
“I go the quickest way.”
“Past the sentries of Lillo? You will be questioned! You must have a passport!” Then the merchant whispers in warning tones: “Are you going as Captain Andrea Blanco or as Colonel Guido Amati, or as—the other man?” Bodé Volcker’s face is white as he makes this last remark.
“As—My God! I must go as Colonel Guido Amati!”
“Do you think you’ll pass the fort at Lillo with a passport for Colonel Guido Amati, who has been marked dead upon the army rolls three or four months?” says Bodé Volcker, bringing the common sense of the merchant to bear upon the romance of the sailor. “A year ago you might have passed Lillo as Captain Guido Amati, but as Colonel Guido Amati, a man of mark, a man who rode at the head of his regiment, a man who has been mentioned in general orders as dead—no, no, you’ll throw away your life and not gain the girl. You’ll throw away the treasure and sacrifice my life.”
“You’re right,” says Chester moodily, “but see her I must.”
“Then go by boat, that’s your only way,” returns Niklaas.
“Very well, I’ll take the Esperanza’s gig; it is a quick pulling boat, and I’ll take every care of myself—for her sake most of all,” answers Chester. “It wouldn’t do for her to again mourn for Guido Amati. Meantime do what you can up here. I’ll meet you to-morrow morning.”
With these words Captain Andrea Blanco strides out of the counting room of the merchant Bodé Volcker and going on board the Esperanza gives himself the appearance of Colonel Guido Amati as much as he can; for his wounds have made him pale, and desperate exertions and desperate anxiety have brought lines of care upon his brow.
Notwithstanding this, as his boat, propelled by six stalwart rowers, catching the ebb tide, goes down the Schelde, there is a gleam of intense happiness and expectant joy, upon the face of the dashing young man.
This happiness is softer and more enraptured as with jaunty step and purple mantle, in satin and silk, and rigged up as cavalier to meet his lady love, Chester steps out of his boat on the dyke about half a mile west of Sandvliet, where there is a pretty landing-stage and ornamental steps running down to the water for lady’s use and a charming walk shaded by poplars leading up to the exquisite chateau built by my lord of Alva for his daughter’s summering.
The house though reached by the walk, is situated right upon the dyke itself, giving it a water view and summer breezes blowing up the Schelde. One wing of it even juts over the water, a boat could sail beneath its windows.
The mansion is extensive, consisting of a central portion and two wings; the one over the water from its luxurious balconies and awnings seems that portion where the Viceroy’s daughter herself resides; the other wing, as well as Guy can judge as he approaches it, is devoted to the uses of the servants and contains the kitchen and other offices of the house. The main portion is probably used for general reception purposes. Altogether it is a very handsome and extensive water villa, built with an exquisite Moorish grace and Orientally luxurious in its fittings. This can easily be seen from the distance, for there are blinds on the outside to keep the sun out, and the windows themselves in some cases are of ornamental glass.
Running along the dyke in front of the house is a beautiful little garden, the trees, for it is well into May now, covered with early leaflets in their first green and freshest beauty. Some flowers, probably raised in hot-beds or green-house, have been planted in its grass plots.
At the end furthest from the villa is a little summer house covered with vines and fronting on the water. This catches Guy’s eye as he looks about, inspecting carefully the house before he makes his entrance or knocks, calls or claps his hands for servants, after the manner of that day.
Looking closely at it, Chester discovers within the flutter of a white gown. Is it the instinct of love that makes his heart beat wilder than it has ever beat before—save when she was in his arms?
A poplar tree stands by the hedge. Seizing this Guy swings himself lightly into the garden, and carefully approaches the arbor, to see therein enrapturing sight.
Hermoine de Alva—her face turned partly from him and looking seaward down the Schelde, is half reclining upon a low rustic bench made soft to her by cushions of down and silk, one little hand supporting the beautiful head, one graceful foot and delicate ankle outstretched, and all her lovely figure in softest draping white save where upon the neck, wrists and borders of her garments are trimmings of narrow black—makes picture upon which his eyes, that have so long been denied sight of her, could linger in a kind of dreamy rapture.
But Chester is not the man for dreams when his sweetheart is within hug of him. He only pauses to think how he can avert the shock of letting her see a dead man live before her.
“She’ll think me a ghost and uncanny,” he meditates; for ghosts, fairies and the supernatural were very common in those days.
As he stands hesitating the girl picks up a prayer book that is near her hand and forces herself to read, then sighing puts it down. As she moves a gleam from her white hand comes to him. It is from the ring he gave her, and Guy can be silent no more.
“Joy never kills, otherwise I were dead of it now myself,” he thinks; then says lightly, almost in her ear: “Doña Hermoine, why don’t you cry me welcome?”
