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  <TITLE>The First Sir Percy</TITLE>
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The First Sir Percy<BR>
</FONT><FONT COLOR="#990000" FACE="Lucida Calligraphy">by Baroness
Orczy<BR>
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<H3><CENTER><FONT FACE="Apple Chancery">Text transcribed by Lani
Bretta from the 1921 edition in the collection of the Library
of Congress, with love and eternal gratitude to Emmuska Magdalena
Rosalia Maria Josepha Barbara Orczy. <BR>
We thank you from the bottom of our hearts!<BR>
<HR></FONT></CENTER></H3>

<H3><CENTER><U><FONT FACE="Apple Chancery">Table of Contents</FONT></U></CENTER></H3>

<H3><CENTER><A HREF="fchp1.html"><FONT FACE="Apple Chancery">1
- A Night on the Veluwe</FONT></A><BR>
<FONT FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="fchp2.html">2 - The Double
Wedding</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="fchp3.html">3 - The Great
Interruption</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="fchp4.html">4 - Adder's Fork</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="fchp5.html">5 - A race for
Life</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="fchp6.html">6 - A Nest of
Scorpions</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="fchp7.html">7 - A Subtle
Traitor</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="fchp8.html">8 - Devil's-Writ</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="fchp9.html">9 - Mala Fides</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="fchp10.html">10 - A Prince
of Darkness</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="fchp11.html">11 - The Danger-Spoke</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="fchp12.html">12 - Tears,
Sighs, Hearts</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="fchp13.html">13 - The Stygian
Creek</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="fchp14.html">14 - Treachery</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="fchp15.html">15 - The Molen
on the Veluwe</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="fchp16.html">16 - The Final
Issue</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="fchp17.html">17 - The Only
Word<BR>
<BR>
</A><IMG SRC="http://counter43.bravenet.com/counter.php?id=89348&ref='+escape(document.referrer)+'"
BORDER="0" ALIGN="BOTTOM"> </FONT></SCRIPT>demmed lucky people
have read this story!</CENTER></H3>

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<P><CENTER><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery">Hosted by </FONT><A
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</FONT></A><FONT FACE="Apple Chancery">&copy;Blakeney Manor, 2001</FONT></CENTER>

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<H3><CENTER><FONT FACE="Lucida Calligraphy">CHAPTER I - A NIGHT
ON THE VELUWE</FONT></CENTER></H3>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">~1</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">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.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">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.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">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.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">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 down-trodden
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.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">~2</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">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.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">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.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">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.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">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 at every unexpected sound
that disturbed the silence of the night, would more than once
have thrown his rider but for the latter's firm hand upon the
curb.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The rider's keen eyes were searching the gloom
around him. From time to time a forcible ejaculation, indicative
of impatience or anxiety, escaped his lips, numb with cold, and
with unconsidered vehemence he would dig his spurs into his horse's
flanks, with the result that a fierce and prolonged struggle 'twixt
man and beast would ensue, and, until the quivering animal was
brought back to comparative quietude again, much time was spent
in curses and recriminations.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Anon the rider pulled up sharply at the top
of the rising ground, looked round and about him, muttered a few
more emphatic 'Dondersteens' and 'verdommts.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then he veered his mount right round and started
to go back down hill again -- still at foot-pace -- spied a side-track
on his right, turned to follow it for a while, came to a halt
again, and flung his head back in a futile endeavor to study the
stars, about which he knew nothing.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then he shook his head dolefully; the time
had gone by for cursing -- praying would have been more useful,
had he known how to set about it -- for in truth he had lost his
way upon this arid waste, and the only prospect before him was
that of spending the night in the saddle, vainly trying by persistent
movement to keep the frost out of his limbs.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">For the nonce, he had no idea in which direction
lay Amersfoort, which happened to be his objective. Apparently
he had taken the wrong road when first he came out of Ede, and
might now be tending toward the Rhyn, or have left both Barneveld
and even Assel considerably behind.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The unfortunate wayfarer did not of a surety
know which to rail most bitterly against: his want of accurate
knowledge as to the disposal of the stars upon a moonless firmament,
so that he could not have told you, gaze on them how he might,
which way lay the Zuyder Zee, the Ijssel, or the Rhyn; or that
last mug of steaming ale of which he had partaken ere he finally
turned his back on the hospitable doors of the &quot;Crow's Nest&quot;
at Ede.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It was that very mug of the delicious spiced
liquor -- and even in this hour of acute misery, the poor man
contrived to smack his half-frozen lips in retrospective enjoyment
-- which had somehow obscured his vision when first he found himself
outside the city gates, confronted by the verfloekte waste, through
which even a cat could not have picked its way on a night like
this.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And now, here he was, hopelessly stranded,
without drink or shelter, upon the most desolate portion of the
Veluwe. In no direction could the lights of any habitation be
seen.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Dondersteen!&quot; he muttered to himself
finally, in despair. &quot;But I must get somewhere in time, if
I keep following my nose long enough!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">~3</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">In truth, no more lonely spot could be imagined
in a civilized land than that wherein the stranded traveler now
found himself. Even by day the horizon seems limitless, with neither
tower nor city nor homestead in sight. By night the silence is
so absolute that imagination will conjure up strange and impossible
sounds, such as that of the earth whistling through space, or
of ceaseless rolls of drums and trampings of myriads of feet thousands
of leagues away.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Strangely enough, however, once upon a time,
in the far long ago and the early days of windmills, a hermit-miller
-- he must have been a hermit in very truth -- did build one here
upon the highest point of the Veluwe, close to the junction of
the road which runs eastward from Amersfoort and Barneveld, with
the one which tends southward from Assel, and distant from each
a quarter of a league or so. Why that windmill was erected just
there, far from the home of any peasant or farmer who might desire
to have his corn ground, or who that hermit-miller was who dwelt
in it before flocks of wild geese alone made it their trysting-place,
it were impossible to say.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">No trace of it remains these days, nor were
there any traces of it left a year after the events which this
veracious chronicle will presently unfold, for reasons which will
soon appear obvious to anyone who reads. But there it stood in
this year of grace 1624, on that cold night in March, when a solitary
horseman lost his way upon the Veluwe, with serious consequences,
not only to himself, but to no less a person than Maurice, Prince
of Nassau, Stadtholder of the United Provinces of the Netherlands,
and mayhap to the entire future history of that sorely tried country.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">On a winter's night such as this, the mill
looked peculiarly weird and ghost-like looming out of the darkness
against the background of a star-studded firmament, and rising,
sombre and dense, from out the carpet of glabrous snow, majestic
in its isolation, towering above the immensity of the waste, its
domed roof decked in virgin white like the mother-bosom of the
wild. Built of weather-worn timber throughout, it had a fenced-in
platform supported by heavy rafters all around it, like a girdle,
at a height of twenty feet and more from the ground: and the gaunt,
skeleton wings were stretched out to the skies, scarred, broken,
and motionless, as if in piteous appeal for protection against
the disfiguring ravages of time.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">There were two small windows close under the
roof on the south side of the building, and a large, narrow one
midway up the same side. The disposal of these windows, taken
in conjunction with the door down below, was so quaint that, viewed
from a certain angle, they looked for all the world like the eyes,
nose, and pursed-up mouth of a gargantuan, grinning face.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">~4</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">If a stranger travelling through Gelderland
these days had thought it fit to inquire from a native whether
that particular molen upon the Veluwe was doing work or was inhabited,
he would of a certainty have been told that the only possible
