IX
The evening Angelus has just ceased to ring, and a man is ushered into the presence of the Captain-General; he is naked, and his body is covered with sticky mud and dripping with slime; his face is hardly recognisable through a thick mask of sweat and grime.
"I come from Braepoort, Magnificence," he says in a low, quaking voice, for obviously he is all but exhausted. "I ran round the town, and struck into the morass ... I am a man of Ghent ... I know a track ... that's why Captain Serbelloni sent me."
"With what news?" queries Alva impatiently.
"None too good, Magnificence," replies the man. "The commandants at the gates are sorely pressed ... I hailed the guard at the Brügge and Waalpoorts as I passed ... they are isolated ... every one of them ... and each separately attacked by bands of rebels who fight desperately.... The Braepoort cannot hold out much longer ... Captain Serbelloni asks for help even before nightfall."
"Help?" vociferates Alva savagely, "how can I send them help? We are besieged in this accursed place; we cannot fight our way through the rabble, unless some of those oafs at the city gates come to our assistance. Help? 'Tis I want help here."
"The gates are being bravely defended, Magnificence. But the rebels still hold the centre of the city. They have seized 'Sgravensteen. Two thousand Walloons have surrendered to them..."
"Two thousand!" exclaims Alva with a fierce oath, "the miserable poltroons."
"At least three thousand rebels threaten the Kasteel."
"I know that well enough," retorts Alva roughly. "They have made five breaches in our wall! ... the bandits! Help! 'tis I want help!" he reiterates with a loud curse.