CHAPTER XXIV

THE DEFENCE OF CAMBRAY

I

Of that terrible day in Cambray, that fourth of April, 1581, nothing has survived but a memory—a glowing memory of fervour and enthusiasm, of reckless disregard of danger and magnificent deeds of valour; a heartrending memory of sorrow and misery and death.

Five times in as many hours did the armies of the Duke of Parma rush to the assault of the city. Five times did a living rampart of intrepid bodies interpose itself between the mighty hordes and the crumbling walls of Cambray—those intrepid bodies more steadfast than the walls. At one hour after noon the redoubt of Cantimpré is a black mass of charred débris, the Château de Seille is in flames. On the right bank of the Scheldt the walls have a breach through which twenty men can pass, the moats and the river are filled with dead.

But the living rampart still stands. The walls of Cambray are crumbling, but her citizens are steadfast. Halbertmen and pikemen, archers and gunners, they all have a moment's weakness to retrieve, and do it with deeds of indomitable valour. And as they fall, and their numbers become thinned, as that breathing, palpitating wall sustains shock after shock of the most powerful engines of warfare the world has ever known, its gaps are made good by other breasts and other hearts, and with all the spirit which will not rest until it has conquered.

Outside and in, at this hour, all is confusion. A medley of sights and sounds which the senses cannot wholly grasp, dull roar of cannon, sharp retort of musketry, clash of pike and lance and halbert, the terrified shrieks of women and the groans of the wounded and the dying. Round about the walls, in the narrow streets and up on the battlements, a litter of broken steel and staves, of scrap-iron and fragments of masonry and glass, torn jerkins cast aside; for the April sun is hot and the smell of powder goes to the head like wine.

II

And from the tall steeples of Cambray's many churches the tocsin sends its ominous call above the din.

Cambray is fighting for her liberty, for her existence. Her sons and daughters are giving their lives for her. And not only for her, but for the Netherlands—the brave and stricken country which has fought against such terrible odds while the very centuries have rolled by.

A last stand, this; for no mercy is to be expected from the Spaniard if he enters the city in his numbers. Cambray hath withstood the might of Philip II, hath rebelled against his authority, hath dared to think that men are free to think, to work and to worship, that children are not slaves or women chattels. Cambray hath unfurled the flag of liberty. If she fall, she becomes a prey to rapine and brutality, to incendiaries and libertines.

So Cambray to-day must conquer or die.

Traitors have plotted against her, laid her open, unsuspecting, to a surprise attack by an army which is past-master in the art. Caught unawares in a holiday mood, she has flinched. Worked upon by treachery, her sons have wavered at first, panic seized hold of them—they all but fell, shamed and destined to never-ending disgrace and remorse.

But the cowardice had been momentary, fostered by past months of privations and misery, fomented by the insidious voice of traitors. One man's voice hath rallied the sinking spirits, one man's valour revived the dormant courage. All they wanted was a leader—a man to tell them to hope, a man to cheer and comfort them, to kindle in their hearts the dying flame of indomitable will. So, in the wake of that man they have followed in their hundreds and their thousands; the soldiers have regained discipline; the men, courage; the women, resignation. The masked stranger whom they had been taught to hate, they have already learned to worship.

Heroic, splendid, indomitable, he is the bulwark which strengthens every faltering heart, the prop which supports every wavering spirit. From end to end of the ramparts his sonorous voice vibrates and echoes, commanding, helping, cheering. If courage fails, he is there to stiffen; if an arm tires, his is there to take its place. Sword or lance, or pike or halbert, culverine or musket or bow; every weapon is familiar to his hand. At the breach with a pistol, on the ramparts with falconet, on the bastion with the heavy cannon; he is here, there and everywhere where danger is most threatening, where Spanish arrows darken the sky like a storm-cloud that is wind-driven, and deal death when they find their goal. His jerkin is torn, the sleeve of his doublet hangs tattered from his shoulder, his arm is bare, his face black with powder and grime. Around him the Provosts and Sheriffs and Captains of the Guard vainly beg him not to expose himself to unnecessary peril.

'The soldiers look to your Highness alone,' they cry in desperation. 'If you fall, what should we do?'

They still believe him to be the Duc d'Anjou, brother of the King of France, and marvel that so degenerate a race could breed such a magnificent soldier. He has said nothing to disillusion them. The mire of battle masks him better than a scrap of satin or velvet, and whilst fighting to save Cambray, he is also redeeming the honour of France.

'If you fall, what should we do?' implores d'Inchy on one occasion, during a lull in the attack.

Gilles laughs, loudly and long. 'Do?' he exclaims gaily. 'Hold Cambray to the last man and turn the Spaniard from her walls!'

Unflinching and resolute, a pack of Flemish bourgeois hold their ground against the might and main of the Duke of Parma's magnificent army—clerks, some of them, others shopkeepers or labourers, against the most powerful military organization of the epoch! But it is not only Cambray that is threatened now; it is the freedom of their province and the honour of their women. And so they make a wall of their bodies whilst the flower of the Duke of Parma's hordes is hurled time after time against them.

Musketeers and crossbowmen, lancers and halberdiers—up they come to the charge like an irresistible tidal wave against a mighty cliff. Like a torrent they rush over the moat and on to the breach, or the bastions, or the ramparts; attacking from every side, using every engine of warfare which the mightiest kingdom of the age has devised for the subjugation of rebellious cities. The sound of metal-headed arrows against the masonry is like a shower of hailstones upon glass; the battlements gleam with flashing steel, with sparks from brandished swords and flame-spitting falconets.

Of a truth, the mind cannot grasp it all, eyes cannot see nor ears perceive all the horrors, the misery and the devotion. Men fighting and women working to soothe, to comfort or to heal. Burghers' wives, humble maids, great ladies, are all fighting with the men, fighting with their hearts and their skilled hands, with clean bandages and soothing potions, with words of comfort for the dying and prayers for the dead.

