Whispered words set this living mass on its way, and anon it was crawling along--swiftly and silently--more silently than incoming waves on a flat shore--on and on, always northwards in the direction of the Prince of Orange’s camp, like some gigantic snake that creeps with belly close to the ground. "Don Ramon," whispered a voice in the darkness, "let Captain Romero deal with the sentinels and lead the surprise attack, whilst you yourself make straight for the Prince’s tent; overpower his guard first, then seize his person. Two hundred ducats will be your reward, remember, if you bring Orange back here--a prisoner--and a ducat for each of your men." These were the orders and don Ramon de Linea sped forward with six hundred arquebusiers--all picked men--they wore their shirts over their armour, so that in the mêlée which was to come they might recognise one another in the gloom. Less than a league of flat pasture land lay between Alva’s entrenchments at St. Florian near the gates of beleaguered Mons, and Orange’s camp at Hermigny. But at St. Florian men stirred and planned and threatened, whilst at Hermigny even the sentinels slept. Noble-hearted Orange had raised the standard of revolt against the most execrable oppression of an entire people which the world has ever known--and he could not get more than a handful of patriots to fight for their own freedom against the tyranny and the might of Spain, whilst mercenary troops were left to guard the precious life of the indomitable champion of religious and civil liberties. The moving mass of de Linea’s arquebusiers had covered half a league of the intervening ground; their white shirts only just distinguishable in the gloom made them look like ghosts; only another half-league--less perhaps--separated them from their goal, and still no one stirred in Orange’s camp. Then it was that something roused the sentinels from their sleep. A rough hand shook first one then the others by the shoulder, and out of the gloom a peremptory voice whispered hurriedly: "Quick! awake! sound the alarm! An _encamisada_ is upon you. You will all be murdered in your sleep." And even before the drowsy sentinels had time to rouse themselves or to rub their eyes, the same rough hand had shaken the Prince’s guard, the same peremptory voice had called: "Awake! the Spaniards are upon you!" In the Prince’s tent a faint light was glimmering. He himself was lying fully dressed and armed upon a couch. At sound of the voice, of his guards stirring, of the noise and bustle of a wakening camp, he sat up just in time to see a tall figure in the entrance of his tent. The feeble light threw but into a dim relief this tall figure of a man, clad in dark, shapeless woollen clothes wearing a hood of the same dark stuff over his head and a leather mask over his face. "Leatherface!" exclaimed the Prince as he jumped to his feet. "What is it?"