# The Silent Prince/Chapter 22

CHAPTER XXII.
A FORETASTE OF TERROR.
In the grounds adjoining the barracks at Calais paced a young officer. He had a noble, thoughtful face, just such a face as Rembrandt delighted to portray. He was strongly built but thin of flesh. A nascent force characterized his every movement. To be near him was like coming within the radius of a strong electric current.
There was little to occupy the attention of the garrison in this sleepy old town. Colonel Reynold Van Straalen caught himself in the act of suppressing a yawn.
“Things are growing intolerable,” he said to himself. “We shall soon be useless ships if we are always to ride at anchor. Would that I could hear from home.”
Some one beckoned to him from the barracks. “There is a stranger who wishes to speak with you,” said the guard with a salute.
An elderly man in humble apparel stood before the young officer.
“Colonel Van Straalen does not remember me, I see,” said the stranger. “It is no wonder, for I ​have grown old so fast these last few years. I am Jacob Vermer, your father's butler.”
“You are welcome,” said the young man, eagerly grasping the hand of the old servant. “Now I shall hear from my friends. Are they well?”
“This packet will explain everything to you, sir,” replied the butler evasively.
Forebodings of evil tidings paled the officer’s cheek. Bidding the guard give the butler some refreshments, the young man excused himself and hastened to his own room to peruse the contents of the packet. There were two letters, one from his friend, Conrad Chenoweth, and the other from his father. He read the latter one first. It was as follows:
“My dear son:
“When you receive this communication I shall be no more. To-morrow I am to be executed like a common criminal, by the order of Alva’s Blood Council. I, the Burgomaster of Antwerp, a loyal citizen and a sincere Catholic, to die like a felon—the thought is intolerable. I had hoped that your service to the State would save me from such a terrible doom, but this is the way Philip rewards his loyal subjects. Your mother died a few weeks ago of a broken heart. Hilvardine has been abducted, and is either in the hands of the ruthless Chancellor of Brabant or in the grasp of the Inquisition.
​“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 ​Netherlands. I deeply regret the terrible sorrows which have been laid upon you. Your father executed by Alva, your mother dead, your sister in the hands of enemies. You may not be aware of the fact that your father promised me the hand of your sister in marriage if I would rescue her from her fate. I am searching for Hilvardine day and night, but so far with no success.
“My father was a prisoner of the Inquisition for a short time, but made his escape and fled to Germany. My mother and sister are in Friesland. The Prince of Orange is an outlawed rebel, and is trying to raise an army with which to succor the Netherlands. May God bless his endeavors to save our unhappy country.
“Your devoted friend,
“Conrad Chenoweth.”
A hasty summons from the commanding officer roused the young man from sad reflections. He found General Berlaymont reading some despatches.
“Van Straalen,” he said, “here are some letters for you which were inclosed in one of my father’s letters. I was requested that they be delivered to you in safety, as they were important.”
Colonel Van Straalen opened one document, which proved to be from the Chancellor of Brabant, and stated that the house owned by the late ​Burgomaster, Anthony Van Straalen of Antwerp, had been purchased by a Catholic, who was willing to assume all risks. The heirs to the estate both being heretics, the court had decided that they had forfeited all right to the estate of the said Burgomaster. The personal property of the deceased, which was considerable, would revert by law to the State. This was in substance the contents of the letter.
The other document bore an imposing mitre on the seal. The contents were as follows:
“To Heer Reynold Van Straalen, Colonel in His Majesty’s army, stationed at Calais.
“Sir: By special indulgence, I have given Mademoiselle La Tour permission to write you for the last time before becoming a nun at the convent of the Sacred Heart at Brussels. She takes the veil in a month. After that ceremony, all her relations with the outside world will cease.
“A servant of Jesus,
“Julius Ryder,
“Superior of the House of the Jesuits at Brussels.”
“Have you had bad news?” asked General Berlaymont, noticing the officer’s agitation.
“Yes,” replied his companion, and he briefly related the misfortunes which had befallen him. “I beg you to excuse me from duty to-night.”
​In the privacy of his own room he examined the letter of Katharine La Tour. It was a reflection of the Superior's letter, telling him of her purpose to become a nun, and relating the circumstances which had led her to make this decision.
"I hope, Reynold," she concluded, "that you will not feel that I have broken faith with you. You are still the dearest earthly friend I now have. Our faiths are so radically different, that it would not be wise for us to wed. I am a sincere Roman Catholic, and you are equally sincere as a Protestant. A husband and wife ought to walk hand in hand the pathway to heaven. So it seemed best for me to break this attachment of my childhood.
"I am happy in my choice of a home. If I could be assured that my act was not giving you a lasting pang, I should sing for joy at the prospect of a life wholly devoted to God. I shall always remember my friend and brother before the throne of grace."
"Katharine La Tour."
The young man crushed the letter in his hand. "This is madness," he said angrily, "fanaticism run to seed. That wily priest has Katharine wholly under his influence." The next morning Reynold Van Straalen sought his commanding officer.
"I wish to return to Brussels at once to find my sister and to remove her to a place of safety. I herewith resign my commission in the King's army. ​Please furnish me with the necessary passports which will enable me to reach the capital in safety."
The superior officer was full of sympathy for his friend. Although the son of Baron Berlaymont, he was tolerant, and he had learned that Protestants made more reliable soldiers than the Catholics.
"Have you friends of influence in Brussels who can assist you?" he inquired.
"I place great hopes on Count Egmont. He has always befriended me since I served under him, and his influence at court is considerable."
"If my father were not a fanatic, he might help you to secure your father's estate, which is legally yours by the ancient law of the land. But why do I speak of him? He regards every heretic as a sworn enemy to the government. He has tried in vain to thrust his popish ideas down my throat. I know that the Protestants are as sincerely attached to the government as the oath of allegiance can make them. All they want is liberty of worship, and by the mass they have a right to demand that! Suppose the Regent should try to force the Catholics to worship some other way! What a howl of execration would ascend all over the land! Go, by all means, Van Straalen, and I will help you all that I can."