In the streets behind the ramparts, rough ambulances have been set up, mattresses dragged under sheds or outhouses, fresh straw laid, on which the wounded might find momentary solace. The women, too, are doing their part. Jacqueline de Broyart, one of the many, the most untiring where all give of their best, the most selfless where all are ready for sacrifice. From time to time during the lull between terrific assaults, she sees Gilles hurrying past—her knight, the defender of her beloved city. She bade him go and save Cambray and sees him now, begrimed, in rags, unheedful even of her, but cheerful and undaunted, certain of victory.

'You will be proud, my dear,' says d'Inchy to her, during one of those nerve-racking lulls, 'to place your hand in that so valiant a soldier, to plight your troth to Monsieur Duc d'Anjou.'

'I shall be proud,' she retorts simply, 'if, indeed, I might plight my troth to the defender of Cambray.'

'The defender of Cambray, my dear,' rejoins d'Inchy lustily. 'The saviour of Cambray, you mean! 'Tis on our knees we shall have to thank him and offer him all that we have of the best!'

A strange, elusive smile flits for a moment round Jacqueline's mouth, and a look of infinite longing softens the light of her blue eyes.

'If only it could be!' she sighs, and returns to her task.

III

Later in the afternoon, the picture becomes more clear. We see the crumbling walls, the girdle around Cambray falling away bit by bit; we see the breach at Cantimpré wider by many feet now and a handful of men making a last stand there, with muskets, crossbows, sticks—anything that is ready to hand. We see the bastions a mass of smouldering ruins and the ramparts around on the point of giving way.

And all about the city a mighty hecatomb—Spaniards and Flemings, soldiers, burghers or churls, lie scattered on the low-lying ground, in the moat, the ramparts or the streets. Might and glory have claimed their victims as well as valour and worship of liberty.

Cambray's walls are falling. The breach becomes wider and wider every hour, like a huge gaping wound through which the life-blood of the stricken city is oozing out drop by drop.

But, guarding that breach, not yet yielding one foot of the city which shelters his Jacqueline, Gilles de Crohin, with that handful of men, still holds the ground. His anxious eyes scan the low horizon far away where the April sun is slowly sinking to rest. That way lies La Fère and de Balagny's few picked men, whom Jehan has gone to fetch, and who could even in this desperate hour turn Spanish discomfiture into a rout.

'My God! why does Jehan tarry?' he calls out with smouldering impatience.

Up on the battlements the guard stand firm; but the Spaniards have succeeded in throwing several bridges of pikes across the moat and one mine after another is laid against the walls. Captains and officers run to Gilles for instructions or orders.

'There are no orders,' he says, 'save to hold out until France comes to your aid.'

And out in the open country, outside those city walls which hold together so much heroism and such indomitable courage, the Duke of Parma, angered, fierce, terrible, has rallied the cream of his armies around him. The sixth assault has just been repulsed, the breach cleared by a terrific fusillade from that handful of men, whilst a murderous shower from above, of granite and scrap-iron and heavy stones, has scattered the attacking party. A fragment of stone has hit the Duke on the forehead; blood is streaming down his face. He sets spurs to his horse and gallops to where a company of archers is scrambling helter-skelter out of the moat.

'Cowards!' he cries savagely. 'Will you flee before such rabble?'

He strikes at the soldiers with his sword, sets spurs to his horse until the poor beast snorts with pain, rears and paws the air with its hoofs, only to bring them down the next moment, trampling and kicking half a dozen soldiers to death in its mad and terrified struggle.

'You know the guard has fled,' Alexander Farnese cries to his officers. ''Tis only an undisciplined mob who is in there now.'

His nephew, Don Miguel de Salvado, a brave and experienced captain, shrugs his shoulders and retorts:

'A mob led by a man who has the whole art of warfare at his finger-tips. Look at him now!'

All eyes are turned in the direction to which Don Miguel is pointing. There, in the midst of smouldering ruins of charred débris and crumbling masonry, stands the defender of Cambray; behind him the graceful steeples of St. Géry and of St. Waast, the towers of Notre Dame and of the Town Hall, are lit up by the honey-coloured rays of the sinking sun. Superb in his tattered clothes, with chest and arms bare, and ragged hose, he stands immovable, scanning the western sky.

De Landas laughs aloud.

'He is still on the look-out for that promised help from France,' he says, with a shrug of his shoulder.

The traitor has made good his escape out of the city which he has betrayed. What assistance he could render to the Duke in the way of information, he has done. The measure of his infamy is full to the brim, and yet his hatred for the enemy who has shamed him is in no way assuaged.

He, too, looks up and sees Gilles de Crohin, the man whose invincible courage has caused the Spanish armies so many valuable lives this day and such unforgettable humiliation.

'A hundred doubloons,' he cries aloud, 'to the first man who lays that scoundrel low!'

The word is passed from mouth to mouth. The archers and musketeers set up a cheer. Parma adds, with an oath: 'And a captain's rank to boot!'

An hundred doubloons and a captain's rank! 'Tis a fortune for any man. It means retirement, a cottage in sunny Spain, a home, a wife. The men take heart and look to their arrows and their muskets! Every archer feels that he has that fortune in his quiver now and every musketeer has it in his powder horn. And with a loud cry of 'Long live King Philip of Spain!' the infantry once more rush for the breach.

IV

Don Miguel de Salvado leads the attack this time. The breach now looks like a gate which leads straight into the heart of the city, where pillage and looting are to be the reward of the conquerors; and the booty will be rich with the precious belongings of a pack of overfed bourgeois.

That open gate for the moment seems undefended. It is encumbered with fallen masonry, and beyond this appear piles of rubbish, overturned wagons, furniture, débris of all sorts, evidently abandoned by the wretched inhabitants when they fled from their homes. Of Gilles de Crohin and his burghers there is for the moment no sign.

Don Miguel has with him half a company of musketeers, the finest known in Europe, and a company of lancers who have been known to clear an entire city of rebels by their irresistible onrush.

'No falling back, remember!' he commands. 'The first who gives ground is a dead man!'

Up the lancers run on the slippery ground, clinging to the wet earth with naked feet, to the coarse grass and loose stones with their knees. The musketeers remain on the hither side of the moat, three deep in a long battle array; the front lying flat upon the ground, the second kneeling, the third standing, with their muskets levelled against the first enemy who dares to show his face. The pikemen have reached the breach. There is silence on the other side. The officer laughs lustily.