“Holy Virgin! that voice,” falters the girl. “That VOICE!” Starting up and her eye catching him, she gasps: “Madre mia! Guido! My Guido, who is dead!” next whispers with white lips: “Your spirit has not come to reproach me—you cannot do that, when I wed only heaven because you’re dead!” And her lovely eyes beam with horror of the supernatural.
“Not dead, but on the sick leave! They don’t give sick leave to dead men.” Then thinking to destroy the supernatural with the commonplace, Guy suggests: “Are you not going to ask me to dinner?”
“A dinner for a ghost!” This is a wild shrieking gasp from Hermoine’s pale lips, as seizing her prayer book and holding on high the gilded cross upon its vellum cover, she begins falteringly: “Exorcizare te—”
But he cries out: “No GHOST! Don’t exorcise me as weird!”
“No ghost? Impossible! I have mourned for you—ever since—the awful news—of the Battle-on-the-Ice—when that cruel English cut-throat and his men killed—”
“Not ME! Though they slashed me up a little here and there—a cut upon the head, and a bullet in the body. I’ll prove I am not dead. Are these ghost lips? Don’t you remember them?”
As Hermoine half reels Guy gets an arm about her graceful waist and stops her gasps and sighs as such hysteria should be always stayed in lovely woman.
Perhaps it is the vivid life that is in his kisses that makes the girl—though it takes many of them to convince her—suddenly gasp: “Alive! Yes, yes! you are alive! your heart beats against mine. My Guido lives!” and bursts out sobbing, as if grief had come to her instead of joy.
But she has ready and effectual comforter and soon her tears become smiles, her sighs become love notes, she beams upon the dead that is alive, like the sun itself, brighter, for the cloud it bursts through.
As for Guy, he makes up for enforced absence and lost time in a way that makes Miss Alva blush and beam, then blush again and murmur: “You—you need not prove to me so often that you live. I know your lips are not ghost lips.” Here she murmurs reproachfully: “And you let me mourn for you so long?”
“A prisoner—” begins Chester.
“A prisoner!—they take no prisoners!”
“The First of the English does! Besides my wounds,” mutters Guy, disconcerted.
“Oh, yes, your frightful wounds. I’ll—I’ll be your nurse.”
“Yes, under your hands I think I’ll recover in time,” he says, his face radiant, then goes excitedly on: “I’ll not get well before—”
“Before what?”
“Before I wed you.”
“Wed me?” And blushes fly over Miss Brunette, even to her ivory neck, her eyes droop, though there is a joyous light in them.
“Yes, this trip I wed you!” This is a whisper, made almost ferocious by its determination.
Here Hermoine astounds him, for she answers, her brave eyes looking into his and her voice as determined as his: “Yes, this trip you shall!” then falters: “I—I couldn’t bear to suffer as I have done before. When you go to the front again, I go with you. Colonel Guido Amati de Medina shall have a wife. But you shall not think of this till you’re well, and that will be a long time, I’m afraid,” and the girl looks at a slight scar upon her lover’s forehead as if it were a mortal hurt.
At this he anathematizes himself as a heartless wretch to let her mourn for him so long, no matter his duty and his oath to friend, for he sees in the lovely face the lingering traces of a cruel sorrow.
A minute after his sweetheart gives Guy a start. She suddenly cries: “Why what a prophet that little De Busaco is! He—he must have second sight!”
“De Busaco! You have seen him?” mutters the putative Guido Amati anxiously.
“Yes, he’s in the garrison at Lillo, sent there to recover. Frost got into the poor little lieutenant’s wounds after the battle on the ice. Hearing he had seen the last of you, my Guido,” she catches Guy’s hand at this, as if she feared she would lose him even now, “I sent for him and deftly inquired—as if with the interest of a passing friend—Oh, I controlled my feelings well!—how you had passed away. And he told me; but before he left said, ‘I venture this is not the last you will see of Colonel Guido Amati.’ ‘Why not?’ I gasped, a wild hope in my heart. ‘Did you not see him fall?’ ‘Yes,’ De Busaco said nonchalantly, and I thought his manner very heartless then, ‘but my friend, Colonel Guido Amati, has a cat’s nine lives, and at present he has only sacrificed one of them.’ Did the lieutenant guess they would spare your life?”
“Perhaps,” answers Guy. “This English cut-throat, as you call him, not only spared, but saved my life, guarded me, took me to Enkhuysen, and when I lay there with the fever of my wounds, saw that I was as well nursed out of it, as if I were his very self.”
“Then he’s not an English cut-throat.”
“No, he’s an English knight, and some day I hope you’ll say he is a gentleman even worthy of your esteem.”
“And so he is! He saved your life from the knives of these cruel Dutch freebooters,” says the girl suddenly; then mutters in a horrified way: “And I induced papa to increase the reward for your savior’s head. Heaven forgive me!—ten thousand crowns are now offered for the man who saved your life!”