inhabitants of the molen were gnomes and sprites, and that if
any corn was ground there it could only be in order to bake bread
for the devil's dinner.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The mill was disused and uninhabited, had been
for many years -- a quarter of a century or more probably -- so
any and every native of Gelderland and Utrecht would have emphatically
averred. Nevertheless, on this same memorable night in March,
1624, there were evident signs of life -- human life -- about
that solitary and archaic molen on the Veluwe. Tiny slits of light
showed clearly from certain angles through the chinks of the wooden
structure; there were vague sounds of life and movement in and
about the place; the weather-worn boards creaked and the timber
groaned under more tangible pressure than that of the winds. Nay,
what's more two horses were tethered down below, under the shelter
afforded by the overhanging platform. These horses were saddled;
they had nosebags attached to their bridles, and blankets thrown
across their withers; all of which signs denoted clearly, methinks,
that for once the mill was inhabited by something more material
than ghosts.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">More ponderous, too, than ghoulish footsteps
were the sounds of slow pacing up and down the floor of the millhouse,
and of two voices, now raised to loud argument, now sunk to a
mere cautious whisper.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Two men were, in effect, inside the millhouse
at this hour. One of them -- tall, lean, dark in well-worn, almost
ragged, black doublet and cloak, his feet and legs encased in
huge boots of untanned leather which reached midway up his long
thighs, his black bonnet pushed back from his tall, narrow forehead
and grizzled hair -- was sitting upon the steps of the steep,
ladder-like stairs which led to the floor above; the other --
shorter, substantially, even richly clad, and wearing a plumed
hat and fur-lined cloak, was the one who paced up and down the
dust-covered floor. He was younger than his friend, had fair,
curly hair, and a silken, fair moustache, which hid the somewhat
weak lines of his mouth.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">An old, battered lanthorn, hanging to a nail
in the wall, threw a weird, flickering light upon the scene, vaguely
illumined the gaunt figure of the man upon the steps, his large
hooked nose and ill-shaven chin, and long thin hands that looked
like the talons of some bird of prey.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You cannot stay on here forever, my good
Stoutenburg, &quot;the younger of the two men said, with some
impatience. &quot;Sooner or later you will be discovered, and
---&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He paused, and the other gave a grim laugh.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And there is a price of two thousand
guilders upon my head, you mean, my dear Heemskerk?&quot; he said
dryly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Well, I did mean that,&quot; rejoined
Heemskerk, with a shrug of the shoulders. &quot;The people round
about here are very poor. They might hold your father's memory
in veneration, but there is not one who would not sell you to
the Stadtholder if he found you out.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Again Stoutenburg laughed. He seemed addicted
to the habit of this mirthless, almost impish laugh.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I was not under the impression, believe
me, my friend,&quot; he said, &quot;that Christian charity or
loyalty to my father's memory would actuate a worthy Dutch peasant
into respecting my sanctuary. But I am not satisfied with what
I have learned. I must know more. I have promised De Berg,&quot;
he concluded firmly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And De Berg counts on you,&quot; Heemskerk
rejoined. &quot;But,&quot; he added, with a shrug of the shoulders,
&quot;you know what he is. One of those men who, so long as they
gain their ambitious ends, count every life cheap but their own.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Well,&quot; answered Stoutenburg, &quot;
'tis not I, in truth, who would place a high price on mine.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Easy, easy, my good man,&quot; quoth
the other, with a smile. &quot;Hath it, perchance, not occurred
to you that your obstinacy in leading this owl-like life here
is putting a severe strain on the devotion of your friends?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">I make no appeal to the devotion of my friends,&quot;
answered Stoutenburg curtly. &quot;They had best leave me alone.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;We cannot leave you to suffer cold and
hunger, mayhap to perish of want in this God-forsaken eyrie.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I'm not starving,&quot; was Stoutenburg's
ungracious answer to the young man's kindly solicitude; &quot;and
have plenty of inner fire to keep me warm.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He paused, and a dark scowl contracted his
gaunt features, gave him an expression that in the dim and flickering
light appeared almost diabolical.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I know,&quot; said Heemskerk, with a
comprehending not. &quot;Still those thoughts of revenge?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Always!&quot; replied the other, with
sombre calm.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Twice you have failed.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The third time I shall succeed,&quot;
Stoutenburg affirmed with fierce emphasis. &quot;Maurice of Nassau
sent my father to the scaffold -- my father, to whom he owed everything:
money, power, success. The day that Olden Barneveldt died at the
hands of that accursed ingrate I, his son, swore that the Stadtholder
should perish by mine. As you say, I have twice failed in my attempt.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;My brother Groeneveld has gone the way
of my father. I am an outlaw with a price upon my head, and my
poor mother has three of us to weep for now, instead of one. But
I have not forgotten mine oath, nor yet my revenge. I'll be even
with Maurice of Nassau yet. All this fighting is but foolery.
He is firmly established as Stadtholder of the United Provinces
-- the sort of man who sees others die for him. He may lose a
town here, gain a city there, but he is the sovereign lord of
an independent State, and his sacred person is better guarded
than was that of his worthier father.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;But it is his life that I want,&quot;
Stoutenburg went on fiercely, and his thin, claw-like hand clutched
in imaginary dagger and struck out through the air as if against
the breast of the hated foe. &quot;For this I'll scheme and strive.
Nay, I'll never rest until I have him at my mercy as Gerard in
his day held William the Silent at his.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Bah!&quot; exclaimed Heemskerk hotly.
&quot;You would not emulate that abominable assassin!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Why not call me a justiciary?&quot; Stoutenburg
retorted dryly. &quot;The Archduchess would load me with gifts.
Spain would proclaim me a hero. Assassin or executioner -- it
only depends on the political point of view. But doubt me not
for a single instant, Heemskerk. Maurice of Nassau will die by
my hand.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;That is why you intend to remain here?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Yes. Until I have found out his every
future plan.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;But how can you do it? You dare not show
yourself abroad.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;That is my business,&quot; replied Stoutenburg
quietly, &quot;and my secret.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I respect your secret,&quot; answered
Heemskerk, with a shrug of the shoulders. &quot;It was only my
anxiety for your personal safety and for your comfort that brought
me hither to-night.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And De Berg's desire to learn what I
have spied,&quot; Stoutenburg retorted, with a sneer.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;De Berg is ready to cross the Ijssel,
and Isembourg to start from Kleve. De Berg proposes to attack
Arnheim. He wishes to know what forces are inside the city and
how they are disposed, and if the Stadtholder hath an army wherewith
to come to their relief or to offer us battle, with any chance
of success.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You can tell De Berg to send you or another
back to me here when the crescent moon is forty-eight hours older.
I shall have all the information then that he wants.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;That will be good news for him and for
Isembourg. There has been too much time wasted as it is.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Time has not been wasted. The frosts
have in the meanwhile made the Veluwe a perfect track for men
and cannon.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;For Nassau's men and Nassau's cannon,
as well as for our own,&quot; Heemskerk rejoined dryly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;A week hence, if all's well, Maurice
of Nassau will be too sick to lead his armies across the Veluwe
or elsewhere,&quot; said Stoutenburg quietly, and looked up with
such a strange, fanatical glitter in his deep-sunk eyes that the
younger man gave an involuntary gasp of horror.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You mean ---&quot; he ejaculated under
his breath; and instinctively drawing back some paces away from
his friend, stared at him with wide, uncomprehending eyes.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I mean,&quot; Stoutenburg went on slowly
and deliberately, &quot;that De Berg had best wait patiently a
little while longer. Maurice of Nassau will be a dying man ere
long.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">His harsh voice, sunk to a strange, impressive
whisper, died away in a long-drawn-out sigh, half of impatience,
wholly of satisfaction. Heemskerk remained for a moment or two
absolutely motionless, still staring at the man before him as
if the latter were some kind of malevolent and fiend-like wraith,
conjured up by devilish magic to scare the souls of men. Nor did
Stoutenburg add anything to his last cold-blooded pronouncement.