'I told you 'twas but a rabble playing with firearms!'

The words are hardly out of his mouth when a terrific volley of musketry shakes the fast crumbling wall to its foundation. It comes from somewhere behind all those débris—and not only from there, but from some other unknown point, with death-like precision and cold deliberation. The Spanish officer is hit in the face; twelve pikemen throw up their arms and come rolling down on the wet ground.

'What is this hell let loose?' cries the officer savagely, ere he too, blinded with the flow of blood down his face, beats a hasty retreat.

Quick! a messenger to His Highness the Duke of Parma! The breach is so wide now that twenty men could walk easily through it. The enemy is not in sight—and yet, from somewhere unseen, death-dealing musketry frustrates every assault.

'Return to the charge!' is the Duke of Parma's curt command, and sends one of his ablest officers to lead a fresh charge. He himself organizes a diversion, crosses the small rivulet, which flows into the Schelde at the foot of Cantimpré, and trains his artillery upon a vulnerable piece of wall, between the bastion and the river bank. He has the finest culverines known in Europe at this time, made on a new pattern lately invented in England; his cannon balls are the most powerful ever used in warfare, and some of his musketeers know how to discharge ten shots in a quarter of an hour—an accomplishment never excelled even by the French.

So, while one of his ablest officers is in charge of the attacking party on the breach, His Highness himself directs a new set of operations. Once more the roar of artillery and of musketry rend the air with their portentous sound. The Duke of Parma's picked men attack the last bastion of Cantimpré, whilst from the roads of Arras, of Sailly and Bapaume, the whole of the Spanish infantry rush like a mighty wave to the charge.

Pikemen and halberdiers, archers and lancers, once more to the assault! Are ye indeed cowards, that a pack of Flemish rabble can hold you at bay till you sink back exhausted and beaten? Up, Bracamonte and Ribeiras! Messar, with your musketeers! Salvado, with your bow-men! Up, ye mighty Spanish armies, who have seen the world at your feet! With Farnese himself to lead you, the hero of an hundred sieges, the queller of an hundred rebellions; are ye dolts and fools that you cannot crush a handful of undisciplined rabble?

And in close masses, shoulder to shoulder, they come!—exhausted, but still obstinate, and with the hope of all the rich booty to lure them on. Down the declivity of the moat—no longer deep, now that it is filled with dead! And up again to below the walls! The setting sun is behind them and gleams on their breastplates and their bonnets, and gilds the edges of the battlements with lines of flame.

And, up on the crumbling battlements, the defenders of Cambray—the clerks and shopkeepers and churls—hear the tramp of many feet, feel the earth quivering beneath this thunder of a last mighty assault. Sturdy, undaunted hands grip lance and pike tighter still, and intrepid hearts wait for this final charge, as they have waited for others to-day, and will go on waiting till the last of them has stilled its beating.

And Gilles de Crohin in their midst, invincible and cool, scours the battlements and the breach, the bastions and the ramparts—always there where he is needed most, where spirits want reviving or courage needs the impetus of praise. He knows as well as they do that gunpowder is running short, that arrows are few and thousands of weapons broken with usage: he knows, better than they do, that if de Balagny's troop tarries much longer all this heroic resistance will have been in vain.

So he keeps his own indomitable little army on the leash, husbanding precious lives and no less precious ammunition; keeping them back, well away from the parapets, lest the sight of the enemy down below lead them on to squander both. Thus, of all that goes on beneath the walls, of the nature of the attack or the chances of a surprise, the stout defenders can see nothing. Only Gilles, whilst scouring the lines, can see; for he has crawled on his hands and knees to the outermost edge of the crumbling parapet and has gazed down upon the Duke of Parma's hordes.

V

Now the Spanish halbertmen have reached the hither side of the moat. The breach is before them, tantalizingly open. The lancers are following over the improvised bridges, and behind them the musketeers are sending a volley of shot over their heads into the breach. It is all done with much noise and clash of steel and thundering artillery and cries of 'Long live King Philip!'—all to cover the disposing of scaling ladders against the walls.

The pikemen are executing this surprise attack, one in which they are adepts. The noisy onslaught, the roar of artillery, the throwing of dust in the eyes of wearied defenders; then the silent scaling of the walls, the rush upon the battlements, wholesale panic and slaughter.

Alexander Farnese hath oft employed these devices and hath never known them to fail. So the men throw down their pikes, carry pistols in their right hand and a short dagger-like sword between their teeth. They fix their ladders—five of them—and begin quite noiselessly to mount. Ten on each ladder, which makes fifty all told, and they the flower of the Duke of Parma's troops. Up they swarm like human ants striving to reach a hillock. Now the gunners have to cease firing, lest they hit those ladders with their human freight.

And while at the breach the men of Cambray make their last desperate stand, the first of the Spanish pikemen has reached the topmost rung of his ladder. The human ants have come to the top of their hillock. Already the foremost amongst them has begun to hoist himself up, with his hands clinging to the uneven masonry. The next second or two would have seen him with his leg over the parapet, and already a cry of triumph has risen to his lips, when suddenly, before his horror-stricken gaze, a man surges up, as if out of the ground, stands there before him for one second, which is as tense as it is terrifying. Then, with a mighty blow from some heavy weapon which he holds, he fells the pikeman down. The man loses his footing, gives a loud cry of horror and falls headlong some forty feet. In his fall he drags two or three of his comrades with him. But the ladder still stands, and on it the human ants, reinforced at once by others, resume their climb. Only for a minute—no more! The next, a pair of hands with titanic strength and a grip of iron seizes the ladder by the shafts, holds it for one brief, agonizing moment, and then hurls it down with the whole of its human freight into the depth below.

