He turned away and poured himself a cognac from the sideboard. He was weary, but he could not sleep—not yet. After nearly half an hour, the study doors opened and a large-boned man in rough clothing entered.
“Sire,” he announced himself in thickly accented German, and paused for a response.
“Fritz, I am very tired.” The voice was almost a whisper. “I must be certain that I know—I must know at once—if a messenger comes to that house. Is that clear?”
“Have no fear, sire, I shall remain here and watch. Any disturbance and I shall awaken you.”
“There must be no mistake,” the master said. “It is of the utmost importance.”
Fritz waited by the windows throughout the night, but the house across the way lay silent in the moonlight. In the morning, the master arose, bathed and dressed, and came down to replace Fritz at his post in the study.
Their vigil continued for three days. The rains came and turned the countryside into pools of mud, making the roads nearly impassable. At the end of the third day, around suppertime, the old woman was just laying out a tray of food for the master when Fritz came in.
“Excuse, sire, but a man approaches—alone—by the eastern road from Bruxelles.”
The other nodded, put back his napkin on the tray, and with a wave of his hand dismissed the two servants. Extinguishing the candle, he strode to the window and hid himself behind the damask draperies.
Within the neighboring house there was commotion. Several men bustled from room to room, lighting chandeliers and wall sconces with long blazing tapers. Soon the rooms glittered brilliantly, and through the dusk the watcher scanned the interior details: crystal that shimmered from the high-domed ceilings and dripped like diamonds from scalloped alcoves in the walls, furniture and draperies of richly embroidered tapestries in red and gold, mirrored walls and tables encrusted in gold leaf.
The pale young man tensed as he saw a single rider appear from the mist in the warm, wet twilight down the eastern road and approach the house opposite. The doors were thrown open and he was shown in at once, in his muddy cape and boots. The rider waited uncomfortably at the center of the room, turning his hat in his hands and gazing at the floor.
At last the inner doors burst open and a tall, heavyset man entered, surrounded by men and women who dropped back when they beheld the soiled and muddy horseman. The tall man paused expectantly, and the messenger bowed.
The observer at the window was scarcely breathing. He saw the messenger take two swift strides to the tall man and kneel as if in obeisance to a reigning monarch. The tall man stood in the center of the room, his head bowed, as one by one each person in the room came before him and knelt in the same fashion.
The pale young man closed his eyes. He stood for several minutes looking at nothing except his own inner vision. Then he turned and walked swiftly to the door.
Fritz was waiting outside, seated in a large chair in the foyer. He stood at once to attention.
“My horse,” said the master softly, turning at once to ascend the broad staircase and gather his belongings.
He would not return to Ghent; his mission here had been accomplished.
He did not know how many days or nights he rode through the rain-battered countryside. The land was like a marsh, and against the driving rain he could not tell where the sky ended and the ground began. His horse stumbled more than once, sucked down by the slimy mud that seemed to have no bottom. Although his body ached with weariness, still he drove on and on—he could not stop. He was headed to Ostend and the sea.
It was the evening of the second day when, wiping his eyes against the leaden sweep of rain, he made out the lights of Ostend flickering through the thick mist. As he approached he saw boats lashed down against the piers, great white waves smashing against the quay. All the town, it seemed, had gone indoors, and every house was shuttered against the weather.
Along the quay he found an inn that seemed likely to have seamen stopping there. The innkeeper kindly came out and took his horse to shelter. He went inside, drenched and weary, and ordered a brandy that he downed quickly as he sat beside the fire.
The sailors there were drinking hard whiskey and muttering sourly about the weather, for they were losing work and money each day the rains continued. The room was filled with the sweetish-sour smell of their tobacco. A few men turned away from their talk, idly interested in the newcomer who had broken the monotony of their long indoor confinement.
“Where do you come from in this godless weather, friend?” asked one.
“I come from Ghent, and I am bound for London,” he replied. He used the French word Londres, for he observed that although they spoke in Flemish, most were French, and he wished to win those over. Romance mixed with pecuniary interest lay in every Frenchman’s soul, while practicality alone made up the heart of the Flamand.
He held up three fingers sideways to the barman, to show he’d have more brandy and it should be poured that deep.
“It’s been a week we’ve been stranded here,” said another sailor. “Our goods are rotting on the docks and in the bellies of our ships. Yesterday, two whole piers were torn away and washed into the sea. Many boats have been lifted up and smashed upon the quay. You may be waiting here a good long while before the weather will permit you safe passage.”
“I must pass to London—safely or not—and I must go tonight,” he replied. “Which is man enough among you to bear me across the channel?”
The sailors laughed and slapped one another
