The Silent Prince

Front matter

“Junius dealt the animal a powerful blow.” Page 20.

The

A Story of the Netherlands

Introduction

THE SILENT PRINCE

INTRODUCTION.

It was Christmas morning in Brussels in the year of grace 1565. For twenty-four hours the snow had been steadily falling, but now the storm had ceased, and the stars shone clear and bright from the frosty sky. The streets of the capital were deserted, if we except a few belated travellers who were hurriedly seeking shelter from the piercing northwest wind.

The festivities incident to Christmas Eve had ceased. The good people of Brussels were quietly sleeping with joyful anticipations of a brighter tomorrow. Well might the nation rejoice, and the denizens of the city peacefully repose. Had not a signal victory been gained? Was not the hated Cardinal Granvelle recalled to Madrid, and had not the Spanish troops been removed from the Netherlands?

Ten years had passed since the eyes of the world had been directed to that unique spectacle, which custom had not rendered stale—an imperial abdication. The crown which had begun to press too heavily upon the ambitious head of Charles the Fifth, emperor of Germany and king of Spain, was now formally laid aside and the sceptre was confided to younger hands. It was a rich and powerful kingdom which the abdication of Charles had placed in the hands of Philip the Second. The Netherlands comprised seventeen of the most flourishing provinces in Europe. For commercial pursuits, their situation in close proximity to the sea was unrivalled. The soil, which the industry and perseverance of the thrifty people had wrested from old ocean, was fertile and yielded rich harvests. The Netherlanders themselves were an honest, peaceable folk, yet when aroused they were the most belligerent and excitable population on the continent. The reformed religion, which had been crushed in Spain by the Inquisition, had developed in the Netherlands a kind of sacred patriotism, and freedom both of speech and of conscience was an established fact among all classes of society. The policy which had worked like magic in Spain, was a dismal failure in the Netherlands. Spain might be lurid with the flames of the auto da fé, and one by one the gentle voices of her noble Protestant martyrs might be silenced; in the Netherlands the love of religious liberty had taken fast root, and neither Philip's commands, the pope’s threats, nor the grand inquisitor’s bloody deeds could stamp it out of existence.

When the Emperor Charles entered the royal palace at Brussels, and leaning on the arm of William of Orange, delivered his valedictory address in broken accents to the assembled throng, the people wept and applauded. They forgot, in that hour, that it was his hand which had planted the Inquisition in their midst. His faithful subjects remembered only that he was a Fleming, and that his preference for the language and customs of his native land, neither the imperial crown of Germany, nor the Spanish diadem which destiny had added to the coronet of his fatherland, could diminish in the slightest degree. They readily took the oath of allegiance to support his son, and at the time they were sincere in their pledges of fealty.

Ten years wrought many changes. Philip the Second was soon detested by the Netherlanders as much as his father was revered. These provinces, so passionate in their desire for civil and religious liberty, had become the property of an utter stranger—a prince foreign to their blood, their tongue, their religion; to one whose oft-repeated maxim was, “Better not rule at all, than to rule over a nation of heretics.”

Philip had entrusted the subjugation of the Netherlands to two persons, the Regent, Margaret of Parma, and Cardinal Granvelle. The Regent was but a puppet in the hands of the King and the ambitious ecclesiastic. The people soon found that one by one their municipal privileges were withdrawn, their ancient charters annulled, religious persecution redoubled, and as a crowning insult, thousands of Spanish soldiers were quartered upon them in a time of peace.

Cardinal Granvelle was personally responsible for many of these evils. His zeal for the crown, combined with his arrogance, provoked the wrath of the nobles. Even the Regent, wearied with discord and strife, prayed for his dismissal. For five years Philip joined issue with the people of the Netherlands in a struggle of life and death. At last the nation, Catholics and Protestants alike, rose as one man and demanded the removal of Granvelle. Philip was compelled to discharge the hated prelate, and the latter left Brussels never to return.

An exultant shout went up from the Netherlands: “Granvelle has gone! The victory is ours!” A victory forsooth! yet one which was to be purchased only with the blood of eighty years of civil strife.