An awful cry rends the air, but is quickly drowned by the roar of cannon and musketry. It has been a mere incident. The Duke has not done more than mutter an oath in his beard. He is watching the four other ladders on which his human ants are climbing. But the oath dies on his lips—even he becomes silent in face of the appalling catastrophe which he sees. That man up there whom already he has learned to fear, that man in the tattered doublet and the ragged hose—he it is who has turned the tables on Farnese's best ruse de guerre. With lightning rapidity and wellnigh superhuman strength, he repeats his feat once more. Once more a scaling ladder bearing its precious human freight is hurled down into the depth. The man now appears like a Titan. Ye gods! or ye devils! which of you gave him that strength? Now he has reached the third ladder. Just perhaps one second too late, for the leading pikeman has already gained a foothold upon the battlements, stands there on guard to shield the ladder; for he has scented the danger which threatens him and his comrades. His pistol is raised even as Gilles approaches. The Duke of Parma feels as if his heart had stilled its beating. Another second, and that daring rebel would be laid low.

But Gilles too has seen the danger—the danger to himself and to the city which he is defending. No longer has he the time to seize the ladder as he has done before, no longer the chance of exerting that titanic strength which God hath lent him so that he might save Cambray. One second—it is the most precious one this threatened city hath yet known, for in it Fate is holding the balance, and the life of her defender is at stake. One second!

The Spanish pikemen are swarming up dangerously near now to the battlements. The next instant Gilles has picked up a huge piece of masonry from the ground, holds it for one moment with both hands above his head, then hurls it with all his might against the ladder. The foremost man is the first to fall. His pistol goes off in his hand with a loud report. Immediately below him the weight of the falling stone has made matchwood of the ladder and the men are hurled to their death, almost without uttering a groan. The Flemish halbertmen in the meanwhile have rushed up to the battlements; seeing Gilles' manoeuvre, they are eager to emulate it. There are two more ladders propped against the falling walls and their leader's strength must in truth be spent. And there are still more Spaniards to come, more of those numberless hordes, before whom a handful of untrained burghers are making their last and desperate stand.

Just then Gilles has paused in order to gaze once more into the far-away west. Already the gold of the sun has turned to rose and crimson, already the low-lying horizon appears aflame with the setting glow. But now upon the distant horizon line something appears to move, something more swift and sudden and vivid than the swaying willows by the river bank or the tall poplars nodding to the evening breeze. Flames of fire dart and flash, a myriad specks of dust gleam like lurid smoke and the earth shakes with the tramp of many horses' hoofs. Far away on the Bapaume road the forerunners of de Balagny's troops are seen silhouetted against the glowing sky.

Gilles has seen them. Aid has come at last. One more stupendous effort, one more superhuman exertion of will, and the day is won. He calls aloud to the depleted garrison, to that handful of men who, brave and undaunted, stand around him still.

'At them, burghers of Cambray! France comes to your aid! See her mighty army thundering down the road! Down with the Spaniard! This is the hour of your victory!'

As many times before, his resonant voice puts heart into them once again. Once again they grip halberds and lances with the determination born of hope. They rush to the battlements and with mighty hands hurl the Spanish scaling ladders from their walls, pick up bits of stone, fragments of granite and of iron, use these as missiles upon the heads of the attacking party below. The archers on one knee shoot with deadly precision. They have been given half a dozen arrows each—the last—and every one of them finds its mark.

Surprised and confounded by this recrudescence of energy, the Spaniards pause. An hundred of them lie dead or dying at the foot of the wall. Their ranks are broken; don Miguel tries to rally them. But he is hit by an arrow in the throat, ere he succeeds. De Landas is close by, runs to the rescue, tries to re-form the ranks, and sees Gilles de Crohin standing firm upon the battlements and hears his triumphant, encouraging cry:

'Citizens of Cambray, France has come to your aid!'

Confusion begins to wave her death-dealing wand. The halbertmen at the breach stand for full five minutes almost motionless under a hail of arrows and missiles, waiting for the word of command.

And on the Bapaume road, de Balagny and his troops are quickly drawing nigh. Already the white banner with the gold Fleur-de-Lys stands out clearly against the sky.

Parma has seen it, and cursed with savage fury. He is a great and mighty warrior and knows that the end has come. The day has brought failure and disgrace; duty now lies in saving a shred of honour and the remnants of a scattered army. He cannot understand how it has all happened, whence this French troop has come and by whose orders. He is superstitious and mystical and fears to see in this the vengeful finger of God. So he crosses himself and mutters a quick prayer, even as a volley of musketry fired insolently into the air, reverberates down the Bapaume road.

France is here with her great armies, her unconquered generals: Condé, Turenne, have come to the rescue. Parma's wearied troops cannot possibly stand the strain of fighting in the rear whilst still pushing home the attack in front. How numerous is the French advancing troop it is impossible to guess. They come with mighty clatter and many useless volleys of musketry, with jingling of harness and breastplates and clatter of hoofs upon the road. They come with a mighty shout of 'Valois! and Fleur-de-Lys!' They wave their banners and strike their lances and pikes together. They come! They come!

And the half-exhausted Spanish army hears and sees them too. The halbertmen pause and listen, the archers halt halfway across the moat, whilst all around the whisper goes from mouth to mouth:

"The French are on us! Sauve qui peut!"

Panic seizes the men. They turn and scurry back over the declivity of the moat. The stampede has commenced: first the cavalry, then the infantrymen, for the French are in the rear and legions of unseen spirits have come to the aid of Cambray.

The Duke of Parma now looks like a broken wreck of his former arrogant self. His fine accoutrements are torn, the trappings of his charger are in tatters, his beard has been singed with gunpowder, he has no hat, no cloak. Raging fury is in his husky voice as he shouts orders and counter-orders to men who no longer hear. He calls to his officers, alternately adjures and insults them. But the French troops draw nearer and nearer, and nothing but Death will stop those running Spanish soldiers now.

To right and left of the Bapaume road they run, leaving that road free for the passage of de Balagny's small troop. Out in the western sky, the sun is setting in a mantle of vivid crimson, which is like the colour of human blood. The last glow illumines the final disgrace of Parma's hitherto unconquered hordes. The cavalry is galloping back to the distant camp, with broken reins and stirrups hanging loose, steel bonnets awry, swords, lances, broken or wilfully thrown aside. Behind them, the infantry, the archers, the pikemen, the halberdiers—all running and dragging their officers away with them in their flight.

