Patroon van Volkenberg

by Henry Thew Stephenson

With that he bowed again, first to the Earl, then to the company, and left the room.

For a moment, I, who was the cause of this disgrace, felt almost as if the victory were the patroon’s. Every person present, even the Earl, sat abashed as if he had done something wrong. For a moment I almost agreed with the Earl, and wished I had not spied through the window. How nobly the patroon had sustained his defeat! There was no storming, no begging; he simply accepted the inevitable and bowed with dignity in his ruin. He was such a man as one would gladly serve if he were only upon the side of right and honor. Sympathy with the manliness of the patroon, however, soon gave way as the consciousness of his treachery and double dealing again grew uppermost in my mind. The only lasting effect of this scene upon me was a deep-seated joy such as a man feels when he meets a worthy foe. My determination was strengthened, not weakened, by this short-lived attack of sympathy for my enemy.

Meantime the patroon mounted his horse at the entrance of the fort. Scarcely was he through the massive stone gateway before a great change came over him. He broke out into loud peals of laughter. He clapped spurs to his horse and rode furiously to the house of Colonel Fletcher. All the way from the fort to the house of his friend he was laughing and calling out at the top of his voice and waving his arms about his head like a man taken in a fit. An hour later he was carried out of the house like a sick man, deposited in a sedan chair, and in this conveyance taken to his home.

CHAPTER XIV
PLOTTING WITHOUT THE EARL

Later in the day of Van Volkenberg’s disgrace, Lady Marmaduke and I were talking together in no very pleasant frame of mind. We both knew the far-reaching power of the Red Band, and the extremes to which the patroon would go in order to carry out his designs. He now knew that it was I who had brought his disgrace upon him. People are always likely to suspect and hate those whom they have injured beyond repair. The death of Ruth was enough to account for any blow that the patroon might aim at me. Add to this motive the fact that I had brought humiliation upon him, that I had been the cause of his expulsion from the council, and one can easily imagine how little reason there was to believe that I should be overlooked in his subsequent meditations. The injury I had done to the patroon not only held him up to ridicule and scorn, but also, by removing him from the governor’s council, deprived him of his most potent means of plotting against the Earl. Take it all in all, I was treading in dangerous water, and both Lady Marmaduke and I knew it.

“How do you expect to escape his vengeance?” she said in a significantly despondent tone. “How will you keep your head on your shoulders till tomorrow morning or next day?”

I smiled grimly, but made no reply to her question. In fact, I was all at sea as to what to do, and I knew that she was in the same state of mind. For several minutes there was silence between us; neither of us had a word further to say. Of a sudden my mistress snapped her fingers and a light as of a new idea began to sparkle in her eyes.

“He is a Catholic,” she said. “I wish the laws that apply to priests would apply to him.” She muttered these words half aloud as if she was talking to herself. But her next sentence was addressed to me. “You know that when a Jesuit priest steps across the boundary of our province we hang him. That is our law.” She dropped her eyes again and seemed, as before, to muse aloud. “Poor little Ruth. Such sweet, sweet eyes; so sad. They were not sad at first—they grew sad. Had it been only trouble that won her young life away! But to be robbed of it by a Roman Catholic. If you could have seen her face, so cold and pale when I went to see the mark of the hot iron!” She turned her eyes towards me suddenly. “Have you ever smelt burning flesh?” she demanded.

“For God’s sake!” I cried. “You pierce me to the heart.”

Words cannot express the agony I felt at this mention of the manner of my sister’s death; but, in spite of my misery, Lady Marmaduke went on without pity.