The herald angels sang once more on this Christmas morning their hallelujah chorus: “Glory to God in the highest; on earth peace, good will to men.” Tears must have mingled with hymn of praise, as they saw in the Netherlands “Hu bleeding but not killed, standing at bay and defying her hunters.”

But God's deliverer was at hand. Out of the gloomy background there rose a figure, at first indistinct, shadowy, but as the contest proceeded, becoming clearly defined. It was the figure of a man, who in this bigoted age loved and exercised tolerance in the affairs of conscience; a man, who to his latest breath contended that freedom of inquiry was an inalienable right of the human race; a man whose magnanimity and self-abnegation for the cause of freedom well deserved the double glory of exalted position and final martyrdom.

This man was William of Orange, the Silent Prince.

Chapter 1

CHAPTER I.

THE DEATHBED OF A PRINCESS.

Elizabeth Stuyvesant, widow of Duke Oswald, Burgrave of Ghent, (likewise Prince of Aremburg and Count Van Home,) lay dying. A great lady was she, princess, duchess and countess; yet death, that despotic tyrant, had dared to summon her hence. In a gorgeous palace in Brussels, surrounded by all the pageant and ceremony which wealth affords, the soul of this titled lady was passing to judgment.

The Princess Elizabeth was a good woman as the world counts goodness. She was benevolent, just, a loyal adherent and a zealous partisan of the Roman Catholic Church, and upright in all her dealings with those about her; in a word, her moral character was considered unimpeachable. Her faith taught her that such virtues as those enumerated would count for much at that Higher Tribunal to which she was hastening.

Strange as it may seem, these excellencies did not serve as a quietus for a troubled conscience. In spite of her exemplary life, the mind of the illustrious princess was ill at ease.

The silver-toned clock on the mantel struck the hour of midnight. The bells in the tower of St. Gudule sounded forth the Annunciation chimes. The sick woman stirred uneasily, and opened her eyes.

“What o’clock is it, Gretchen?” she inquired of the nurse.

“It is Christmas morning, gracious lady.”

“Has his reverence Monseigneur Ryder come?”

“No, my lady.”

“Pray, my good Gretchen, that he may not arrive too late to hear my confession.”

“Father Heemskirk is here and desires to see you,” said the nurse hesitatingly.

“I shall talk with no one except Monseigneur Ryder,” said the Princess with emphasis.

The hours sped by. The sick woman fell into a troubled slumber. Now and then her lips moved rapidly, and bending lower Gretchen caught these disjointed sentences:

“A prince of Aremburg, the Prince of Aremburg a Protestant! My God, that such should be the truth!... No one robbed him of his rightful heritage... He renounced it that he might follow his mad delusion... I did not disinherit him; his father did it. The blame is not mine... but it weighs heavily on my soul. I must try to make amends before I die... the time is getting short!”

The Princess opened her eyes. A gentle footfall was heard. The door opened noiselessly and a priest entered. He was tall, finely formed, with a refined face and clear-cut, pale features. His eyes were bright with the power of intellect. His voice, though low and well modulated, had yet in it a tone of command, which rendered obedience absolute. He advanced quickly to the bedside, and making the sign of the cross said, “In nomine Patris―et Filii―et Spiritûs Sancti, Amen.”

“The saints be praised, Monseigneur Ryder, that you have arrived in season. I have a secret to impart to you which presses heavily on my soul.”

“Make me a full confession at once,” replied the priest fastening his compelling eyes on the ones so rapidly glowing dim. “Your hours are numbered.”

The nurse entered the room, and after administering a cordial, quietly withdrew. The Princess began in a weak voice:

“Your reverence, I am called a good woman, yet for years I have aided and abetted a lie. It has been generally understood that my husband’s son died, and that in default of an heir these princely estates, at my decease, would revert to the Church. Such in fact were the conditions of Duke Oswald’s will. Father Ryder, the heir to all this property is living!”

The priest started visibly. “Do I understand you that Duke Oswald's son is alive?”

“He is, your reverence, but terrible to relate he is a Protestant.”

“A prince of Aremburg a heretic! What a disgrace!” said the priest. “How did it happen?”