Parma's unconquered army has ceased to be.

VI

Then it is that Gilles de Crohin stands once again on the very edge of the broken parapet and fronts the valiant men of Cambray, who have known how to conquer and how to die. The setting sun draws lines of glowing crimson round his massive figure. His clothes are now mere tattered rags; he is bleeding from several wounds; his face is almost unrecognizable, coal-black with grime and powder; but his eyes still sparkle with pride of victory.

'Citizens of Cambray, you are free!' he cries. 'Long live France! Long live the Flower o' the Lily!'

And down in the plain below, where the remnants of a disintegrated army are being slowly swallowed up by the gathering dusk, the Duke of Parma has paused for one moment before starting on his own headlong flight. He sees the man who has beaten his mighty armies, the man whose valour and indomitable will has inflicted untarnishable humiliation upon the glory of Spain. With a loud curse, he cries:

'Will no one rid me of that insolent rebel?'

De Landas is near him just then. He too had paused to look once again on the city which had been his home and which he had so basely betrayed, and once again on the man whom he hated with an intensity of passion which this day of glory and infamy had for ever rendered futile.

'If I do,' he retorts exultantly, 'what will your Highness give me?'

'Cambray and all it contains,' replies the Duke fiercely.

De Landas gives a cry of prescient triumph. A lancer is galloping by. The young man, with a swift, powerful gesture, seizes the horse by the bridle, forces it back on its haunches till it rears and throws its rider down into the mud. De Landas swings himself into the saddle, rides back to within a hundred paces of the city walls. Here confusion is still holding sway; belated runaways are darting aimlessly hither and thither like helpless sheep; the wounded and the maimed are making pitiable efforts to find a corner wherein to hide. The ground is littered with the dead and the dying, with abandoned cannon and spent arrows, with pikes and halberts and broken swords and lances.

De Landas halts, jumps down from his horse, looks about him for a crossbow and a quiver, and finds what he wants. Then he selects his position carefully, well under cover and just near enough to get a straight hit at the man whom he hates more than anything else in the world. Opportunity seems to favour him. Gilles is standing well forward on the broken parapet, his throat and chest are bare, his broad figure stands out clear-cut against the distant sky. He is gazing out towards the west, straight in the direction where de Landas is cowering—a small, unperceived unit in the inextricable confusion which reigns around.

He has found the place which best suits his purpose, has placed his stock in position and adjusted his arrow. Being a Spanish gentleman, he is well versed in the use of every weapon necessary for war. He takes careful aim, for he is in no hurry and is determined not to miss.

'Cambray and all it contains!' the Duke of Parma has promised him if he succeeds in his purpose.

One second, and the deed is done. The arrow has whizzed through the air. The next instant, Gilles de Crohin has thrown up his arms.

'Citizens of Cambray, wait for France!' he cries, and before any of his friends can get to him, he has given one turn and then fallen backwards into the depth below.

De Landas has already thrown down his crossbow, recaptured his horse and galloped back at break-neck speed in the wake of the flying army.

And even then the joy-bells of Cambray begin to ring their merry peal. Balagny's troops have entered the city through the open breach in her walls, whilst down there in the moat, on a pile of dying and dead, her defender and saviour lies with a murderous arrow in his breast.

VII

De Landas rides like one possessed away from the scene of his dastardly deed; nor does he draw rein till he has come up once more with the Duke of Parma.

'At any rate, we are rid of him,' he says curtly. 'And next time we attack, it will only be with an undisciplined mob that we shall have to deal.'

All around him the mighty army of Parma is melting like snow under the first kiss of a warm sun. Every man who hath limbs left wherewith to run, flies panic-stricken down the roads, across fields and rivulets and morasses, throwing down arms, overturning everything that comes in his way, not heeding the cries of the helpless and trampling on the dead.

Less than an hour has gone by since France's battle-cry first resounded on the Bapaume road, and now there is not one Spanish soldier left around the walls of Cambray, save the wounded and the slain. These lie about scattered everywhere, like pawns upon an abandoned chess-board. The moat below the breach is full of them. Maître Jehan le Bègue has not far to seek for the master and comrade whom he loves so dearly. He has seen him fall from the parapet, struck by the cowardly hand of an assassin in the very hour of victory. So, whilst de Balagny's chief captains enter Cambray in triumph, Jehan seeks in the moat for the friend whom he has lost.

He finds him lying there with de Landas' arrow still sticking in the wound in his breast. Maître Jehan lifts him as tenderly as a mother would lift her sick child, hoists him across his broad shoulders, and then slowly wends his way along the road back to La Fère.

CHAPTER XXV

HOW CAMBRAY STARVED AND ENDURED

I

As for the rest, 'tis in the domain of history. Not only Maître Manuchet, but Le Carpentier in his splendid History of Cambray, has told us how the Duke of Parma's armies, demoralized by that day of disasters, took as many weeks to recuperate and to rally as did the valiant city to recover from her wounds.

Too late did Parma discover that he had been hoaxed, that the massed French troops, who had terrified his armies, consisted of a handful of men, who had been made to shout and to make much noise, so as to scare those whom they could not have hoped to conquer in open fight. It was too late now for the great general to retrieve his blunder; but not too late to prepare a fresh line of action, wait for reinforcements, reorganize the forces at his command and then to resume the siege of Cambray, with the added hope of inflicting material punishment upon the rebel city for the humiliation which she had caused him to endure.

The French armies were still very far away. Parma's numerous spies soon brought him news that Monsieur Duc d'Anjou, was only now busy in collecting and training a force which eventually might hope to vie in strength and equipment with the invincible Spanish troops, whilst the King of France would apparently have nothing to do with the affair and openly disapproved of his brother's intervention in the business of the Netherlands.

The moment therefore was all in favour of the Spanish commander; but even so he did not again try to take Cambray by storm. Many historians have averred that a nameless superstition was holding him back, that he had seen in the almost supernatural resistance of the city, the warning finger of God. Be that as it may, he became, after the day of disaster, content to invest the approaches to the French frontier, and after awhile, when his reinforcements had arrived, he formed with his armies a girdle around Cambray with a view to reducing her by starvation.