He seemed to be deriving a grim satisfaction in watching the play
of horror and of fear upon Heemskerk's usually placid features.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Thus for a space of a few moments the old molen
appeared to sink back to its habitual ghost-haunted silence, whilst
the hovering spirits of Revenge and Hate called up by the sorcery
of a man's evil passions held undisputed sway.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You mean ---&quot; reiterated Heemskerk
after awhile, vaguely, stupidly, babbling like a child.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I mean,&quot; Stoutenburg gave impatient
answer, &quot;that you should know me well enough by now, my good
Heemskerk, to realize that I am no swearer of futile oaths. Last
year, when I was over in Madrid, I cultivated the friendship of
one Francis Borgia. You have heard of him, no doubt; they call
him the Prince of Poets over there. He is a direct descendant
of the illustrious Cesare, and I soon discovered that most of
the secrets possessed by his far-famed ancestor were known to
my friend the poet.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Poisons!&quot; Heemskerk murmured, under
his breath.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Poisons!&quot; the other assented dryly.
&quot;And other things.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">With finger and thumb of his right hand, he
extracted a couple of tiny packets from a secret pocket of his
doublet, toyed with them for awhile, undid the packets and gazed
meditatively on their contents. Then he called to his friend.
&quot;They'll not hurt you,&quot; he said sardonically. &quot;Look
at this powder, now. Is it not innocent in appearance? Yet it
is of incalculable value to the man who doth not happen to possess
a straight eye or a steady hand with firearms. For add but a pinch
of it to the charge in your pistol, them aim at your enemy's head,
and if you miss killing him, or if he hold you at his mercy, you
very soon have him at yours. The fumes from the detonation will
cause instant and total blindness.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Despite his horror of the whole thing, Heemskerk
had instinctively drawn nearer to his friend. Now, at these words,
he stepped back again quickly, as if he had trodden upon an adder.
Stoutenburg, with his wonted cynicism, only shrugged his shoulders.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Have I not said that it would not hurt
you?&quot; he said, with a sneer. &quot;In itself it is harmless
enough, and only attains its useful properties when fired in connection
with gunpowder. But when used as I have explained it to you, it
is deadly and unerring. I saw it at work once or twice in Spain.
The Prince of Poets prides himself on its invention. He gave me
some of the precious powder, and I was glad of it. It may prove
useful one day.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He carefully closed the first packet and slipped
it back into the secret receptacle of his doublet; then he fell
to contemplating the contents of the second packet -- half a dozen
tiny pillules, which he kept rolling about in the palm of his
hand.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;These,&quot; he mused, &quot;are of more
proved value for my purpose. Have not De Berg,&quot; he added,
with a sardonic grin, as he looked once more on his friend, &quot;and
the Archduchess, too, heard it noised abroad that Maurice of Nassau
hath of late suffered from a mysterious complaint which already
threatens to cut him off in his prime, and which up to now hath
baffled those learned leeches who were brought over specially
from England to look after the health of the exalted patient?
Have not you and your friends, my good Heemskerk, heard the rumour
too?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The young man nodded in reply. His parched
tongue seemed to cleave to the roof of his mouth; he could not
utter a word. Stoutenburg laughed.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Ah!&quot; he said, with a nod of understanding.
&quot;I see that the tale did reach your ears. You understand,
therefore, that I must remain here for awhile longer.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And with absolute calm and a perfectly steady
hand, he folded up the pillules in the paper screw and put them
back in his pocket.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I could not leave my work unfinished,&quot;
he said simply.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;But how ---&quot; Heemskerk contrived
to stammer at last; and his voice to his own ears sounded hoarse
and toneless, like a voice out of the grave.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;How do I contrive to convey these pillules
into the Stadtholder's stomach?&quot; retorted Stoutenburg, with
a coarse chuckle. &quot;Well, my friend, that is still my secret.
But De Berg and the others must trust me a while longer -- trust
me and then thank me when the time comes. The Stadtholder once
out of the way, the resistance of the United Provinces must of
itself collapse like a house of cards. There need be no more bloodshed
after that -- no more sanguinary conflicts. Indeed, I shall be
acclaimed as a public benefactor -- when I succeed.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Then -- then you are determined to --
to remain here?&quot; Heemskerk murmured, feeling all the while
that anything he said was futile and irrelevant.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But how can a man speak when he is confronted
with a hideous spectre that mocks him, even whilst it terrifies?</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I shall remain here for the present,&quot;
Stoutenburg replied, with perfect coolness.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I -- I'd best go, then,&quot; the other
suggested vaguely.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You had best wait until the daylight.
'Tis easy to lose one's way on the Veluwe.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The young man waited for a moment, irresolute.
Clearly he was longing to get away, to put behind him this ghoul-infested
molen, with its presiding genii of hatred and of crime. Nay, men
like Heemskerk, cultivated and gently nurtured, understood the
former easily enough. Men and women knew how to hate fiercely
these days, and there were few sensations more thoroughly satisfying
than that of holding an enemy at the sword's point.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But poison! The slow, insidious weapon that
worked like a reptile, stealthily and in the dark! Bah! Heemskerk
felt a dizziness overcome him; sheer physical nausea threatened
to rob him of his faculties.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But there was undoubted danger in venturing
out on the arid wild, in the darkness and with nought but instinct
and a few half-obliterated footmarks to guide one along the track.
The young man went to the door and pulled it open. A gust of ice-laden
air blew into the great, empty place, and almost knocked the old
lanthorn off its peg. Heemskerk stepped out into the night. He
felt literally frightened, and, like a nervous child, had the
sensation of someone or something standing close behind him and
on the point of putting a spectral hand upon his shoulder.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But Stoutenburg had remained sitting on the
steps, apparently quite unmoved. No doubt he was accustomed to
look his abominable project straight in the face. He even shrugged
his shoulders in derision when he caught sight of Heemskerk's
white face and horror-filled eyes.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You cannot start while this blind man's
holiday lasts,&quot; he said lightly. &quot;Can I induce you to
partake of some of the refreshment you were good enough to bring
for me?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But Heemskerk gave him no answer. He was trying
to make up his mind what to do; and Stoutenburg, with another
careless laugh, rose from his seat and strode across the great
barn-like space. There, in a remote corner, where sacks of uncrushed
grain were wont to be stacked, stood a basket containing a few
simple provisions; a hunk of stale bread, a piece of cheese and
two or three bottles of wine. Stoutenburg stooped and picked one
of these up. He was whistling a careless tune. Then suddenly he
paused, his long back still bent, his arm with the hand that held
the bottle resting across his knee, his face, alert and hawk-like,
turned in an instant toward the door.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What was that?&quot; he queried hurriedly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Heemskerk, just as swiftly, had already stepped
back into the barn and closed the door again noiselessly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Useless!&quot; commented Stoutenburg
curtly. &quot;The horses are outside.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Where is Jan?&quot; he added after an
imperceptible pause, during which Heemskerk felt as if his very
heart-beats had become audible.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;On the watch, outside,&quot; replied
the young man.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Even whilst he spoke the door was cautiously
opened from the outside, and a grizzled head wrapped in a fur
bonnet was thrust in through the orifice.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What is it, Jan?&quot; the two men queried
simultaneously.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;A man and horse,&quot; Jan replied in
a rapid whisper.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Coming from over Amersfoort way. He must
have caught sight of the molen, for he has left the track and
is heading straight for us.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Some wretched traveler lost on this God-forsaken
waste,&quot; Stoutenburg said, with a careless shrug of the shoulders.