“Francis had a tutor who unbeknown to us was a French Huguenot. He desired to travel with our son, assuring us that a polish and elegance of manner befitting our son’s rank could be obtained in no other way. Accordingly our son, in company with this treacherous tutor, travelled for a year on the continent, finally returning as far as Switzerland. From Geneva, Francis wrote that he had become a Huguenot. The blow fell upon us like lightning from a clear sky. Duke Oswald, in a towering rage, wrote immediately to his son, that unless he renounced these odious doctrines and returned to the Romish faith he would disinherit him. A prompt reply came from Francis, saying that while he regretted angering his father, he could not give up the Huguenot doctrines, for he believed them to be God’s truth. He furthermore announced that he would not bring disgrace upon our noble house by longer bearing its honored name: but that henceforth Francis Stuyvesant was dead. ‘Be it so!’ said the Duke in a voice like thunder. ‘My son is dead!’ The Duke then informed his household and his friends that Fran had died of a malignant fever and was buried abroad. We went into the deepest mourning and no one doubted our words.

“We heard nothing more from this ungrateful son until Duke Oswald lay upon his deathbed. Then a letter came from Francis begging his father to forgive him before he died. He wanted none of the princely fortune, but he desired a father’s blessing. His letter was dated at Borges and was signed by Francis La Force. The Duke tore the letter into strips, and turned his face to the wall. He would not allow me to summon Francis or even write to him. The next day he died without granting his son’s request. That was about ten years ago. Francis must now be in the neighborhood of twenty-five years of age, loveable, handsome, talented! My God, that such rare gifts should be so squandered!

“Your reverence, I have sent for Francis to come to me. I waited to consult with you before taking this important step, but as you delayed your coming, I acted as my heart dictated. I love the lad and I want to try to persuade him to return to the arms of the Church. Perhaps by this time, he will be glad to cast aside his delusions. If he consents to renounce his Huguenot ideas, and will become a good Catholic, he shall inherit my private fortune, which will make him independently rich. If he fails to come, or refuses my request, this money will go to charitable objects. I trust that I have not displeased your reverence.”

“You have acted unwisely, my daughter, but in your present condition this is not surprising. Had I been with you, I should have counselled you differently. Your offence has been merely the result of physical weakness, and is therefore pardonable. If you will promise that you will not leave your fortune to that heretic if he continues in wilful sin, I will grant you absolution.”

“I promise.”

An unusual noise was heard in the courtyard. Voices were raised and doors were hastily opened and closed.

“Francis has come!” said the Princess. “Leave me, I pray you, Monseigneur, but remain within call. Bid Gretchen to admit my guest without delay.”

Her commands were obeyed, and shortly the dying woman and the Prince of Aremburg were face to face. The young stranger was certainly attractive. His figure, though slight, was well proportioned, and there was a dignity and grace in every movement. His face, with its aristocratic curves, bore a striking resemblance to the deceased Prince of Aremburg. Its expression was sweet, yet there were firm lines about the mouth, indicative of an ability to decide and to abide by his decisions with the courage born of conviction. His complexion was pale, but it was not the sickly pallor of an invalid, but rather the scholarly reflection from books.

For a moment the young man stood by the bedside of the dying Princess in silence. Then he said:

“We meet once more, Madame la Princesse. Tell me your commands quickly, that I may leave this place so full of sad remembrances.”

“Francis, I have summoned you to beg of you to return to the one true fold. You know that I love you, and your soul's salvation is dear to my heart. My fortune is at your disposal if you will only renounce your Huguenot doctrines. Will you not grant my dying request?”

“Dear madam,” said the young man with emotion, “your words affect me deeply, but my duty to God and my own conscience must precede my duty to man. I do not desire your money. I am a Protestant and shall always remain so. Is it possible that you do not know who I am?” He stooped and whispered a name in her ear. The effect was startling. With a shriek the Princess cried: “You, that vile, blasphemous preacher! Holy Mother! this is too much!” With a groan she sank fainting upon her pillows.

