The First Sir Percy

The First Sir Percy

By Baroness Orczy.

Table of Contents

1. Titlepage
2. Imprint
3. I: A Night on the Veluwe
   1. I
   2. II
   3. III
   4. IV
   5. V
4. II: The Double Wedding
   1. I
   2. II
   3. III
   4. IV
   5. V
   6. VI
   7. VII
5. III: The Great Interruption
   1. I
   2. II
   3. III
   4. IV
   5. V
   6. VI
6. IV: Adder’s Fork
   1. I
   2. II
   3. III
7. V: A Race for Life
   1. I
   2. II
   3. III
8. VI: A Nest of Scorpions
   1. I
   2. II
   3. III
   4. IV
   5. V
   6. VI
   7. VII
9. VII: A Subtle Traitor
   1. I
   2. II
   3. III
   4. IV
   5. V
10. VIII: Devil’s-Writ
    1. I
    2. II
    3. III
    4. IV
    5. V
    6. VI
    7. VII
    8. VIII
11. IX: Mala Fides
    1. I
    2. II
    3. III
    4. IV
    5. V
    6. VI
    7. VII
12. X: A Prince of Darkness
    1. I
    2. II
    3. III
    4. IV
    5. V
    6. VI
13. XI: The Danger-Spoke
    1. I
    2. II
    3. III
14. XII: Tears, Sighs, Hearts
    1. I
    2. II
    3. III
15. XIII: The Stygian Creek
    1. I
    2. II
    3. III
16. XIV: Treachery
    1. I
    2. II
    3. III
    4. IV
    5. V
    6. VI
    7. VII
    8. VIII
17. XV: The Molen on the Veluwe
    1. I
    2. II
    3. III
    4. IV
    5. V
    6. VI
    7. VII
18. XVI: The Final Issue
    1. I
    2. II
    3. III
19. XVII: The Only World
    1. I
    2. II
20. Colophon
21. Uncopyright

Imprint

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I

A Night on the Veluwe

I

A moonless night upon the sandy waste⁠—the sky a canopy of stars, twinkling with super-radiance through the frosty atmosphere; the gently undulating ground like a billowy sea of silence and desolation, with scarce a stain upon the smooth surface of the snow; the mantle of night enveloping every landmark upon the horizon beyond the hills in folds of deep, dark indigo, levelling every chance hillock and clump of rough shrub or grass, obliterating road and wayside ditch, which in the broad light of day would have marred the perfect evenness of the wintry pall.

It was a bitterly cold night of mid-March in that cruel winter of 1624, which lent so efficient a hand to the ghouls of war and of disease in taking toll of human lives.

Not a sound broke the hushed majesty of this forgotten corner of God’s earth, save perhaps at intervals the distant, melancholy call of the curlew, or from time to time the sigh of a straying breeze, which came lingering and plaintive from across the Zuyder Zee. Then for awhile countless particles of snow, fanned by unseen breaths, would arise from their rest, whirl and dance a mad fandango in the air, gyrate and skip in a glistening whirlpool lit by mysterious rays of steel-blue light, and then sink back again, like tired butterflies, to sleep once more upon the illimitable bosom of the wild. After which Silence and Lifelessness would resume their ghostlike sway.

To right and left, and north and south, not half a dozen leagues away, humanity teemed and fought, toiled and suffered, unfurled the banner of Liberty, laid down life and wealth in the cause of Freedom, conquered and was downtrodden and conquered again; men died that their children might live, women wept and lovers sighed. But here, beneath that canopy dotted with myriads of glittering worlds, intransmutable and sempiternal, the cries of battle and quarrels of men, the wail of widows and the laughter of children appeared futile and remote.

II

But to an eye trained to the dreary monotony of winter upon the Veluwe, there were a few faint indications of the tracks, which here and there intersect the arid waste and link up the hamlets and cities which lie along its boundaries. There were lines⁠—mere shadows upon the even sheet of snow⁠—and tiny white hillocks that suggested a bordering of rough scrub along the edges of the roads.

That same trained eye could then proceed to trace those shadowy lines along their erratic way ’twixt Amersfoort and the Neder Rhyn, or else from Barneveld as far as Apeldoorn, or yet again ’twixt Utrecht and Ede, and thence as far as the Ijssel, from the further shores of which the armies of the Archduchess, under the command of Count Henri de Berg, were even then threatening Gelderland.

It was upon this last, scarcely visible track that a horse and rider came slowly ambling along in the small hours of the morning, on this bitterly cold night in March. The rider had much ado to keep a tight hold on the reins with one hand, whilst striving to keep his mantle closely fastened round his shoulders with the other.

The horse, only half-trusting his master, suspicious and with nerves a-quiver, ready to shy and swerve at every shadow that loomed out of the darkness, or