CHAPTER XTHE ABBESS

It was a day in early spring—spring, yet sharp and chill with winter—that the three penniless and defeated Nassau Counts rode through France to offer their swords—all they had now to offer—to the Prince de Condé who was upholding the Protestant cause in France.

Eight thousand of their men had been slain during the campaign, thirty thousand had been disbanded at Strasburg, and a little handful of cavalry had elected to follow the fortunes of the three adventurers, for the exiled, landless, and ruined brothers were now no better in the eyes of Europe.

With all their strenuous exertions and the energetic help of Count John, they had not been able to even half pay the troops.

William had personally undertaken to discharge this debt from the first money he could command, and solemnly promised, that if he should return alive from Condé's army still penniless, he would surrender his person as hostage for their money.

Before he left Germany he endeavoured to come to a meeting with his wife; but Anne could not or would not move, and it was without seeing her again that he left his native country to take service under a foreign flag.

Granvelle, snug in Rome, laughed; Alva celebrated in Brussels an extravagantly arrogant open triumph; Philip triumphed quietly within his own cold narrow heart.

So ended the first struggle between William of Orange and the power of Spain; so, stripped even of fame and glory, laughed at by his enemies, despaired of by his friends, did he, who had been one of the greatest and most magnificent Princes of his time, ride into exile.

Yet neither William nor his brothers were gloomy; there was a music in their souls, a fire in their blood, that ever kept them from melancholy; even when they spoke of Adolphus or Hoogstraaten, it was with an affectionate smile, almost gaily, as they knew these dead would have wished them to speak.

Skirting Switzerland the little company passed into Franche Comté, and one of their first halting-places was near Besançon.

The morning after they had pitched their tents William was riding slowly through the fields which were beginning to be faintly coloured with the first trembling spring flowers.

A little thicket of hawthorn concealed the high road, and beyond the meadows woods sloped over undulating valleys and gently rising hills; numberless birds were singing in the little copse, and the sky was a delicate azure veiled with milk-white clouds; it was the first day of real spring, of the awakening of the earth, of the return of the promise of life, increase, and abundance.

William had not been long alone in his musing progress through the fields when he was joined by Count Henry.

This youth, in his green vesture, his little helmet with the long, single heron's feather, with his gay carriage, his handsome face and eager expression, was as bright as the morning, as pleasant as the early spring.

He spoke to his brother with a little laugh, as if greatly amused.

"There is a party of travellers who are afraid of us! They have sent a messenger to know if they may safely pass along the road where we are encamped."

William, too, smiled.

"Give them all assurances, Henry," he answered, "that we are not robbers, even if we are outlaws."

"Will you not see the messenger?" asked the young Count. "They seem people of distinction."

The two turned back across the fields to the outskirts of the camp where the messenger waited; he was a young Frenchman, well set up and armed, he seemed a squire or upper servant.

"This is the Prince of Orange," said Henry.

The fellow pulled off his cap.

"I salute Your Highness," he said rather defiantly. "And, as your intentions in this country are not known, I am here to know if the ladies under my care may pass your encampment?"

"You should need no assurance," replied the Prince coldly. "You know who I am."

The Frenchman remained obstinate, though he flushed a little under the rebuke.

"The ladies I escort are nuns—an abbess and her train," he replied, "and Your Highness is a heretic and rumoured to be joining Condé——"

"Ah," smiled William. "You think the heretics war on women as the Papists do? Go and tell your mistress that she has my word for her safety," he added carelessly.

The man left them and galloped back to the road.

"Who is the abbess?" asked William of his brother. "Have you seen her?"

"No, only a cloud of women and servants on mules in the distance, all chattering with fright. I think the abbess is some great lady on a visit to a noble kinswoman."

The Prince was returning to the camp when Louis galloped up, begging him to see the nuns go by.

"Let us salute them," he said, "and show them that heretics are not boors."

The three brothers rode back to the road, skirting the hawthorn copse, and reined up under a delicate group of young beech trees.

A little dust, a little chatter and trampling, jingle and clatter of harness, and the cavalcade came into view, preceded by the stout French man-at-arms and a number of armed men-servants.

Directly behind them and riding in front of a group of nuns came the abbess.