Monseigneur Ryder and the nurse hearing the Princess cry out, hurried to the bedside. The latter administered a strong stimulant, but it was in vain. The last great change was stealing over the face of the great lady. After giving the stranger a keen glance, the holy father began to perform the last rites of the Church. Before he had finished his prayers for the passing soul, the Princess Elizabeth was dead. Amid the lamentations and the confusion which the news of the great lady's decease caused her household, the Protestant preacher went unobserved from the palace.

It was only when Monseigneur Ryder's place was taken by other functionaries of the Church, and he was seated in the dead lady's oratory, that the face of the young man returned to his mind.

"That countenance is familiar," he mused. "Where have I met that man? Ah, I have it! It was two years ago when I was sent on a secret mission to Geneva. This young fellow was creating quite a stir with his wonderful oratorical gifts. The Prince of Aremburg and the proscribed preacher Francis Junius are one and the same person."

Father Ryder sprang to his feet and paced the floor in excitement. "May the saints forgive me, if I have unwittingly allowed the most dangerous heretic in all the Netherlands to slip out of my hands."

The priest left the oratory, and made his way with catlike tread to the courtyard, where several guards were lounging. Beckoning one of them into an anteroom, Father Ryder said, "Did you mark that stranger who was with the Princess during her last hours?”

“Yes, your reverence.”

“Where is he now?”

“He hurried off some time ago. I did not notice which way he went.”

“You must find him at all hazards.”

“I can try, your reverence.”

“Can you hold your tongue?”

“Surely, your reverence.”

“Then God and the Holy Virgin speed you on your way. If you are successful, you shall have a handful of ducats. But if I find you unfaithful, your back shall smart for many a day. Now begone!”

The priest returned to the oratory, but instead of repeating prayers for the dead, he was planning a scene in which Monseigneur Ryder and the heretic Francis Junius were to be chief actors.

Chapter 2

CHAPTER II.

THE ADVENTURE.

Francis Junius hurried from the presence of the Princess of Aremburg, feeling confident that the look of half recognition on the Jesuit’s face boded ill. He wrapped his fur-trimmed cloak more closely around him, and drawing his slouched hat well over his face, soon left the palace far behind in the distance.

As he neared the brow of a hill, a cry for help was heard. Looking back, the preacher saw a frightened horse covered with foam, which with hanging head and dilated nostrils was galloping madly on. The beast was a powerful animal, and his rider, a mere boy, had lost all control of him. He had loosened his hold on the reins and was clinging to the horse’s mane. It was evident that if the animal dashed down the hill, he would stumble and fall, or would at least succeed in flinging his rider. Without a second’s hesitation Junius threw himself directly in the path of the frightened steed, and seized the bridle. With an almost superhuman effort he endeavored to force the horse upon his haunches, but the maddened brute reared and plunged wildly, and threatened to throw the preacher down and trample him under his hoofs. Junius dealt the animal a powerful blow with his clenched fist on its forehead. The brute recognized the hand of a master, and quivering in every limb he stood still.

The young rider slipped off the horse's back and stood before his rescuer.

“Seigneur,” he said in faltering tones, “how can I express my thanks to you? You have saved me from a terrible death.”

The lad who thus spoke was perhaps fifteen years of age, with a tall slight figure and a delicate feminine face. His features were perfect in outline. The rounded chin and curved lips were exquisitely formed. The broad white brow was shaded by rings of bronze-blue hair, and from under delicately pencilled eyebrows looked forth a pair of wonderful dark-blue eyes, clear yet fathomless, like a lake on which the sun is shining. That the lad belonged to a family of consequence was evidenced by his rich though disorderly dress.

Junius was attracted by the frank, ingenuous countenance of the youth, and he answered with a smile, “Yes, my young sir, you have had a narrow escape. My appearance at this time was truly providential. You are not strong enough to manage such a powerful animal.”

“Fritz said that I was foolhardy,” answered the boy, “and I now know that he was right. But for you, I should have paid dearly for my wilfulness.”

Just at this moment a servant in splendid livery rode up on horseback, pale and breathless.

“Ah, my lord Hugo,” he said, “you have given me a terrible fright. I will never consent again to your riding this wicked brute. You know I told you he was altogether too fresh and full of mettle for you to use. I fairly held my breath when you dashed out of sight. My lord knows that I cannot refuse him anything,” and Fritz gazed reproachfully into the face of his youthful master.

