Lysbeth, a Tale of the DutchHaggard, H. Rider (Henry Rider)
History
Lysbeth, a Tale of the Dutch
Haggard, H. Rider (Henry Rider)
Netherlands -- History -- House of Habsburg, 1477-1556 -- Fiction
“I tell you, wife, it is not possible. Am I a rat that I should be
bolted from my hole thus by this ferret of a Montalvo? I am a man of
peace and no longer young, but let him beware lest I stop here long
enough to pass a sword through him.”
“So be it, husband,” she replied, “but I think it is through my heart
that the sword will pass,” and she burst out weeping.
Supper that night was a somewhat melancholy meal. Dirk and Lysbeth sat
at the ends of the table in silence. On one side of fit were placed Foy
and Elsa, who were also silent for a very different reason, while
opposite to them was Adrian, who watched Elsa with an anxious and
inquiring eye.
That the love potion worked he was certain, for she looked confused and
a little flushed; also, as would be natural under the circumstances,
she avoided his glance and made pretence to be interested in Foy, who
seemed rather more stupid than usual. Well, so soon as he could find
his chance all this would be cleared up, but meanwhile the general
gloom and silence were affecting his nerves.
“What have you been doing this afternoon, mother?” Adrian asked
presently.
“I, son?” she replied with a start, “I have been visiting the unhappy
Vrouw Jansen, whom I found very sick.”
“What is the matter with her, mother?”
Lysbeth’s mind, which had wandered away, again returned to the subject
at hand with an effort.
“The matter? Oh! she has the plague.”
“The plague!” exclaimed Adrian, springing to his feet, “do you mean to
say you have been consorting with a woman who has the plague?”
“I fear so,” she answered with a smile, “but do not be frightened,
Adrian, I have burnt my clothes and fumigated myself.”
Still Adrian was frightened. His recent experience of sickness had been
ample, and although he was no coward he had a special dislike of
infectious diseases, which at the time were many.
“It is horrible,” he said, “horrible. I only hope that we—I mean
you—may escape. The house is unbearably close. I am going to walk in
the courtyard,” and away he went, for the moment, at any rate,
forgetting all about Elsa and the love potion.
CHAPTER XVIII
FOY SEES A VISION
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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