“Diablo!” replies Guy, not over pleased at what he hears. “The Englishman is very well able to take care of himself, so we’ll let him alone and return to Colonel Guido Amati.”
“Apropos of him,” laughs Hermoine, “the ghost asked for dinner, I believe—Will the spectre have spiritual oysters, hobgoblin turbot and ragout from the witches’ cauldron!” and the girl who is now a picture of radiant joy, claps her hands.
“No,” replies Guy, “but the ghost’ll take a giant dinner with permission of the maiden of the fairy castle, and she may put as many spirits in the wine as she likes.”
“Then haste, for I’m going to kill the fatted calf for you!” And Hermoine would seize upon her knight’s hand to lead him to her bower.
But Chester suddenly hesitates and mutters: “The Countess de Pariza—what will your duenna say!”
“She will say nothing,” remarks Miss de Alva in airy ensouciance. “The Countess de Pariza will not be here this evening.”
“No? I thought she had the State barge with her.”
“Yes. She’ll keep that in Antwerp over night. She lodges with the Countess Mansfeld. Since that night—you remember it, the one I bless—that night you rescued me from the Gueux—the Countess de Pariza fears the Beggars of the Sea worse than the fiends of the other world, and though nominally she lives here, she is absent every evening that she can be. She’ll not return before to-morrow morning.”
“That’s glorious,” laughs Guy, blessing in heart Dirk Duyvel and his cut-throats, “it’ll save so much trouble; I’ll visit you in the evenings. The Countess de Pariza has a woman’s tongue.”
“If she has,” cries the girl, “I’ll find a curb for it!” and for one instant she looks like Alva’s daughter. “But come into the house. You’re hungry, and with your wounds you must have strengthening food. Come to supper.”
To this meal Guy, who has a sailor’s if not a ghost’s appetite, suffers himself to be led; Doña Hermoine taking his arm as if she feared to lose him.
Within the spacious hall of the beautiful country residence its fair mistress claps her hands, and the two Moorish girls Guy had seen before come running to her.
“Alida, have a room prepared for this gentleman, who sups with me,” orders Hermoine. At which one of the maids, making obeisance before her mistress, whispers in her ear:
Then Doña de Alva bursts out laughing, but says: “Certainly. He is my friend, Colonel Guido Amati, whom you must honor as you do me. Señor, when you return you will find the giant meal you asked for.”
Thereupon Guy, following the Moorish girl, who had brought him the packet that evening at the Citadel, and who appears to be his sweetheart’s confidential servant, soon finds himself in the most luxurious chamber he has ever seen, though curiously masculine in its fittings, furniture and contents. There are arms upon the wall, men’s boots are in the dressing-room adjoining, and on the toilet table a missal beautifully bound with the castle with the three towers, a raven on each—the arms of Alva; in this is a book-mark curiously worked, and signed “Thy Hermoine.”
“What masculine creature,” thinks Chester to himself, half jealously, “makes himself thus at home here?” Turning to the girl who has shown him hither, and who looks on him with curious and astonished eyes, he says: “These seem a gentleman’s quarters?”
“Yes! It is the chamber of my lord his Highness of Alva, when he honors us with his presence,” answers the maid, with a low courtesy, and leaves Guy gazing about this sanctum of his enemy.
“Egad!” he thinks, “Truly I’m in the Lion’s nest now.” Then looking at the luxury of the draperies and canopy of the bed he mutters: “A week ago I slept in Hasselaer’s inn, in Haarlem!” and all the horror of the famine and death of the leaguered city coming to him—his present luxury seems almost a dream.
But devoting himself to business, for he is anxious for sight for his sweetheart once more as well as dinner, the young man brushes from himself all evidences of his journey, making his ablutions with softer towels than his stalwart hands have ever clutched before.
Then striding down the great oak staircase into the hall below, he is ushered by the other Moorish maid into an apartment that will never leave his memory—perchance not for the impression it first made upon him, but for what afterwards took place in it.
It is a lofty arched room in the right wing of the mansion, one great oriel window at its end opening right over the waters of the Schelde, through which the splash of its soft waves can be heard, for the sashes are up and awnings extend above to keep out the setting sun. On one side the wall is broken by three large arches. Heavily curtained with thickest Flemish tapestry adorned with bullion tassels, they separate this apartment from another one behind it. Opposite this, facing the garden, are pretty windows opening on a balcony, which has brilliant colored awnings over it and seats upon it.
Upon a cushioned lounge within the oriel window, the sun’s setting rays tinting her dark hair, sits Hermoine. But even as he enters she is up to meet him, saying: “I’ve made no change in my toilet; I couldn’t bear to keep you waiting, you—you are so hungry!” then cries out, clapping hands: “Supper instantly.”