“You have a right to rebuke me,” replied Hugo. “I admit that I was a foolish fellow not to take your advice. But I want you to say nothing to my uncle about the affair, there's a good Fritz. You know uncle will not allow me my liberty, if he should know of this escapade. There really is no harm done to any one. See, I have not so much as a scratch! Now take both the horses back to the stable. I will follow as soon as I have spoken with my rescuer.”

Fritz gave a reluctant consent to his master's request, and departed to do his bidding.

The boy turned once more to Junius.

“Seigneur,” he said, “can I not do something for you to repay you for your kindness? Or, better yet, will you not accompany me to my uncle's house? You look sad and ill. I know my uncle would do much for one who has saved the life of his favorite nephew.”

“And what may your uncle's name be?” replied Junius, touched by the lad's ingenuous words and winning manner.

“Baron Berlaymont.” The effect of this name upon Francis Junius was electrical.

“You, the nephew of the Tiger of Brussels?” burst from the preacher's lips. “Is it possible to rear a dove in a falcon's nest?”

“The Tiger of Brussels,” repeated the boy in astonishment. “is that what people call my uncle? Why should one so good and kind be called a tiger? It is unjust, monstrous!”

“Ask Baron Berlaymont to take you to the dungeons of the Inquisition in Brussels, where hundreds of your fellow countrymen languish in noisome cells, or to witness the spectacle, far from rare, of the terrible auto da fé. Your uncle's voice is heard in all the councils. His lips are the first to denounce the heretic. You will then find an answer to your question.”

The youth gazed spellbound into the stern face of the preacher. His cheek flushed and paled. The fruits of the tree of knowledge were already producing bitterness of soul. Hugo whispered rather than spoke the words, “Is my uncle one of the inquisitors?”

Junius regretted his harsh accusation as he gazed into the guileless face of the boy, and his heart smote him with sharp reproach. He would gladly have retracted his words, when he saw the pain he had caused. He had unwittingly changed the whole tenor of that young life. He had forever closed the golden door of trust in that young heart. With a word he had exposed the sin and misery of the world in their nakedness. With a look of compassion, and with infinite tenderness, he answered,

“Yes, my boy.”

“And is it because you are a heretic that you will not seek my uncle's presence?”

Again the preacher nodded assent.

Hugo Berlaymont stood for a moment in thoughtful silence, then he said, “Seigneur, I want to know more about your religion.”

Junius smiled sadly. “Why seek, my boy, to enter upon so dangerous an experiment? You are young, and your path in life is without doubt already mapped out for you.”

“Seigneur, I must know the truth.”

The preacher was silent for a few moments. The passion for souls was strong within him. In this time of religious and political upheaval, mighty interests left small space for delicacy of feeling. The thought that he was acting in direct antagonism to the wishes of the lad's natural guardian never occurred to Junius in the far greater question of the lad's eternal happiness or misery. That he might test his companion's strength of character, he hazarded another argument.

“My boy, the religion you seek is banned and persecuted. You can learn about it only by stealth, Are you capable of keeping inviolate a weighty secret?”

“I am,” was the fearless reply. Looking into the earnest face of the youth, the preacher's last, lingering objection was silenced.

“The finger of God is in this request,” he said devoutly. “I may not deny my Master's message to any sincere seeker. Come to-night to the shop of the hairdresser, Monsieur Le Févre, where I shall preach the Word to the brethren. The password is ‘Fidelity.’ I trust you implicitly. Having saved your life, I know that you will not deliver me into the hands of the Inquisition.” With a kind smile, Junius held out his hand in farewell.

“You can trust me, Seigneur,” cried Hugo, “I will never betray you.”

Chapter 3

CHAPTER III.

THE HUGUENOT PREACHER.