&quot;I have seen them come this way before.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;But not at this hour of the night?&quot;
murmured Heemskerk.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Mostly at night. It is easier to follow
the track by day.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What shall we do?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Nothing. Let the man come. We'll soon
see if he is dangerous. Are we not three to one?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The taunt struck home. Heemskerk looked abashed.
Jan remained standing in the doorway, waiting for further orders.
Stoutenburg went on quietly collecting the scanty provisions.
He found a couple of mugs, and with a perfectly steady hand filled
the first one and then the other with the wine.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Drink this Heemskerk,&quot; he said lightly;
and held out the two mugs at arm's length. &quot;It will calm
your nerves. You too, Jan.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Jan took the mug and drank with avidity, but
Heemskerk appeared to hesitate.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Afraid of the poison?&quot; Stoutenburg
queried with a sneer. Then, as the other, half-ashamed, took the
mug and drank at a draught, he added coolly: &quot;You need not
be afraid. I could not afford to waste such precious stuff on
you.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then he turned to Jan.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Remain outside,&quot; he commanded; &quot;well
wrapped in your blanket, and when the traveler hails you pretend
to be wakened from pleasant dreams. Then leave the rest to chance.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Jan at once obeyed. He went out of the molen,
closing the door carefully behind him.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Five minutes later, the hapless traveler had
put his horse to a trot. He had perceived the molen looming at
the top of the rising ground, dense and dark against the sky,
and looking upon it as a veritable God-sent haven of refuge for
wearied tramps, was making good haste to reach it, fearing lest
he himself dropped from sheer exhaustion out of his saddle ere
he came to his happy goal.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">That terrible contingency, however, did not
occur, and presently he was able to draw rein and to drop gently
if somewhat painfully to the ground without further mishap. Then
he looked about him. The mill in truth appeared to be uninhabited,
which was a vast pity, seeing that a glass of spiced ale would
-- but no matter, 'twas best not to dwell on such blissful thoughts!
A roof over one's head for the night was the most urgent need.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He led his horse by the bridle, and tethered
him to a heavy, supporting rafter under the overhanging platform;
was on the point of ministering to the poor, half-frozen beast,
when his ear caught a sound which caused him instantly to pause
first and then start on a tour around the molen. He had not far
to go. The very next moment he came upon a couple of horses tethered
like his own, and upon Jan, who was snoring lustily, curled up
in a horse-blanket in the angle of the porch.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">To hail the sleeper with lusty shouts at first,
and then with a vigorous kick, was but the work of a few seconds;
after which Jan's snores were merged in a series of comprehensive
curses against the disturber of his happy dreams.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Dondersteen!&quot; he murmured, still
apparently half asleep. &quot;And who is this verfloekte plepshurk
who ventures a weary traveler from his sleep?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Another weary traveler, verfloekte plepshurk
yourself,&quot; the other cried aloud. Nor were it possible to
render with any degree of accuracy the language which he subsequently
used when Jan persistently refused to move.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Then, dondersteen,&quot; retorted Jan
thickly, &quot;do as I do -- wrap yourself up in a blanket and
go to sleep.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Not until I have discovered how it comes
that one wearied traveler happens to be abroad with two equally
wearied and saddled horses. And I am not mistaken, plepshurk,
thou are but a varlet left on guard outside, whilst thy master
feasts and sleeps within.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Whereupon, without further parley, he strode
across Jan's outstretched body and, with a vigorous kick of his
heavy boot, thrust open the door which gave on the interior of
the mill.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Here he paused, just beneath the lintel, took
off his hat, and stood at respectful attention; for he had realized
at once that he was in the presence of his betters -- of two gentlemen,
in fact, one of whom had a mug of wine in his hand and the other
a bottle. These were the two points which, as it were, jumped
most directly to the eye of the weary, frozen, and thirsty traveler:
two gentlemen who haply were now satiated, and would spare a drop
even to a humble varlet if he stood before them in his full, pitiable
plight.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Who are you man? And what do you want?&quot;
one of these gentlemen queried peremptorily. It was the one who
had a bottle of wine -- a whole bottle -- in his hand; but he
looked peculiarly stern and forbidding, with his close-cropped,
grizzled head and hard, bird-like features.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Only a poor tramp, my lord,&quot; replied
the unfortunate wayfarer, in high-pitched, flute-like tones, &quot;who
hath lost his way, and has been wandering on this verdommte plain
since midnight.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What do you want?&quot; reiterated Stoutenburg
sternly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Only shelter for the rest of the night,
my lord, and -- and -- a little drink -- a very little drink --
for I am mightily weary, and my throat is dry as tinder.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What is your name?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">At this very simple question the man's round,
florid face with the tiny, upturned nose, slightly tinged with
pink, and the small, round eyes, bright and shiny like new crowns,
took on an expression of comical puzzlement. He scratched his
head, pursed up his lips, emitted a prolonged and dubious whistle.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I haven't a name, so please your lordship,&quot;
he said, after a while. &quot;That is, not a name such as other
people have. I have a name, in truth, a name by which I am known
to my friends; a name ---&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Thy name, plepshurk,&quot; command Stoutenburg
roughly, &quot;ere I throw thee out again into the night.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot; 'So please your lordship.&quot; replied
the man, &quot;I am called Pythagoras -- a name which I believe
belongs by right to a philosopher of ancient times, but to which
I will always answer, so please your High and Mightiness.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But this time his High and Mightiness did not
break in upon the worthy philosopher's volubility. Indeed, at
the sound of that highly ludicrous name -- ludicrous, that is,
when applied to its present bearer -- he had deliberately put
mug and bottle down, and then become strangely self-absorbed,
even whilst his friend had given an involuntary start.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;H'm! Pythagoras!&quot; his lordship resumed,
after a while. &quot;Have I ever seen thine ugly face before?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Not to my knowledge, my lord,&quot; replied
the other, marvelling when it would please these noble gentlemen
to give him something wherewith to moisten his gullet.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Ah! Methought I had once met another
who bore an equally strange name. Was it Demosthenes, or Euripides,
or ---&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Diogenes, no doubt, my lord,&quot; replied
the thirsty philosopher glibly. &quot;The most gallant gentleman
in the whole wide world, one who honours me with his friendship,
was pleased at one time to answer to that name.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Now, when Pythagoras made his announcement
he felt quite sure that lavish hospitality would promptly follow.
These gentlemen had no doubt heard of Diogenes, his comrade in
arms, the faithful and gallant friend for whom he -- Pythagoras
-- would go through fire and water and the driest of deserts.