A less glorious victory mayhap, but a more assured one!

II

So Cambray starved and endured.

For four months her citizens waited, confident that the promised help from France would come in the end. They had hoped and trusted on that never-to-be-forgotten day four months ago when they covered themselves with glory, and their trust had not been misplaced. The masked stranger whom they had followed unto death and victory, the man who had rallied them and cheered them, who had shown them the example of intrepid valour and heroic self-sacrifice, had promised them help from France on that day, and that help had come just as he had promised. Now that he was gone from them, the burghers and the soldiers, the poor and the rich alike—aye! even the women and the children—would have felt themselves eternally disgraced if they had surrendered their city which he had so magnificently defended.

So they tightened their belts and starved, and waited with stoicism and patience for the hour of their deliverance.

And every evening when the setting sun threw a shaft of crimson light through the stately windows of Notre Dame, and the gathering dusk drew long shadows around the walls, the people of Cambray would meet on the Place d'Armes inside the citadel, and pray for the return of the hero who had fought for their liberty. Men and women with pale, gaunt faces, on which hunger and privations had already drawn indelible lines; men and women, some of whom had perhaps never before turned their thoughts to anything but material cares and material pleasures, flocked now to pray beneath the blue vault of heaven and to think of the man who had saved them from ruin and disgrace.

Nobody believed that he was dead; though many had seen him fall, they felt that he would return. God Himself had given Cambray her defender in the hour of her greatest peril: God had not merely given in order to take away again. Vague rumours were afloat that the mysterious hero was none other than the Duc d'Anjou, own brother of the King of France, who one day would be Sovereign Lord over all the United Provinces; but as to that, no one cared. He who was gone was the Defender of Cambray: as such, he was enshrined in thousands of hearts, as such he would return one day to receive the gratitude and the love of the people who worshipped him.

III

Le Carpentier draws a kindly veil over the sufferings of the unfortunate city. With pathetic exactitude, he tells us that a cow during the siege fetched as much as three hundred francs—an enormous sum these days—a sheep fifty francs, an egg forty sols and an ounce of salt eight sols; but he altogether omits to tell us what happened to the poor people, who had neither fifty francs nor yet forty sols to spend.

Maître Manuchet, on the other hand, assures us that at one time bread was entirely unobtainable and that rats and mice formed a part of the daily menu of the rich. He is more crude in his statements than Le Carpentier, and even lifts for our discreet gaze just one corner of that veil, wherewith history has chosen to conceal for ever the anguish of a suffering city. He shows us three distinct pictures, only sketched in in mere outline, but with boldness and an obvious regard for truth.

One of these pictures is of Jacqueline de Broyart, the wealthy heiress who shared with the departed hero the worship of the citizens of Cambray. Manuchet speaks of her as of an angel of charity, healing and soothing with words and hands and heart, as of a vision of paradise in the midst of a torturing hell—her courage and endurance a prop for drooping spirits; her voice a sweet, insistent sound above the cries of pain, the curses and the groans. Wide-eyed and pale, but with a cheering smile upon her lips, she flits through the deserted streets of Cambray, bringing the solace of her presence, the help that can be given, the food that can be shared, to many a suffering home.

Of the man who hath possession of her heart, she never speaks with those in authority; but when in a humble home there is talk of the hero who has gone and of his probable return, she listens in silence, and when conjectures fly around her as to his identity, she even tries to smile. But in her heart she knows that her knight—the man whom the people worship—will never come back. France will send troops and aid and protection anon; a puissant Prince will enter Cambray mayhap at the head of his troops and be acclaimed as the saviour of Cambray. She would no doubt in the fullness of time plight her troth to that man, and the people would be told that this was indeed the Duc d'Anjou et d'Alençon, who had once before stood upon the ramparts of Cambray and shouted his defiant cry: 'À moi, citizens; and let the body of each one of you here be a living rampart for the defence of your homes!'

But she would know that the man who spoke those inspiring words had gone from her for ever. Who he was, where he came from, what had brought him to Cambray under a disguise and an assumed name, she would perhaps never know. Nor did she care. He was the man she loved: the man whose passionate ardour had thrilled her to the soul, whose touch had been as magic, whose voice had been perfect music set in perfect time. He was the man she loved—her knight. Throughout that day upon the ramparts she had seen him undaunted, intrepid, unconquered—rallying those who quaked, cheering those who needed help, regardless of danger, devoted even unto death. So what cared she what was his name? Whoever he was, he was worthy of her love.

IV

The second picture which the historian shows us is more dispiriting and more grim. It is a picture of Cambray in the last days of July. The Spanish armies have invested the city completely for over eight weeks, and Cambray has been thrown entirely on her own resources and the activities of a few bold spirits for the barest necessities of life. Starvation—grim and unrelenting—is taking her toll of the exhausted population; disease begins to haunt the abodes of squalor and of misery.

France has promised aid and France still tarries.

Mayhap France has forgotten long ago.

In Cambray now a vast silence reigns—the silence of impending doom. The streets are deserted during the day, the church bells are silent. Only at evening, in the gloom, weird and melancholy sounds fill the air, groans and husky voices, and at times the wild shriek of some demented brain.

Cambray has fought for her liberty; now she is enduring for it—and enduring it with a fortitude and determination, which is one Of the most glorious entries in the book of the recording angel. Every morning at dawn the heralds of the Spanish commander mount the redoubt on the Bapaume road, and with a loud flourish of brass trumpets they demand in the name of His Majesty the King of Spain the surrender of the rebel city. And every day the summons is answered by a grim and defiant silence. After which, Cambray settles down to another day of suffering.

The city fathers have worked wonders in organization. From the first, the distribution of accumulated provisions has been systematic and rigidly fair. But those distributions, from being scanty have become wholly insufficient, and lives that before flickered feebly, have gone out altogether, while others continue a mere struggle for existence, which would be degrading were its object not so sublime.

Cambray will not surrender! She would sooner starve and rot and be consumed by fire, but with her integrity whole, her courage undoubted, the honour of her women unsullied. Disease may haunt her streets, famine knock at every door; but at least while her citizens have one spark of life left in their bodies, while their emaciated hands have a vestige of power wherewith to grasp a musket, no Spanish soldier shall defile her pavements, no Spanish commander work his tyrannical will with her.

