Adrian reached the Witte Poort, and paused on this side of the moat toreflect about things in general. Like most young men of his time andblood, as has been said, he had military leanings, and was convincedthat, given the opportunity, he might become one of the foremostgenerals of his age. Now he was engaged in imagining himself besiegingLeyden at the head of a great army, and in fancy disposing his forcesafter such fashion as would bring about its fall in the shortestpossible time. Little did he guess that within some few years this veryquestion was to exercise the brain of Valdez and other great Spanishcaptains.
Whilst he was thus occupied suddenly a rude voice called,
"Wake up, Spaniard," and a hard object--it was a green apple--struckhim on his flat cap nearly knocking out the feather. Adrian leapedround with an oath, to catch sight of two lads, louts of about fifteen,projecting their tongues and jeering at him from behind the angles ofthe gate-house. Now Adrian was not popular with the youth of Leyden,and he knew it well. So, thinking it wisest to take no notice of thisaffront, he was about to continue on his way when one of the youths,made bold by impunity, stepped from his corner and bowed before him tillthe ragged cap in his hand touched the dust, saying, in a mocking voice,
"Hans, why do you disturb the noble hidalgo? Cannot you see that thenoble hidalgo is going for a walk in the country to look for his mosthigh father, the honourable duke of the Golden Fleece, to whom he istaking a cockolly bird as a present?"
Adrian heard and winced at the sting of the insult, as a high-bred horsewinces beneath the lash. Of a sudden rage boiled in his veins like afountain of fire, and drawing the dagger from his girdle, he rushed atthe boys, dragging the hooded hawk, which had become dislodged from hiswrist, fluttering through the air after him. At that moment, indeed, hewould have been capable of killing one or both of them if he could havecaught them, but, fortunately for himself and them, being preparedfor an onslaught, they vanished this way and that up the narrow lanes.Presently he stopped, and, still shaking with wrath, replaced the hawkon his wrist and walked across the bridge.
"They shall pay for it," he muttered. "Oh! I will not forget, I will notforget."
Here it may be explained that of the story of his birth Adrian had heardsomething, but not all. He knew, for instance, that his father's namewas Montalvo, that the marriage with his mother for some reason wasdeclared to be illegal, and that this Montalvo had left the Netherlandsunder a cloud to find his death, so he had been told, abroad. More thanthis Adrian did not know for certain, since everybody showed a singularreticence in speaking to him of the matter. Twice he had plucked upcourage to question his mother on the subject, and on each occasion herface had turned cold and hard as stone, and she answered almost in thesame words:
"Son, I beg you to be silent. When I am dead you will find all the storyof your birth written down, but if you are wise you will not read."
Once he had asked the same question of his stepfather, Dirk van Goorl,whereupon Dirk looked ill at ease and answered:
"Take my advice, lad, and be content to know that you are here andalive with friends to take care of you. Remember that those who dig inchurchyards find bones."
"Indeed," replied Adrian haughtily; "at least I trust that there isnothing against my mother's reputation."
At these words, to his surprise, Dirk suddenly turned pale as a sheetand stepped towards him as though he were about to fly at his throat.
"You dare to doubt your mother," he began, "that angel out of Heaven--"then ceased and added presently, "Go! I beg your pardon; I should haveremembered that you at least are innocent, and it is but natural thatthe matter weighs upon your mind."
So Adrian went, also that proverb about churchyards and bones made suchan impression on him that he did no more digging. In other words heceased to ask questions, trying to console his mind with the knowledgethat, however his father might have behaved to his mother, at least hewas a man of ancient rank and ancient blood, which blood was his to-day.The rest would be forgotten, although enough of it was still rememberedto permit of his being taunted by those street louts, and when it wasforgotten the blood, that precious blue blood of an hidalgo of Spain,must still remain his heritage.
Lysbeth, a Tale of the Dutch Page 24