They would immediately accord a welcome to one who had declared
himself honoured by the friendship of so noble a cavalier. Great
was the unfortunate man's disappointment, therefore, when his
glib speech was received in absolute silence; and he himself was
still left standing upon the lintel of the door, with an icy cold
draught playing upon him from behind.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It was only after a considerable time that
my lord deigned to resume his questionings again.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Where dost come from, fellow?&quot; he
asked.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;From Ede, so please your lordship,&quot;
Pythagoras replied dolefully, &quot;where I partook ---&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And whither art going?&quot; Stoutenburg
broke in curtly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I was going to Amersfoort, my lord, when
I lost my way.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;To Amersfoort?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot; 'Yes, my lord.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Mynheer Beresteyn hath a house at Amersfoort,&quot;
Stoutenburg said, as if to himself.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;It was to Mynheer Beresteyn's house that
I was bound, my lord, when I unfortunately lost my way.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Ah!&quot; commented my lord dryly. &quot;Thou
was on thy way to the house of Mynheer Beresteyn in Amersfoort?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Yes, my lord.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;With a message?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;No, my lord. Not with a message; I was
just going there for the wedding.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The wedding?&quot; ejaculated Stoutenburg,
and it seemed to Pythagoras as if my lord's haggard face took
on suddenly an almost cadaverous hue. &quot;Whose wedding fellow?&quot;
he added more calmly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;That of my friend Diogenes, so please
your lordship, with the Jongejuffrouw Beresteyn, he ---&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Take care, man, take care!&quot; came
with an involuntary call of alarm from Heemskerk; for Stoutenburg,
uttering a hoarse cry like that of a wounded beast, had raised
his arm and now strode on the unfortunate philosopher with clenched
fist and a look in his hollow eyes which boded no good to the
harbinger of those simple tidings.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">At sound of his friend's voice, Stoutenburg
dropped his arm. He turned on his heel, ashamed no doubt that
this stranger-varlet should see his face distorted as it was with
passion.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">This paroxysm of uncontrolled fury did not,
however, last longer than a moment or two; the next instant the
lord of Stoutenburg, outwardly calm and cynical as before had
resumed his haughty questionings, looked the awe-struck philosopher
up and down; and he, somewhat scared by the danger which he only
appeared to have escaped through the timely intervention of the
other gentleman, was marvelling indeed if he had better not take
to his heels at once and run, and trust his safety and his life
to the inhospitable wild, rather than in the company of this irascible
noble lord.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">I think, if fact, that he would have fled the
very next moment, but that my lord with one word kept him rooted
to the spot.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;So,&quot; resumed Stoutenburg coolly
after awhile, &quot;thou, fellow, art a bidden guest at the marriage
feast, which it seems is to be solemnized 'twixt the Jongejuffrouw
Beresteyn and another plepshurk as low as thyself. Truly doth
democracy tread hard on the heels of such tyranny as the United
Provinces have witnessed of late. Dost owe allegiance, sirrah,
to the Stadtholder?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Where Diogenes leads, my lord,&quot;
replied Pythagoras, with a degree of earnestness which sat whimsically
upon his rotund person, &quot;there do Socrates and I follow unquestioningly.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Which means that ye are three rascals,
ready to sell your skins to the highest bidder. Were ye not in
the pay of the lord of Stoutenburg during the last conspiracy
against the Stadtholder's life?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;We may have been, your honour,&quot;
the man replied naively; &quot;although, to my knowledge, I have
never set eyes on the lord of Stoutenburg.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot; 'Twere lucky for thee knave, if thou
didst,&quot; rejoined Stoutenburg with a harsh laugh, &quot;for
there's a price of two thousand guilders upon his head, and I
doubt not but thy scurrilous friend Diogenes would add another
two thousand to that guerdon.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then, as Pythagoras, almost dropping with fatigue,
was swaying upon his short, fat legs, he jerked his thumb in the
direction where the tantalizing bottles and mugs were faintly
discernible in the gloom. My lord continued curtly:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;There! Drink thy fill! Amersfoort is
not far. My man will put thee on thy way when thou hast quenched
thy thirst!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Quench his thirst! Where was that cellar which
could have worked this magic trick? In the corner to which my
lord was pointing so casually there was but one bottle, which
my lord had put down a while ago, and that, after all, was only
half full.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Still, half a bottle of wine was better than
no wine at all, and my lord, having granted his gracious leave,
took no more notice of the philosopher and his unquenchable thirst,
turned to his friend, and together the two gentlemen retired to
a distant corner of the place and there whispered eagerly with
one another.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Pythagoras tiptoed up to the spot where unexpected
bliss awaited him. There was another bottle of wine there beside
the half-empty one -- a bottle that was full up to the neck, and
the shape of which proclaimed that it came from Spain. Good, strong,
heady Spanish wine!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And my lord had said &quot;Drink thy fill!&quot;
Pythagoras did not hesitate, save for one brief second, while
he marvelled whether he had accidentally wandered into Elysian
fields, or whether he was only dreaming. Then he poured out for
himself a mugful of wine.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Twenty minutes later, the last drop of the
second bottle of strong, heady Spanish wine had trickled down
the worthy Pythagoras' throat. He was in a state of perfect bliss,
babbling words of supreme contentment, and seeing pleasing visions
of gorgeous feasts in the murky angles of the old millhouse.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot; 'Tis time the plepshurk got to horse,&quot;
Stoutenburg said at last.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He strode across to where Pythagoras, leaning
against the raftered wall, his round head on one side, his sugar-loaf
hat set at the back of his head, was gazing dreamily into his
empty mug.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;To horse, fellow!&quot; he commanded
curtly. &quot; 'Tis but a league to Amersfoort, and thy friend
will be waiting thee.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The old instinct of deference and good behaviour
before a noble lord lent some semblance of steadiness to Pythagoras'
legs. He struggled to his feet, vainly endeavored to keep an upright
and dignified position -- an attempt which, however, proved utterly
futile.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Whereupon my lord called peremptorily to Jan,
who appeared so suddenly in the doorway that, to Pythagoras' blurred
vision, it seemed as if he had been put there by some kind of
witchery. He approached his master, and there ensued a brief,
whispered colloquy between those two -- a colloquy in which Heemskerk
took no part. After which, the lord of Stoutenburg said aloud:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Set this worthy fellow on his horse,
my good Jan, and put him on the track which leads to Amersfoort.
He has had a rest and a good warm drink. He is not like to lose
his way again.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Vaguely Pythagoras felt that he wished to protest.
He did not want to be set on his horse, nor yet to go to Amersfoort
just yet. The wedding was not until the morrow-- no, the day after
the morrow -- and for the nonce he wanted to sleep. Yes, sleep!
Curled up in a blanket in any corner big enough and warm enough
to shelter a dog.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Sleep! That was what he wanted; for he was
so confoundedly sleepy, and this verfloekte darkness interfered
with his eyes so that he could not see very clearly in front of
him. All this he explained with grave deliberation to Jan, who
had him tightly by the elbow and was leading him with absolutely
irresistible firmness out through the door into the white, inhospitable
open.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I don't want to get to horse,&quot; the
philosopher babbled thickly. &quot;I want to curl up in a blanket
and I want to go to sleep.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But, despite his protestations, he found himself
presently in the saddle. How he got up there, he certainly could
not have told you. Instinct, however, kept him there. Never could
it be said that Pythagoras had tumbled off a horse. Anon he felt
that the horse was moving, and that the air around him was bitterly
cold.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The dull, even carpet of snow dazzled him,
though it was pitch dark now both overhead and down below; of
darkness that enveloped one like a mantle, and which felt as if
it could have been cut through with a knife.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The horse went on at a steady trot, and another
was trotting by its side, bearing a cavalier who wore a fur bonnet.
Pythagoras vaguely imagined that this must be Jan. He owed Jan
a grudge for taking him away from that hospitable molen, where
half-bottles of wine were magically transformed into large ones,
filled to overflowing with delicious liquor.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Presently Pythagoras began to feel cold again
after the blissful warmth produced by that super-excellent Spanish
wine.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Is it far to Amersfoort?&quot; he queried
drowsily from time to time.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But he never seemed to get a reply. It appeared
to him as if he had been hours in the saddle since last he felt
comfortable and warm over in that hospitable molen. And he was
very sleepy. His head felt heavy and his eyes would not keep open
as hours and hours went by and the cold grew more and more intense.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Is it far to Amersfoort?&quot; he questioned
whenever his head rolled forward with a jerk that roused him to
momentary consciousness.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Less than half a league now,&quot; Jan
replied presently, and brought his own horse to a halt. &quot;Follow
the track before you and it will lead you straight to the city
gates.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Pythagoras opened his eyes very wide. Straightway
in front of him he perceived one or two tiny lights, which were
too low down on the horizon for stars. The road, too, on which
he found himself appeared straighter and more defined than those
upon that verfloekte waste.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Are those the lights of Amersfoort?&quot;
he murmured vaguely, and pointed in as straight a direction as
his numbed arm would allow.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He expected an answer from Jan but there came
none. The darkness appeared to have swallowed up horse and rider.
