“I do not know,” answered Berthold. “During our journey he never, that I recollect, once spoke to me about her; but here comes the baron, we had better keep out of his way, for if I meet him I shall be inclined to say something he won’t like.”
The baron, who certainly seemed to have suffered less than most of the inhabitants of Leyden from scanty food and constant watching, now reaching the top of the tower approached the burgomaster and Jaqueline. Having in his usual courteous and polished manner paid his respects to the Lily and her father, he pointed southward.
“You are looking out there, I conclude, for the appearance of admiral Boisot and his Sea Beggars, but I fear that we shall look in vain; his flotilla may reach the Land-Scheiding, but beyond that no mortal power can enable his ships to advance; even should they pierce it, as the Prince expects, it is impossible that they can pass all those other barriers with the victorious troops of Valdez opposing them and garrisoning every village and fort.”
“God can make a way if man cannot,” answered the burgomaster.
“But He may not think fit to make one for those daring outlaws to reach Leyden,” said the baron. “Would that I could hope that relief was likely to come, but I have long despaired, as you know, of obtaining it, and I have sought you, Burgomaster, to entreat you that even should you consider it your duty to remain you will allow me to escort your fair daughter to some place where she may escape the unspeakable miseries which are gathering round the inhabitants of this unhappy city. I can, through some influential friends, obtain a safe pass from Valdez, and can also through their means arrange for her secret departure from the city, so that whatever happens she will at all events be preserved.”
“Even should she wish it, my duty to my fellow-citizens will prevent me from permitting her to go,” answered the burgomaster. “Her departure would tend to dishearten those who have already sufficient to try them; but you may ask her.”
Jaqueline had, while the baron was speaking to her father, withdrawn from his side, and was about to join her cousin and Albert when the young noble approached her. In carefully measured words he spoke of his love and devotion, and offering his hand and heart, entreated her at once to become his wife that he might be able to rescue her from the dangers by which she was surrounded.
“I have your father’s permission,” he added, “and whatever opinion he may consider it his duty to express publicly I cannot but believe that his mind will be greatly relieved when he knows that you are beyond the reach of harm.”
“It may be that you have my father’s permission to speak to me,” she answered, “but he would never counsel me to play a dastard’s part and dishearten my fellow-citizens, whom I am bound to encourage. Understand, Ernst Van Arenberg, sooner would I remain among those who are stricken down every day by famine and pestilence, and share their fate, if God so wills it, than wed one who traitorously counsels submission to the foe.”
As she spoke she fixed her clear blue eyes on him with a look the meaning of which he could not misinterpret, for it showed the scorn his proposal had inspired. He might have seen that his cause was hopeless, yet he could not even now abandon her, and was again about to speak when Berthold and Albert came up with an independent air, the former exclaiming—