# My Lady of Orange/Chapter 8
### CHAPTER VIII
#### THE WAYS OF DESERTERS

"Sir, this is a day of good tidings!" It was the little burgomaster came tip-toeing into our room ere we had sat. "Sir, this is a day of good tidings. God has been very gracious unto us!" The poor man was breathless in his hurry, but he carried his head very high now; quite other was he than the hesitating fool of the day before.
"And to you we owe much," he went on. "All has fallen out as you said. Breuthe will never forget who made the plan that saved her; and truly, sir, in some sense I owe you an amend. I confess that yesterday I doubted your wisdom. I was wrong, sir."
"Do not speak of it," said I. He bowed.
"We must send a message to the Prince, sir. I think every horse in the town is yours."
"Yes, we shall not have to eat them now," said I. "I will provide a messenger; and for the present—pardon me, but we were on the walls all night."
"You shall not have cause to call us ungrateful, sir," he said. "I bid you farewell."
Gaspar had said nothing since we entered the house, and he listened to the little burgomaster without a smile. Even after the burgomaster had gone he sat staring at the table. At last he sprang up.
"The little man is right, captain," he cried. "I was wrong again. I ask your pardon. I doubted you yesterday, too. We have fought together near ten years. I had less excuse. Captain, after this I would follow you to hell."
I put my hand in his. Better soldier or truer friend than Gaspar never walked this earth. How much of the credit for saving Breuthe belongs to him you know who have read this tale. How much he has done for me I think no one can ever know.
There in that little room I took up a pen:
"What shall I say, Gaspar?"
"‘Breuthe is safe: no es nada!’" quoth Gaspar.
"I have the honour to inform your Highness that the siege of Breuthe is raised.
"John Newstead."
I read the words as I wrote them. "Who shall we send?" I asked.
"Gott! Send Vermeil. He will like the job," grunted Gaspar. And so it was done; we sent Vermeil and we went to bed.
Late in the next day came great news: a courier came to the town with letters for the burgomaster and St. Trond telling how Alkmaar had closed its gates and declared for Orange. These were the first-fruits of the long siege of Breuthe. If a little town could hold out so long, a larger might hold out longer; so they thought in Alkmaar ere they heard of the raising of Breuthe's siege. Tidings of that would scarce make them more disposed to surrender. So Breuthe was very joyful, and only a few men who knew that Alkmaar would provoke all Alva's strength, who knew how strong Alva was, and who remembered that the force before Breuthe would now be added to the others marching on Alkmaar under Don Frederico, Alva's son—only these few looked grave.
"Ach! why could they not wait for the winter!" grunted Gaspar. "Then would be the time to take sides, when troops cannot move!"
So he said, and so I thought too, while the people of Breuthe sung psalms of thanksgiving. You shall see which of us were right.
Vermeil came back with answers from Orange loud in praise of us all, which bade us send an escort to Delft that he might come to thank us himself. But the next day came some one with tidings of greater moment, a German deserter from Alva's force. The burgomaster came bustling round to tell us and bid us to a council at his house. Gaspar was just about to start with the escort for Orange as he came, and so I went alone.
Laurenz de St. Trond was there. I had not spoken to him since the morning after the fight in the market-place.
"And so, sir, good has come of the crime, after all?" said I as I entered. He looked at me gravely.
"A crime is not less a crime because it is successful—or profitable," he said slowly. The burgomaster had gone to bid his servants bring wine, and we were alone.
"And yet I was right," I answered; "it was the only way."
"You have raised the siege of Breuthe. Yes. You are a better soldier, sir, than I. Perhaps it is not for me to judge you, but I would rather have been one of those men you betrayed to their death than you!"
I stared at him: this was another tale from the burgomaster's! My plan had succeeded, and the burgomaster had talked of the grace of God, but St. Trond liked it none the better for that. Well, I am no saint—you have found that out by now—but I did not feel inclined to boast to St. Trond any more.
The burgomaster came back with his wine.
"Gentlemen, the information is this," he began solemnly. "Alva is marching with all his force on Alkmaar!"
"I could have told that," said I, sipping the wine.
"He is marching by Herpt and Haring."
I put the wine down.
"Ah! this is the deserter's tale," said I.
"The question to decide is what action we are to take," quoth St. Trond. I stared at him.
"What action? Why, none," I cried.
"Men from all quarters are gathering to Alkmaar," said he. "It is said there will soon be fourteen thousand men in the lines."