Anyway, they had disappeared. Good old Jan! Pythagoras would have
liked to thank him for his company, even though he did owe him
a grudge for taking him away from the molen where there had been
such wonderful ---</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The horse followed the track for a minute or
two longer Pythagoras, left to his own devices, tried to keep
awake. Suddenly the sharp report of a pistol rent the silence
of the night. It was immediately followed by another.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Pythagoras felt a strange, sinking sensation
in his stomach, a dizzy feeling in his head, a feeling which was
no longer blissful like the one he had experienced after the third
mugful of Spanish wine. A moment later, he fell forward on his
horse's neck, then rolled out of the saddle down upon the bed
of snow.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And at this spot, where the poor philosopher
lay, the white pall which covered the Veluwe was dyed with a dark
crimson stain.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">~5</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A grey, dull light suffused the sky in the
East when Jan once more knocked at the door of the old molen.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Stoutenburg's voice bade him enter.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;All well?&quot; my lord queried, at sight
of his faithful servant.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;All quiet, my lord,&quot; replied Jan.
&quot;That windbag, I'll warrant, will tell no tales.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;How far did you take him?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Nearly as far as Lang Soeren. I had to
keep a track for fear of losing my way. But he lies eight leagues
from Amersfoort now and six from Ede. His friends, I imagine,
won't look for him thus far.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And his horse?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;It did not follow me. No doubt it will
get picked up by some one in the morning.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Heemskerk shivered. It was certainly very cold
inside this great, barn-like place at this hour just before sunrise;
and the passing wayfarer had consumed the last measure of wine.
The young man looked grimy, too, and untidy, covered with dust
from the floor, where he had lain stretched out for the past three
hours, trying to get a wink of sleep; whilst Stoutenburg, restless
and alert, had kept his ears open and his nerves on the stretch
for the first sound of Jan's return.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You have been a long time getting to
Lang Soeren and back,&quot; the latter remarked further to Jan.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">I was guiding a drunken man on a wearied horse,&quot;
the man replied curtly. &quot;And I myself had been in the saddle
all day.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Then get another hour's rest now,&quot;
Stoutenburg rejoined. &quot;You will accompany my lord of Heemskerk
back to Doesburg as soon as the sun is up.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Jan made no reply. He was accustomed to curt
commands and to unquestioning obedience. Tired, saddle-sore and
wearied, he would be ready to ride again, go anywhere until he
dropped. So he turned on his heel and went out into the cold once
more, in order to snatch that brief hour's rest which had been
graciously accorded him.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Heemskerk gave an impatient sigh.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I would the dawn were quicker in coming!&quot;
he murmured under his breath.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The atmosphere of the Veluwe is getting
oppressive for your fastidious taste,&quot; Stoutenburg retorted
with a sneer. Then, as his friend made no other comment, he continued
lightly: &quot;Dead men tell no tales. I could not risk that blabbering
fool going back to Amersfoort and speaking of what he saw. Even
your unwonted squeamishness, my good Heemskerk, would grant me
that.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Or, rather,&quot; rejoined the other,
almost involuntarily, &quot;did not the unfortunate man suffer
for being the messenger of evil tidings?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Stoutenburg shrugged his shoulders with an
assumption of indifference. &quot;Perhaps,&quot; he said. &quot;Though
I doubt if the news was wholly unexpected. Yet I would have deemed
Gilda Beresteyn too proud to wed that plepshurk.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;A man with a future,&quot; Heemskerk
rejoined. &quot;He is credited with having saved the Stadtholder's
life, when the lord of Stoutenburg planned to blow up the bridge
under his passage.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And Beresteyn is grateful to him too,&quot;
added Stoutenburg with a sarcastic curl of his thin lips, &quot;for
having rescued the fair Gilda from the lord of Stoutenburg's fierce
clutches. But Nicolaes might have told me that his sister was
getting married.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Nicolaes?&quot; ejaculated Heemskerk,
with obvious surprise. &quot;You have seen Nicolaes Beresteyn,
then of late?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">For the space of a few seconds -- less perhaps
-- Stoutenburg appeared confused, and the look which he cast on
his friend was both furtive and searching. The next moment, however,
he had recovered his usual cool placidity.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You mistook, me, my friend,&quot; he
said blandly. &quot;I did not say that I had seen Nicolaes Beresteyn
of late. I have not seen him, in fact, since the day of our unfortunate
aborted conspiracy. Rumor reached me that he himself was about
to wed the worthy daughter of some prosperous burgher. I merely
wondered how the same rumor made no mention of the other prospective
bride.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Once again the conversation flagged. Heemskerk
regarded his friend with an anxious expression in his pale wearied
face. He knew how passionately, if somewhat intermittently, Stoutenburg
had loved Gilda Beresteyn. He knew of the original girl and boy
affection between them, and of the man's base betrayal of the
girl's trust. Stoutenburg had thrown over the humbler burgher's
daughter in order to wed Walburg de Marnix, whom he promptly neglected,
and who had since set him legally free. Heemskerk knew, too, how
Stoutenburg's passion for the beautiful Gilda Beresteyn had since
then burst into a consuming flame, and how the obscure soldier
of fortune who went by the nick-name of Diogenes had indeed snatched
the fair prize from his grasp.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Nigh on three months had gone by since then.
Stoutenburg was still nurturing thoughts of vengeance and of crime,
not only against the Stadtholder, but also against the girl who
had scorned him. Well, this in truth was none of his friend's
business. Hideous as was the premeditated coup against Maurice
of Nassau, it would undoubtedly, if successful, help the cause
of Spain in the Netherlands, and Heemskerk himself was that unnatural
monster -- a man who would rather see his country ruled by a stranger
than by those of her sons whose political or religious views differed
from his own.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Thus, when an hour later he took leave of Stoutenburg,
he did so almost with cordiality, did not hesitate to grasp the
had of a man whom he knew to be a scheming and relentless murderer.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;One of us will come out to wait on you
in two days' time,&quot; he said at the last. &quot;I go back
to camp satisfied that you are not so lonely as you seem, and
that there is some one who sees to it that you do not fare so
ill even in this desolation. May I say this to De Berg?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;If you like,&quot; Stoutenburg replied.
&quot;Anyway, you may assure him, and through him the Archduchess,
that Maurice of Nassau will be in his grave before I, his judge
and executioner, perish of hunger or of cold.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He accompanied his friend to the door, and
stood there while the latter and Jan were getting to horse. Then,
as they went out into the open, he waved them a last adieu. On
the far distant east, the pale, wintry sun had tinged the mist
with a delicate lemon gold. The vast immensity of the waste lay
stretched out as if limitless before him. As far as the eye could
see not a tower or column of smoke broke the even monotony of
the undulating ground. The shadow of the great molen with its
gaunt, mained wings lay, like patches of vivid blue upon the vast
and glistening pall of snow.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The two riders put their horses to a trot.
