CHAPTER XIX.
Hero or coward?
Antwerp was in a frightful tumult when the noise of battle proclaimed the fact that the valiant band of Protestants had been betrayed. Conrad Chenoweth, feeling that his first duty was in Antwerp caring for his mother, became identified with the crowd that watched the progress of the conflict from the walls of the city.
Prominent upon this coign of vantage was the young wife of Marnix Thoulouse. With pale face and tearless eyes she followed the movements of one beloved form. She listened to the commands which rang out clear and incisive from that beloved voice. When she saw him pressed on all sides and menaced with death, she became like one distraught. Running wildly from street to street, she besought the burghers to help her husband.
The sympathies of a large part of the citizens were with the young wife of Thoulouse, and in a short time ten thousand men were assembled, armed with axes, pikes, arquebuses and any implement which could be obtained on the spur of the moment. This band marched at once to the Red Gate.
The Prince of Orange, anticipating some such movement, reached the Gate before the armed but undisciplined band of citizens.
"No one passes out the Red Gate!" was his imperative command. "Men of Antwerp, listen to me! Will you thus recklessly sacrifice your lives? You do not know what you are asking when you demand that yonder gate be opened. Outside is a body of veterans, trained in military tactics, disciplined to act as one man. You are nothing but raw recruits. I will not let you go forth to be slaughtered in cold blood."
"Fool! Traitor! Die where you stand, miscreant that you are!" and a loaded arquebusque was levelled at the breast of the Prince. Conrad Chenoweth sprang forward and knocked the weapon from the man's hand.
"Shame! Shame!" cried many of the citizens who were still loyal to Orange. The burghers recognized the wisdom of William's temperate and reasonable words, and all but five hundred acceded to his wishes, and remained within the city. The foolhardy band who dashed out of the gates returned in a few moments only too glad to seek safety within the friendly walls. The only effect which their effort to help Thoulouse had upon the enemy was to hasten the death of three hundred prisoners whom they had taken. Expecting the battle about to be renewed, and having no means to guard the prisoners, they were deliberately shot.
The news of the complete massacre of Thoulouse's army caused the most intense excitement. The Protestants had been betrayed! By whom? By some Catholic, of course! "Death to the Catholics!" said stern lips.
The young wife of Thoulouse realizing that she was a widow, went about moaning in her anguish, "O, why did you not save my husband, my brave, my beautiful one?"
The Prince of Orange rode to the place where the new-made widow was sobbing and wringing her hands. He laid his hand tenderly on the bowed head.
"Ask him your question, Madam Thoulouse," said a burgher, pointing to the Prince. "Ask that man why he refused to open yonder gate, when ten thousand of us were ready to go to your husband's relief. Yes, I say," he shouted angrily, "ask that great reformer, that pretended adherent of the Protestant faith, why he kept within the city and let three thousand of his brethren seal their faith with their heart's blood."
The young widow lifted her tear-gemmed eyes, and gazed reproachfully at the Silent Prince. An immense crowd had gathered meantime. Another riot was imminent. The faces of the men were hard and bitter, and ever and anon rose on the breeze a sound like the roar of an angry sea. "Death to the Catholics!" and the words were no meaningless threat.
Every eye was fixed on the Prince. He raised his hand and all kept silence.
"Lower your weapons!"
Every man obeyed involuntarily.
"Citizens, Protestants, what are you contemplating? Has not enough blood been shed, that you threaten to spill that of thousands more of your fellow countrymen? Does your gospel teach you an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth? Are you the followers of Him who said, 'Bless and curse not'? In what, pray, are you better than those with whom you contend?"
"Coward!" hissed one. "Traitor!" yelled another. "Would you sacrifice us as you did our brethren at Oosterweel?" demanded a third.
The excitement grew intense. One man, shaking with rage, seized the bridle of the horse on which the Prince rode. "Where is my son?" he cried. "Where is my daughter's lover?" A stern voice close at his elbow called out in clear tones: "Prince William, account to us for our dead at Ooserweel, or your life shall answer for yesterday."
A dozen pikes were levelled at the breast of Orange, and to-day no arm was raised to defend him. Alone he stood facing thousands of infuriated men. His face was deathly pale and his lips trembled, but it was not with fear.
"Burghers," said the Prince, "I will reply to your first accusation as to why I permitted the slaughter of yesterday to go unavenged. As to the threat upon my life, I can say nothing. There are thousands of you. I am alone!"
The proud dignity and quiet words of William of Orange were more cogent than a sublime oration. The crowd began to look shamefaced. They knew that the Prince was no coward. He was calm, even though he knew the mob was capable of tearing him in pieces. But they were not yet fully satisfied.
"Prove your statement!" shouted one.
"Deeds, we want deeds!" said another.
"Citizens," said William," do you think it cost me nothing to sacrifice the brother of one of my dearest friends, one who was dear to me for his own sake, and to feel compelled to disappoint his confidence? To be sure, you might have sallied forth, and perhaps have rescued Thoulouse and his men, and defeated the government troops. But at what a cost! The city of Antwerp would immediately have been subjected to all the horrors of civil war. From that fate you were saved yesterday. Was that the act of a traitor? Furthermore," he added, "so long as I have a voice to advise, and an arm to deter you, not a man shall draw a weapon upon one of his fellow citizens; within Antwerp no fratricide shall be committed until that weapon shall first have pierced my heart."
Again the mob recognized the voice of its master. William of Orange must have possessed that which we call "authority" in his face and speech, that alone and unarmed he could awe that bloodthirsty throng. They recognized that this courageous man was in the right. At least, if he risked the lives of others, he was equally ready to risk his own.
"Long live the Prince of Orange!" cried the fickle populace.
"My children," said William persuasively, "disband and go to your homes."
And the citizens of Antwerp obeyed, and peace was secured.