At once the heavy tapestries in two of the arches, drawn up by bullion cords drape themselves in graceful festoons, showing the dining-room, in which stands a table covered with snowy linen, decorated by silver and gold plate, sparkling with Venetian glass, and made pretty by flowers.
“Colonel Amati, thy arm!” murmurs Hermoine, and putting a white hand within his, the two go in together to a meal served in a luxury Guy has never seen before, even at the court of Elizabeth; for there are strangely curious implements to eat with called forks, of which he does not know the use, preferring as a polished English gentleman his fingers and a napkin.
But his hostess insists on showing him how to use these Italian inventions, and teaches him how to get the instrument into his mouth without skewering his tongue, over which Guy laughs rather ruefully, crying: “I pray you, lady Hermoine, don’t make me lose more blood!”
At this she grows a little pale, and looking at him mutters: “Your wounds, oh yes!—your awful wounds. Eat and grow strong for my sake.” Then her loving hands compel Guy to make a giant meal, to which he is nothing loath, as the cuisine is of the finest and the wine of the rarest Spanish vintages—the Rhine wine cooled with snow and ice—a new wrinkle in luxury to which the English sailor does the fullest justice.
All this time the girl eats nothing, making her meal off Guy with her eyes.
“You—you eat nothing, my Hermoine,” whispers the cavalier, becoming anxious on his side.
“Oh, I’ve grown used to fasting,” she says, “you know I was preparing myself for convent life. Wouldn’t it have been horrible?” and a charming moue gives piquancy to the embrio nun.
“You would have entered a convent for my sake?”
“I thought so. There was a great house in Valladolid—that I was to be the Lady Abbess of—I was to dower it so grandly—”
“You—a lady abbess?”
“Yes. Don’t I look austere?” prattles Miss Happiness. “Perhaps, though, I would have changed my mind. I was getting tired of the prayer-book already. But now I think no more of midnight vigils—oh, Guido mio—tell me it is not a dream.”
“I’ll do more—I’ll prove it!” whispers Guy, and rises from the table.
He looks as if he would like to make love again. And perhaps being very willing for him to have his way in this matter, the young lady gives a signal to her two Moorish girls who have waited upon them, as Chester and Hermoine pass from the dining-room to the other apartment, the curtains fall behind them, and they are alone.
“Come into the window; we’ll have moonlight later,” remarks the young lady. And somehow they find themselves side by side looking over the soft waves of the Schelde, a gentle summer breeze coming in upon them from the open casement. “Would you like music?” suggests the lady.
“Your voice is enough for me.”
“Oh,” cries Hermoine, “I play the mandolin; I’ve some accomplishments. Besides I can dance the cachuca and the bolero. To-morrow evening I’ll have entertainment for thee. My Moorish girls play the harp and guitar, and I’ll invite De Busaco over.”
“Invite no one, please.”
“Not even little De Busaco, who would not believe you were dead?”
“No.”
“Do you know, perchance, he guesses our secret?”
“Why?”
“When he came to me he brought two letters he had found, having taken charge of your baggage. He handed them to me, remarking: ‘I think these may have interest for you.’ You, my Guido, didn’t keep them with you.” There is reproach in her eyes.
“I kept your letter with me,” answers Guy, with happy inspiration.
“My letters” corrects the girl; “I sent you three.”
“Oh, yes, but I—I call this one your letter, the one that came to me last, the one that I carried with me to stain with my blood, the one that sent me to win promotion against the English captain,” and Chester produces the epistle taken from the dead Guido Amati after the battle on the ice.
“Yes, the letter for which I cursed myself,” cries Hermoine, “the one I had supposed had brought you death for love of me; the letter that asked you to capture that brave Englishman, I’ll not call him cruel now.” With this the girl sheds tears upon the missive Guy has given to her, and murmurs: “Tell me all about your adventures when away from me.”
Thus compelled Chester gives a detailed account of the skirmish on the ice, from the Spanish standpoint, and finally tells her that he really thinks one more battle will make him a general; and so goes on weaving the threads very deftly that Colonel Guido Amati de Medina, all unknown to himself, is bringing together to cause the extraordinary catastrophe that will shortly come upon him.
A minute after he says, looking over the Schelde: “Are you not afraid of visits from these Beggars of the Sea?”
“No,” replies Hermoine, “Every fighter of them has gone to Holland. Besides, I have eight armed lackeys within the house and stables, four more as escort of the galley, there is a garrison at Lillo, and half a company at Sandvliet, just round that point.” Her white arm makes graceful gesture. “I am safe here from every one but you, my Guido.”
And Guy, looking over the waters of the Schelde now illuminated by the rising moon, thinks: “Safe from all but me.” For he sees in the Krom Vliet, just against the South Beveland shore, the masts of the Dover Lass, and into his head has come a plan by which he will take Hermoine de Alva at her word and make her his very own.