Soon they appeared like mere black specks upon a background of
golden haze, whilst in their wake, upon the scarce visible track,
the traces of their horses' hoofs, in stains of darker blue upon
the virgin white, were infinitely multiplied.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Stoutenburg watched them until the mist-laden
distance had completely hidden them from his view. Then, with
a sigh of relief, he went within.<BR>
</FONT></P>

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  <TITLE>Chp 2 - The Double Wedding</TITLE>
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<H3><CENTER><FONT FACE="Lucida Calligraphy">CHAPTER II - THE DOUBLE
WEDDING</FONT></CENTER></H3>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">~1</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It was one of those days when earth and heaven
alike appear to smile. A day almost warm, certainly genial; for
the wind had dropped, the sky was of a vivid blue, and the sun
had a genuine feeling of warmth in its kiss. From the overhanging
eaves the snow dropped down in soft, moist lumps, stained by the
thaw, and the quay, where a goodly crowd had collected, was quickly
transformed under foot into a sea of mud.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It almost seemed as if the little town was
out on a holiday. People came and went, dressed in gay attire,
stood about all along the bank of the river, staring up at the
stately gabled house which looked so wonderfully gay with its
decorations of flags and valuable tapestries and stuffs hanging
from the numerous windows.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">That house on the quay -- and it was the finest
house in the town -- was indeed the centre of attraction. It was
from there that the air of holiday-making emanated, and certainly
from there that the gay sounds of music and revelry came wafted
on the crisp, wintry air.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Mynheer Beresteyn had come to his house in
Amersfoort, of which city he was chief civic magistrate, in order
to celebrate the double wedding. No wonder such an event was made
an excuse for a holiday. Burgomaster Beresteyn never did things
by halves, and his hospitality was certain to be lavish. Already
doles and largesse had been poured out at the porch of St. Maria
Kerk; a crowd of beggars more or less indigent, crippled, sick,
or merely greedy, had assembled there very early in the morning.
Whoever was there was sure to get something. And there was plenty
to see besides: the brides and bridegrooms and the wedding party;
and of course His Highness the Stadtholder was a sight in himself.
He did not often go abroad these days, for his health was no longer
as good as it was. He had aged considerably, looked moody and
ailing for the most part. There had been sinister rumours, too.
The widowed Archduchess Isabella, Mistress of Flanders and Brabant,
hated him because he held the United Provinces of the Netherlands
free from the bondage of Spain. And in Spain the arts of poison
and of secret assassination were carried on with as much perfection
as they had ever been in Italy in the days of the Borgias.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">However, all such dark thoughts must be put
away for the day. This is a festive occasion for Amersfoort, when
every anxiety for the fate of the poor fatherland -- ever threatened
and ever sore-pressed -- must be laid to rest. Let the brides
and bridegrooms see naught but merry faces -- happy auguries of
the auspicious days to come.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Here they come --the entire wedding party --
walking down the narrow streets from the quay to the St. Maria
Kerk. Every one is walking, even the Stadtholder. He is conspicuous
by his great height, and the richness of his attire: embroidered
doublet, slashed sleeves, priceless lace. His face looks thin
and drawn, but he has lost nothing of his martial bearing, nor
have his eyes lost their eagle glance. He had come over the previous
afternoon from Utrecht, where he was in camp, and had deigned
to grace Mynheer Beresteyn's house by sleeping under its roof.
It was understood that he would return to Utrecht after the banquet
which was to follow the religious ceremony, and he, too, for this
one day was obviously making a valiant attempt to cast off the
load of anxiety attendant upon ceaseless campaigning. In truth,
the Archduchess Isabella, not content with the fairest provinces
of Belgium, with Flanders, Brabant, and the Hainault, which her
father, King Philip of Spain, had ceded to her absolutely, was
even now striving to force some of the United Provinces back under
the domination of Spain.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Small wonder then that the Stadtholder, wearied
and sick, the shadow of his former self, was no longer sure of
a whole-hearted welcome when he showed himself abroad. Nor had
the people forgiven him the judicial murder of Olden Barneveldt
-- the trusted councillor in the past, afterwards the bitter opponent
of his master's ambitions -- of his severity towards Barneveldt's
sons. His relentless severity toward those who offended him, his
reckless ambition and stern disciplinarianism, had made him an
object of terror rather than of affection. Nevertheless, he still
stood for the upholder of the liberties of the United Provinces,
the finest captain of his age, who by his endurance, his military
skill, and his unswerving patriotism, kept his country's frontiers
free from the incursions of the most powerful armies of the time.
He still stood as the man who had swept the sacred soil of the
Netherlands free from Spanish foes and Spanish tyranny, who had
amplified and consolidated the work of his father and firmly established
the independence of the Republic. Because of what he had done
in the past, men like Mynheer Beresteyn and those of his kind
still looked upon him with grave respect, as the chosen of God,
the prophet sent to them from Heaven to keep the horrors of a
new Spanish invasion away from their land.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And when Maurice of Nassau came to a small
city like Amersfoort, as he had done today, he was received with
veneration, if not with the old cheers and acclamations. His arbitrary
temper was momentarily forgotten, his restless ambition condoned,
in the joy of beholding the man who had fought for them, never
spared himself until he had won for them all those civil and religious
liberties which they prized above all the treasures of the earth.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">All heads, then, were bowed in respectful silence
as he walked by, with the brides one on each side of him. But
the loving glances of the crowd, the jokes and whispered words
of cheer and greeting, were reserved for Mynheer Beresteyn and
for his family.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">~2</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Two brides, and both comely! Jongejuffrouw
Katharina van den Poele, the only child of the wealthy shipowner,
member of the Dutch East India Company, a solid burgher both physically
and financially, and one of the props of his country's overseas
commerce. His daughter, in rich brocade, with stiff stomacher
that vainly strove to compress her ample proportions, splashed
through the mud on her high pattens beside the Stadtholder, her
heavily be-ringed hands clinging to the folds of her gown, so
as to save them from being soiled. Stolid and complacent, she
heard with a satisfied smile the many compliments that rose from
out the crowd on her dazzling complexion, her smoothly brushed
hair and magnificent jewelry. The fair Katharina beamed with good-nature
and looked the picture of happiness, despite the fact that her
bridegroom, who walked immediately behind her, appeared somewhat
moody, considering the occasion.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Nicolaes Beresteyn, the Burgomaster's only
son, had in truth, no reason for surliness. His bride excited
universal admiration, his own private fortune would be more than
doubled by the dowry which the good Kaatje brought him along with
her plump person, and all the disagreements between himself and
his father, all the treachery and the deceit of the past three
months, had been amply forgiven. It was all the more strange,
therefore, that on this day his face alone should appear as a
reflection of the Stadtholder's silent mood, and more than one
comment was made thereon as he passed.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Of the other bride and bridegroom it is perhaps
more difficult to speak. We all know the beautiful picture of
Gilda Beresteyn which Frans Hals made of her some three months
previously. That incomparable master of portraiture has rendered
that indescribable air of force, coupled with extreme youthfulness,
which was her greatest charm. Often she hath been called etherial,
yet I do not see how that description could apply to one who was
so essentially alive as Gilda Beresteyn. Her blue eyes always
sparkled with vitality, and whenever she was moved -- which was
often enough -- they became as dark as sloes. Probably the word
came to be applied to her because there was always a little something
mysterious about her -- an enigmatic little smile, which suggested
merriment that came from within rather than in response to an
outside joke. Many have remarked that her smile was the gentle
reflex of her lover's sparkling gaiety.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Him -- that ardent lover, sobered bridegroom
now -- you cannot forget, not whilst Frans Hals' immortal work,
whom he hath called &quot;The Laughing Cavalier,&quot; depicts
him in all is irrepressible joyousness, and gladdens the eye with
its exhilaration and its magnificent gaite de coeur -- a veritable
nepenthe for jaded seek-sorrows.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">For once in his life, as he walks gravely behind
his bride, there is a look of seriousness not unmixed with impatience
in his laughing eyes. A frown, too, between his brows. The crowd
have at once taken him to its heart -- especially the women. Those
who have no sons wish for one at once, who would grow up just
like him: tall and stately as a young sapling, with an air of
