H. C. Bailey

“ Who knows?"
"Who knows?" cried Henri Vermeil at my other elbow. "Why, we all know; we cannot do more than we did for Alva, or worse; and, ma foi, we can scarce get less."
"More defeats, no pay, no plunder. They say the Orange is pious," grunted Gaspar.
"Well, well; he can pray for your sins, Gaspar," cried Henri. "The good man will live on his knees."
"True, there are the convoys," said Gaspar. "Ach! Halt!" ”

“ I looked up, startled.
"So perish all the enemies of the Faith!" quoth Vermeil.
"Nay, not without repentance!" she cried.
"Repentance!" said I. "A Spaniard repent!"
"Murder never aided a cause," she answered.
"One cannot make war in white gloves," I said, and she answered nothing.
By long and by last we came to Veermut bridge, the narrow old wooden bridge to which belongs the fame and the honour of the first hard blow struck at Alva the invincible. "To the bridge?" you ask. Ay, to the bridge. On one side were Don Guzman d'Astorgas and Gaspar Wiederman and the convoy ”

“ I reached forward over my horse's neck and fired, and the rascal's blood mixed with the spilt wine on the ground.
"Do I command?" I thundered. "Ere morning we march. A fair portion of meat and wine to every man, and, cordieu! no more. ”