"Probably more," said I.
"Still you advise us to do nothing?" said St. Trond quickly.
"Cordieu! yes; because we can do nothing. Alva has three thousand still. We cannot make a thousand to march. The risk is too great. And what should we gain if we won? If we lost we bring him back here."
"But how will Alkmaar fare?" cried the burgomaster.
"Charity begins at home," I said drily.
St. Trend's eyes flashed.
"You were ready enough to fight men in a trap," he answered scornfully.
"I am ready enough to fight when aught can be gained," said I.
"I wonder if you ever fought without thinking of yourself," St. Trond said.
"I fight for the man who pays me!" quoth I.
St. Trond looked at me sadly, and so fixedly that my eyes fell, and then he began to speak softly, as if we were alone.
"There was a man went into Alva's camp, and one thing that made him go was the wish to save a girl of whom he knew little, because he fancied he had failed in his duty to her before; and there was a man took money from those he led to their death; will you tell me which man is giving counsel now?"
"Cordieu! both," I cried. "I had to pay my men—let that pass. What is it that you would do?"
"I would attack Alva!" said he.
"Heaven above us! Where? How? With what force?"
"Between Herpt and Haring. With those who will follow me."
"I should guess they will be few. So you take Alva's route on the word of a deserter?"
"Is he the only deserter we have trusted in Breuthe?" he asked. Ay, it was a fair thrust, and I did not gainsay him.
"Then you will go, in spite of all?" I cried.
"If the men of Breuthe will follow me."
He rose and went out and left the burgomaster and me looking at each other.
"Indeed, sir, I think the Seigneur de St. Trond spoke harshly more than once——" began the burgomaster.
"He is going to destruction," I said sharply. "Will he get men to follow him?"
"There are men in Breuthe—many a one—would follow anywhere he led," said the burgomaster. " Do you think, sir, there is no chance of success?"
"Chance? There may be a chance. But the risk, man, the risk!" said I. "What in the devil's name made Alkmaar rise when Alva's forces lay all around it?"
"Sir, it is better to die for a faith and die free than live under Alva and the Inquisition," said the burgomaster quietly.
I sat silent, playing with the wine-glass. A man does not like to find others braver than himself. Yet why risk so much for a town that chose to rise at an ill moment? The cause of Alkmaar was the cause of Orange, and I was a soldier of Orange. Ay, a soldier, and it was not war to risk my men on a bare chance. But St. Trond seemed still there with his steady eyes, and there was something grand about the man ready to throw his life away for the sake of those fools in Alkmaar. Fools? Were they fools? I had done what no man in Breuthe could do—torn the town out of Alva's grasp; and yet more than once before St. Trond, ay, even before the burgomaster, I had felt myself ashamed because my thoughts were not like theirs. Is a man a fool because he does not always follow his brain? Such were the thoughts that ran in my head as I sat in that wainscoted room, with the empty wine- glass in my fingers, and I sat there long while the little burgomaster watched me in silence. At last he left me, and I still sat thinking.
Suddenly the door opened and Gabrielle de St. Trond came in. I turned, and she drew back.
"I thought—I thought the burgomaster was here," she said.
"Your father and he have both been here, and gone."
She took a step forward.
"You do you know where my father has gone? I saw him march out of the gate. Where is he going?"
"He is going to attack Alva!"
"To attack Alva? With so few men?"
"To attack Alva? with so few men?"
"With all the men who would follow him," said I.
"You—you would not?"
"I would not."
"I might have known. I might have known," she cried. "You, oh you can be cruel to the helpless! You can even fight, if your pay is large enough! But to fight fairly, only for the cause—no, you will not risk that! You would rather see others go to their death."
"It was not with my good-will he went," said I.
"You thought it too dangerous?" I bowed. She laughed shortly.
"If you take me for a coward, remember I went into Alva's camp," I cried in anger.
"I wish I could forget," she said softly, and I saw the blue of her eyes grow darker behind the tears.
Yes, I had been thinking hours; and the end of my thoughts had come. I looked at the drooping head; and I rose and went out silently.
I hurried through the streets and found a trumpeter.
"Sound boot and saddle!" I cried.
The men came grumbling into the market-place, but ready enough to fight: a little success goes far.
"Where's Vermeil?" I asked Zouch when we were mustered.
"Went with the burghers, captain!" said he.
"With the burghers? Vermeil with the burghers?"
"Ay; oil and vinegar, eh, captain?"