Cambray will not surrender! She believes in her defender and her saviour!—in his words that France will presently come with invincible might and powerful armies, when all her sufferings will be turned to relief and to joy. And every evening when lights are put out and darkness settles down upon the stricken city, wrapping under her beneficent mantle all the misery, the terrors and the heroism, men and women lay themselves down to their broken rest with a last murmur of hope, a last invocation to God for the return of the hero in whom lies their trust.

V

And in the Town Hall the city fathers sit in Council, with Messire de Balagny there, and Monseigneur d'Inchy presiding. They, too, appear grimly resolved to endure and to hold out; the fire of patriotism and of enthusiasm burns in their hearts, as it does in the heart of every burgher, noble or churl in the city. But, side by side with enthusiasm, stalks the grim shadow of prescience—knowledge of the resources which go, diminishing bit by bit, until the inevitable hour when hands and mouths will still be stretched out for food and there will be nothing left to give.

Even now, it is less than bare subsistence which can be doled out day by day; and in more than one face assembled this day around the Council Board, there is limned the grim line of nascent despair.

It is only d'Inchy who has not lost one particle of his faith, one particle of self-confidence and of belief in ultimate triumph.

'If ye begin to doubt,' he exclaims with tragic directness, 'how will ye infuse trust in the hearts of your people?'

The Chief Magistrate shakes his head; the Provosts are silent. More than one man wipes a surreptitious tear.

'We must give the people something to hearten them,' has been the persistent call from those in authority.

De Balagny interposes:

'Our spies have succeeded in evading the Spanish lines more than once. One of them returned yesterday from La Fère. He says the Duc d'Anjou is wellnigh ready. The next month should see the end of our miseries.'

'A month!' sighs the Chief Magistrate. 'The people cannot hold out another month. They are on the verge of despair.'

'They begin to murmur,' adds one of the Provosts glumly.

'And some demand that we surrender the city,' concludes de Lalain.

'Surrender the city!' exclaimed d'Inchy vehemently. 'Never!'

'Then can Monseigneur suggest something?' riposts the Chief Magistrate dryly, 'that will restore confidence to a starving population?'

'The help from France almost within sight,' urges Monseigneur.

The Provosts shrug their shoulders.

'So long delayed,' one of them says. 'The people have ceased to believe in it.'

'Many declare the Duke is dead,' urges another.

'But ye know better than that, Messires,' retorts d'Inchy sternly.

Again one or two of the older men shrug their shoulders.

'I saw him fall from the ramparts,' asserts one.

'He was struck full in the breast by an arrow,' says another, 'shot by an unseen hand—some abominable assassin. His Highness gave one turn and fell into the moat below.'

'And was immediately found and picked up by some of my men,' retorts de Balagny hotly. 'Mine oath on it! Our spies have seen him—spoken with him. The Duc d'Anjou is alive and on his way to Cambray. I'd stake on it the salvation of my soul!'

The others sigh, some of them dubiously, others with renewed hope. From their talk we gather that not one of them has any doubt in his mind as to the identity of the brave defender of Cambray. Nothing had in truth happened to shake their faith in him, and de Balagny had said nothing to shake that faith. On that fateful day in April they had been convened to witness the betrothal of Madame Jacqueline de Broyart to Monsieur Duc d'Anjou, had been presented to His Highness and kissed his hands. Then suddenly all had been confusion—the panic, the surprise attack, the runaway soldiers, and finally the one man who rallied every quaking spirit and defended the city with heart and mind, with counsel and strength of arm, until he fell by an unseen assassin's hand: he, the Duc d'Anjou, of the princely House of France—the future Sovereign Lord of a United Netherlands.

For awhile there is absolute stillness in the Council room. No one speaks; hardly does any one stir. Only the massive clock over the monumental hearth ticks out every succeeding second with relentless monotony. Monseigneur is buried in thought. The others wait, respectfully silent. Then suddenly d'Inchy looks up and gazes determinedly on the faces round him.

'Madame Jacqueline must help us,' he says firmly.

'Madame Jacqueline?' the Chief Magistrate exclaims. 'How?'

'On the Place d'Armes—one evening—during the intercession,' Monseigneur goes on, speaking rapidly and with unhesitating resolve. 'She will make a solemn declaration before the assembled people—plight her troth to the Duc d'Anjou, who, though still absent, has sent her a token of his immediate arrival.'

'Sent her a token?' most of them murmur, astonished. And even de Balagny frowns in puzzlement.

'Yes,' rejoins d'Inchy impatiently. 'Cannot you see? You say the people no longer believe in the coming of His Highness. Our spies and the news they bring no longer carry weight. But if we say that the Duke hath sent a token....'

'I understand,' murmurs the Chief Magistrate, and the others nod in comprehension.

'Madame Jacqueline will not demur,' d'Inchy continues insistently. 'She will accept the assurance from me that one of our spies has come in contact with Monsieur and brought back a fresh token of his promise to her ... a ring, for instance. We have many valuable ones in our city treasury. One of them will serve our purpose.' Then, as the city dignitaries are still silent, somewhat perturbed at all that sophistry—''Tis for the sake of our city, Messires,' d'Inchy urges with a note of pleading in his usually commanding voice. 'A little deception, when so much good may come of it! what is it? Surely you can reconcile it with your consciences!'

To him the matter seems trivial. One deception more or less—hitherto the path had been so easy. He frowns, seeing that this tiresome pack of old men hesitate, when to acquiesce might even now save their city. Anyhow, he is the governor. His word is law. For the nonce he chooses to argue and to persuade, but anon he commands.

The city dignitaries—the old men for the most part, and with impaired health after weeks of privation—have but little real resistance in them. D'Inchy was always a man of arbitrary will and persuasive eloquence. De Balagny is soon won over. He ranges himself on the side of the governor, and helps in the work of demolishing the bulwark of the Magistrate's opposition. The latter yields—reluctantly, perhaps—but still he yields. After all, there is no harm whatever in the deception. No one could possibly suffer in consequence. Madame Jacqueline has always expressed herself ready to marry the Duc d'Anjou—a hero and a doughty knight, if ever there was one!—and in any case it were an inestimable boon to put fresh heart into the starving population.