In all the large towns and cities throughout Holland and Belgium, and even in Brussels, where resided the Regent, the preaching of the reformed faith was carried forward. Now winked at, now persecuted with the utmost vigor, always exposed to mortal peril, the Reformation never lacked fearless and devoted preachers. Some of these were converted monks, like Christopher Fabricius, Hermann Strycker and Peter Dathenus. Others were men of humble calling and no education, who, unfortunately for themselves and others, remembered at this time that the early disciples were not doctors of theology or the proud possessors of diplomas from the centres of learning. These curriers, barbers, tinkers, and dyers began to preach also. It is a sad fact that their ill-timed exhortations sometimes did more to retard the cause of the Reformation than to advance it.

But the charge of illiteracy could not be levelled at such preachers as Ambrose Wille, Guy de Bray, Peregrine de la Grange and Francis Junius, all men of culture and learning, and all scions of the noblest houses in France and Belgium. These men had been educated at the most celebrated universities, and had studied theology at the feet of Calvin.

After his meeting with the preacher, Hugo Berlaymont spent the remainder of the day in the library. At dusk, he had no difficulty in leaving the house unobserved, for his uncle was away, and the servants were too much occupied with their own affairs to watch his movements. This night expedition had about it all the coloring of a romance, and the spice of danger only deepened the fascination.

The shop of the celebrated hairdresser was brilliantly lighted, and several patrons were receiving the attentions of the tonsorial artists, when Hugo entered the door. Monsieur le Févre came forward with smiles and eloquent gestures of welcome. Yet a gleam of suspicion lurked in his eye, as he beheld the nephew of Baron Berlaymont,—the man of whom it was asserted that he had but one passion stronger than his pride, and that was his bigotry: that slavish vassal of the Church, whose fanaticism and cruelty had earned for him the title, “Tiger of Brussels.”

“How can I serve my lord?” said Monsieur, bowing obsequiously.

Hugo drew the hairdresser aside, and said in a whisper, “I desire speech with the preacher who is to come here to-night. I met and talked with him to-day. He said the word ‘Fidelity’ would admit me to his presence.” Le Févre looked into the youth's honest eyes, and was satisfied with their expression.

“All right!” he said briefly. “Follow me.”

After looking around and seeing that the last customer had been served, Monsieur told his attendants to close the shop for the night. He then said in a loud voice to Hugo, “Perfumes, did you say? Come, my lord, into the next room, and I will show you some perfumes worthy of your inspection. It only remains for you to select the odor you prefer. Many young gentlemen are fond of musk, but to me it is very disagreeable.”

The door which led into the front shop being closed, it is needless to state that Le Févre and his companion did not loiter to test the quality of concentrated extracts. Behind a curtain was a door, and through this the two entered a long, dimly lighted passage, passed through another door, and then down a flight of stairs into a large cellar.

About a hundred people were present, mostly men and women from the humble walks of life―mechanics, artisans, farmers, bakers—all sons of toil, with their wives and children. It needed but a glance into those earnest, devout faces to read the tale of suffering and devotion to a well-chosen cause. Old men with whitened locks were there, who, though unable by reason of feebleness to defend their faith, yet were willing to suffer for its preservation. Tender women were there with faces of sweet resignation. Boys and girls hardly old enough to grasp the great truths of their faith, or to fully comprehend its dangers, were there, as well as men in the prime of their life, who were fully determined to fight valiantly for their convictions. Calamity and ruin menaced every one present, yet the audience sat listening with eagerness to every word which fell from the lips of their beloved preacher; words which, if overheard by their enemies, would deliver them over to certain destruction. A hymn was being sung when the hairdresser and his companion entered the cellar. They sat down in the rear of the audience, unobserved, except by a few persons. The only light in the cellar was from a single lamp, so placed that its rays shone directly upon the preacher's face, and brought out in bold relief his stern, pale features. Thought and sorrow and hardship had ploughed deep furrows on that noble countenance, and robbed it of every vestige of color. Pale as marble, it gleamed from under the dark hair. His eyes surveyed his unlettered audience, and seemed to divine the secret thoughts of the men and women before him.

The preacher was attired in a dark suit, noticeable for its simplicity and lack of ornamentation. A dagger hung by his side. In fact, every man present had a weapon of some kind concealed about his person. The Netherlanders believed in the righteousness of armed resistance, and their preachers were of necessity men of war.