[THE DUKE OF ALVA'S HUMILIATION.]
THIRD-PRIZE STORY.
BY GEORGE C. HIRST.
The dining-hall of Rudolstadt Castle was the object of much interest one morning in the old war-wearied days of 1547. Behind its curtained doorways maids with straining ears and eyes whispered in consultation. In the kitchen and servants' quarters the guests of the Countess were critically discussed, from their features and dress to their overbearing haughtiness. Old Hans, the butler, was volleyed with questions upon each appearance from the dining-hall, his dignity more impenetrable than the choicest armor in the Netherlands. The Rudolstadt retainers, sitting in the court outside with Dutch sullenness, hated the Spanish masters as they hated sin, under the blankness of their features. One of them paced to and fro with blazing eyes and set jaws, savagely shaking his sword and repeatedly testing its shining point, in refreshing contrast to the calmness of his comrades.
In the hall the Countess of Swarzburg acted hostess to the generals of a victorious army, one of whom had terrorised Europe. Her calm dignity was unmoved by their great condescension and haughty arrogance, and eloquent of the fact that they were her quests and not her conquerors. She was a woman with the iron nerve of a warrior and the courage of the bravest Spaniard in her prostrate land, and she had need to be, with the Duke of Alva and Henry of Brunswick opposite her. They were taking her kindness very much as their due, and regarding the castle as a remarkably good inn. Cold constraint attended the breakfast.
Some months before, the Countess of Swarzburg, knowing that a Spanish army on its way to the Netherlands would pass through her territory, had secured a written promise from the Emperor Philip II. that her subjects should be unmolested by his soldiers. She agreed in return to sell him provisions. When the army arrived she promptly sent the supplies, and invited the Spanish generals to breakfast with her.
During the breakfast she skilfully reminded them of the Emperor's promise, but they apparently did not understand her. As the conversation progressed it became more apparent that they regarded her as a conquered ruler and her services as tribute. She grew more and more angry at their demeanor, and her breeding alone kept her outwardly courteous. She turned the conversation at last to trivial matters, and the breakfast went on smoothly, until a servant came and spoke to her. Then she calmly arose.
"Excuse me, gentlemen," she said. "I must leave you a few moments. Your wants shall have attention by my servants here," and without awaiting their reply she left the room.
In the court her manner changed. She closely questioned her servants, and then sent for her retainers and deliberately placed a number of them at each of the doors leading to the hall. "On no account," she instructed them, "permit either of the gentlemen within to leave the room." Then she went below.
A pitiful story awaited her. A number of her people were clustered in a group with looks of despair and misery. The Spanish soldiers had driven off their cattle, and they had seen the results of years of labor depart in a few brief moments. Cattle then represented far more than now, when life was a desperate struggle with the cold and hunger. Hard was the life of the peasant, and the poor Thuringians, who loved their motherly Countess, gathered around her as sheep around a shepherd in a winter storm. She felt their need of her and determined to help them, but despite her great indignation did not lose her presence of mind.