So gradually the others yield, and Monseigneur is satisfied. He elaborates his plan, his mind full of details to make the result more sure. A public ceremony: Jacqueline once more publicly betrothed to the Duc d'Anjou—dedicated, in fact, like a worshipper to some patron saint. Then the people made to realize that the Duc d'Anjou is already known to them as their hero, their defender and their saviour; that he is not dead, but coming back to them very soon at the head of his armies this time, to save them once for all from the Spaniards, whilst he remains with them to the end of his days as their chosen Sovereign Lord and King.

Monseigneur has worked himself up to a high pitch of enthusiasm, carries the others with him now, until they cast aside all foreboding and gloom and hope springs afresh in their hearts.

VI

Thus we see the third and last picture which Enguerrand de Manuchet shows us of Cambray in her agony. It is a picture that is even more vivid than the others, more alive in the intensity of its pathos. We see inside the citadel on the last day of July, 1581. And of all the episodes connected with the memorable siege of Cambray and with its heroic defence, not one perhaps is more moving than that of this huge concourse of people—men, women and tiny children—assembled here and for such a purpose, under the blue dome of the sky.

The grim walls of the ancient castle around them are hung with worn and tattered flags; they are like the interior of a church, decked out with all the solemnity of a marriage ceremony and all the pathos of a De Profundis.

Jacqueline, indifferent to everything save to the welfare of the city, has accepted without resistance or doubt Monseigneur's story of the spy, the Duc d'Anjou and the token. The ring, borrowed for the occasion from the city treasury, she has taken without any misgiving, as coming straight from the man whom she is destined to marry. She had promised long ago to wed Monsieur Duc d'Anjou, because the weal of her country was, it seems, wrapped up in that union. All those who worked for the glorious future of Flanders had assured her that much of it depended in her acquiescence to this alliance with France.

With her heart for ever buried beneath the ramparts of Cambray, side by side with the gallant knight who had given his life for the beloved city, she cared little, if at all, what became of her. The Duc d'Anjou or another—what did it matter?—but preferably the Duc d'Anjou if her country's welfare demands that he should be the man.

No wonder that this last picture stirs even the heart of the dry-as-dust old historian to enthusiasm. Noble and churl, burghers and dignitaries and soldiers, toilers and ragamuffins, all are there—those who can walk or stand or crawl. Those who are hale drag or support those that are sick, bring tattered mattresses along or a litter of straw for them to lie on. But they all come to see a woman make a solemn profession of faith in the man who is to bring deliverance to the agonizing city.

They come in their thousands; but thousands more are unable to find room upon the Place or within the Citadel. Even so, they line the streets all the way to the Archiepiscopal Palace, whilst all those who are so privileged watch Madame Jacqueline's progress through the streets from their windows or their balconies. Fortunately the day has been brilliantly fine ever since morning, and the sun shines radiant upon this one day which is almost a happy one.

For many hours before that fixed for the ceremony, the streets seethe with the crowd—a pathetic crowd, in truth: gaunt, feeble, weary, in tattered clothes, some scarce able to drag themselves along, others sick and emaciated, clinging to the posts at the corners of the streets, just to get one peep at what has come to be regarded as a tangible ray of hope. A silent, moveless crowd, whose husky voice has scarce a cheer in it; as Jacqueline passes by, walking between Monseigneur the governor and the Chief Magistrate, bare arms are waved here and there, in a feeble attempt at jubilation. But there is no music, no beating of drums or waving of banners; there is no alms-giving, no largesse! All that the rich and the prosperous possessed in the past has been shared and distributed long ago.

In spite of the brilliant weather, the scene is dark and dreary. The weary, begrimed faces do not respond to the joyous kiss of the sun; the smile of hope has not the power to dry every tear.

VII

And now Jacqueline stands, like a white Madonna lily, in the centre of the Place d'Armes. Monseigneur the governor is beside her and around her are grouped the high dignitaries of the city, standing or sitting upon low velvet-covered stools. The Chief Magistrate and Messire de Balagny are in the forefront, and behind them are the members of the States General and of the Town, the Provosts and Captains of the City Guard. The picture is sombre still, despite the banners of the guilds and the flags of various provinces which hang along the walls of the Citadel. The russets and browns, the blacks and dull reds, absorb the evening light without throwing back any golden reflections. The shadows are long and dense.

The white satin of Jacqueline's gown is the one bright note of colour against the dull and drab background; its stiff folds gleam with honey-coloured lights in the slowly sinking sun. She has allowed old Nicolle to deck her out in all her finery, the gown which she wore on that night—oh! so very long ago—at the banquet, the one with the pale green underdress which Messire declared made her look so like a lily; the pearls in her hair; the velvet shoes on her feet.

'I will plight my troth publicly to the Defender of Cambray!' she had said to her guardian, when Monseigneur had first spoken of the proposed ceremony.

'To Monsieur Duc d'Anjou et d'Alençon, my child,' Monseigneur had insisted, and frowned slightly at what he called his ward's romantic fancies.

''Tis to the Defender of Cambray that I will dedicate my faith,' she had continued obstinately.

'Let the child be!' de Lalain had interposed, seeing that d'Inchy was about to lose his temper. 'After all, what does it matter, seeing that the Defender of Cambray and Monsieur Duc d'Anjou are one and the same?'

D'Inchy gave in. It did not really matter. If Jacqueline still harboured a doubt as to the identity of the masked stranger, it would soon be dispelled when Monsieur entered Cambray and came to claim her openly. Women were apt to have strange fancies; and this one, on Jacqueline's part, was harmless enough.

In any case, she appeared satisfied, and henceforth was quite submissive. In the midst of her sorrow, she felt a sweet, sad consolation in the thought that she would publicly plight her troth to the man whom she loved, proclaim before the whole world—her world that is, the only one that mattered—that she was for ever affianced to the brave man who had given his life, that Cambray might be saved.