She was mounted on a fine white palfrey, her habit was largely white though she wore a black cloak; doeskin gloves covered her hands, and she guided the horse with glittering scarlet reins.

On her breast sparkled a large gold cross, and a rosary of carved gold beads hung at her waist cord.

She sat very upright, in no way hampered by the full robes which concealed her figure and fell over the horse almost to the ground.

Her attention was instantly attracted by the three young men under the trees; she raised her hand for the procession to halt, and said in a very sure clear voice—

"Is one of these gentlemen the Prince of Orange?"

As she named the great heretic the nuns shuddered and murmured; the men, though they halted obediently, frowned. William came forward a pace from his brothers; his slight figure, partially armed in steel, sat motionless on his grey horse; he was bare-headed, and his hair blew across his forehead; every line of his dark tired face was clear in the unshaded sunlight.

"I am he, Madame," he answered, and he looked at her curiously.

The abbess returned his gaze steadily; there was in her look the same serene steadiness as had sounded in her voice.

She was very young, little more than a child, though the white framing her face, the demure nun's robe, gave her an air of gravity; her face was pale and delicate, the features irregular and attractive, the mouth sweet, the eyes large, dark, beautiful, and wistful.

There was wistfulness in her tone when she spoke again.

"I have heard so much of Monseigneur, even in our convent. I thank Monseigneur for his courtesy in allowing our passage."

When she spoke thus, gravely in her pretty French, she was exquisitely charming, like a child masking in an elder's gown, so little did she seem to suit her habit.

"We are but soldiers of fortune, Madame," returned the Prince; "it is not for you to thank me—this is your country."

An elderly nun rode up to the young abbess and quickly whispered to her that it was indecorous to hold converse with the champion of the heretics and one going to join the rebels against the King.

The abbess listened without a blush, then again turned her serene steady gaze on the Prince.

"I am Charlotte de Bourbon, daughter of the Duke de Montmorency, and Abbess of Joüarrs," she said, "so you will understand, Monseigneur, why I cannot longer speak with you."

William understood; the Duke de Montmorency was one of the hottest Catholic nobles and one of the chiefs of the party against which Condé was struggling.

"I have been an abbess since I was twelve," continued the nun, "and know very little of the world—but I may say, God keep you, and have no stain on my conscience."

Without waiting for an answer she touched up her horse and passed on, the little train of nuns rapidly following.

The Prince was almost startled by the earnestness of the abbess's last words, which seemed full of vivid meaning.

"Had she not been a nun and Montmorency's daughter," he said, "I should have thought she blessed us."

"It is a sweet woman," remarked Louis, "that they have stifled in that habit."

The Prince watched the nuns go their way until the turn of the winding road had hidden them, then went back to the camp, to go his way of exile and ruin and loneliness.

He pulled at the hawthorn boughs as he passed, and thought of Anne of Saxony.

"I certainly am not fortunate," he remarked, with a sudden smile.

"There is the future," said Louis hopefully.

"Ah yes," answered the Prince. "The future and the past—in both there is encouragement, though the present be sad. Our task is clear before us and we are young."

"And if we die young, God will be pitiful," said Henry gravely, "and forgive us our sins because we were not wise."

Louis thought of Adolphus and of the inscription on the blood-sprinkled banner that had wrapped him, "Nunc aut nunquam, recuperare aut mori."

William too had recalled his dead brother when Henry spoke. He believed that the coming years held the same fate for all of them, that neither they nor any who followed them would escape the end which befell those who defied Philip—the end which had already overtaken so many besides the young Nassau.

But though the Prince of Orange was one who loved life, he was neither regretful nor afraid.

Printed byMorrison & Gibb Limited,Edinburgh

Printed by

Morrison & Gibb Limited,

Edinburgh

BY THE SAME AUTHOR

The Viper of MilanI Will MaintainDefender of the FaithGod and the KingThe Quest of GloryA Knight of SpainThe Governor of England

The Viper of Milan

I Will Maintain

Defender of the Faith

God and the King

The Quest of Glory

A Knight of Spain

The Governor of England

TRANSCRIBER'S NOTESSilently corrected simple spelling, grammar, and typographical errors.Retained anachronistic and non-standard spellings as printed.

TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES

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