breeding seldom seen in the sons of the Low Countries, and wearing
his magnificent bridal attire as if he had never worn leather
jerkin or worsted doublet in his life. The women admire the richly
wrought doublet, the priceless lace at neck and wrists, the plumed
hat that frames a face alike youthful and determined. But everyone
marvels why a bridegroom should go to church in high riding-boots
and spurred at this hour. Many whispered comments are exchanged
as he goes by.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;A stranger, so they say.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Though he has fought in the Netherlands.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Ah, but he really comes from England.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;A romantic story. Never knew his father
until recently.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Some said the bridegroom's name was really
Blakeney, and that his father was a very rich and very great gentleman
over in England. But there were others who remembered him well
when he was just a penniless soldier of fortune who went by the
name of Diogenes. No one knew him then by any other, and no one
but Frans Hals, the painter over in Haarlem, knew whence he had
come and what was his parentage. In those days his merry laughter
would rouse the echoes of the old city where he and his two boon
companions -- such a quaint pair of loons! -- were wont to dwell
in the intervals of selling their swords to the highest bidders.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Ay, Jongejuffrouw Beresteyn's stranger bridegroom
had fought in France and in Flanders, in Groningen and Brabant
and 'twas said that recently he had saved the life of the Stadtholder
at great risk of his own. Many more tales were whispered about
him, which would take too long to relate, while the crowd stood
agape all down the quay and up the Korte Gracht as far as the
St. Maria Kerk.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">~3</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Indeed, Mynheer Beresteyn had not done things
by halves. He had chosen that the happy double event should take
place at the old house at Amersfoort, where his children had been
born, and where he had spent the few happy years of his married
life, rather than at Haarlem, which was his business and official
residence. He wished, for the occasion, to be just a happy father
rather than the distinguished functionary, the head of the Guild
of Armourers, one of the most important burghers of the Province,
and second only in the council chamber to the Stadtholder.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The religious ceremony was over by noon. It
was now mid-afternoon, and the wedding guests had assembled in
the stately home on the quay for a gargantuan feast. The Stadtholder
sat at a magnificently decked-out table at the far end of the
panelled room, on a raised dais surmounted by a canopy of Flemish
tapestry, all specially erected for the occasion. Around this
privileged board sat the wedding party; Mynheer Beresteyn, grave
and sedate, a man who had seen much of life, had suffered a great
deal, and even now scarcely dared to give his sense of joy full
play. He gazed from time to time on his daughter with something
of anxiety as well as of pride. Then the worthy shipowner, member
of the Dutch East India Company, and mejuroffluw, his wife --
the father and mother of Nicolaes Beresteyn's bride, pompous and
fleshy, and with an air of prosperous complacence about their
persons which contrasted strangely with Mynheer Beresteyn's anxious
earnestness. Finally, the two bridal couples, of whom more anon.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">In the body of the nobly proportioned banqueting-hall,
a vast concourse of guests had assembled around two huge tables,
which were decked out with costly linen and plate, and literally
groaned under the succulent dishes which serving-men repeatedly
placed there for the delectation of the merry party. Roast capons
and geese, fish from the Rhyn and from the sea, pasties made up
of oysters and quails, and, above all, a constant supply of delicious
Rhine or Spanish wines, according as the guests desired light
or heady liquor.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A perpetual buzz of talk, intermingled with
many an outburst of hilarity and an occasional song, filled the
somewhat stuffy air of the room to the exclusion of any individual
sound.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The ladies plied their fans vigorously, and
some of the men, warmed by good cheer, had thrown their padded
doublets open and loosened their leather belts. The brides-elect
sat one on each side of the Stadtholder; a strange contrast, in
truth. Kaatje van den Poele, just a young edition of her mother,
her well-rounded figure already showing signs of the inevitable
coming stoutness, comely to look at, with succulent cheeks shining
like rosy apples, her face with the wide-open, prominent eyes,
beaming with good-nature and the vigorous application of cold
water. Well-mannered, too, for she never spoke unless spoken to,
but sat munching her food with naive delight, and whenever her
somewhat moody bridegroom hazarded a laboured compliment or joke,
she broke into a pleasant giggle, jerked her elbow at him, and
muttered a &quot;Fie, Klaas!&quot; which put and end to further
conversation.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Gilda Beresteyn, who sat at the Stadtholder's
right hand, was silent, too; demure, not a little prim, but with
her, even the most casual observer became conscious that beneath
the formal demeanor there ran an undercurrent of emotional and
pulsating life. The terrible experience which she had gone through
a few brief months ago had given to her deep blue eyes a glance
that was vividly passionate, yet withal resposeful, and with a
curiously childlike expression of trust within its depth.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The stiff bridal robes which convention decreed
that she should wear gave her an air of dignity, even whilst it
enhanced the youthfulness of her personality. There was all the
roundness in her figure which is the attribute of her race; yet,
despite her plump shoulders and full throat, her little round
face and firm bosom, there remained something ethereal about her,
a spirituality and a strength which inspired reverence, even whilst
her beauty provoked admiring glances.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Your Highness is not eating,&quot; she
remarked timidly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;My head aches,&quot; Maurice of Nassau
replied moodily. &quot;I cannot eat. I think I must be over-tired,&quot;
he went on more pleasantly as he met the girl's kind blue eyes
fixed searchingly upon him. &quot;A little fresh air will do me
good. Don't disturb any one,&quot; he continued hastily, as he
rose to his feet and turned to go to the nearest open window.<BR>
<BR>
Beresteyn quickly followed him. The prince looked faint and ill,
and had to lean on his host's arm as he tottered towards the window.
The little incident was noticed by a few. It caused consternation
and the exchange of portentful glances.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A grave-looking man in sober black velvet doublet
and sable hose quickly rose from the table and joined the Stadtholder
and Mynheer Beresteyn at the window. He was the English physician
especially brought across to watch over the health of the illustrious
sufferer.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Gilda turned to her neighbour. Her eyes had
suddenly filled with tears, but when she met his glance the ghost
of a smile immediately crept around her mouth.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;It seems almost wicked,&quot; she said
simply &quot;to be so happy now.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Unseen by the rest of the company, the man
next to her took her tiny hand and raised it to his lips.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;At times, even to-day,&quot; she went
on softly, &quot;it all seems like a dream. Your wooing, my dear
lord, hath been so tempestuous. Less than three months ago I did
not know of your existence ---&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;My wooing hath been over-slow for my
taste!&quot; he broke in with a short, impatient sigh. &quot;Three
months, you say? And for me you are still a shadow, an exquisite
sprite that eludes me behind an impenetrable, a damnable wall
of conventions, even though my very sinews ache with longing to
hold you in mine arms for ever and for aye!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He looked her straight between the eyes, so
straight and with such a tantalizing glance that a hot blush rose
swiftly to her cheeks; whereupon he laughed again -- a merry,
a careless, infectious laugh it was -- and squeezed her hand so
tightly that he made her gasp.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You are always ready to laugh, my lord,&quot;
she murmured reproachfully.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Always,&quot; he riposted. &quot;And
now, how can I help it? I must laugh, or else curse with impatience.
It is scarce three o'clock now, and not before many hours can
we be free of this chattering throng.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then, as she remained silent, with eyes cast
down now and the warm flush still lingering in her cheeks, he
went on, with brusque impatience, his voice sunk to a quick, penetrating
whisper:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;If anything should part me from you now,
ma donna, I verily believe that I should kill someone or myself!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He paused, almost disconcerted. It had never
been his wont to talk of his feelings. The transient sentiments
that in the past had grazed his senses, without touching his heart,
had only led him to careless protestations, forgotten as soon
as made. He himself marvelled at the depth of his love for this
exquisite creature who had so suddenly come into his life, bringing
with her a fragrance of youth and of purity, and withal of fervid
passion, such as he had never dreamed of through the many vicissitudes
of his adventurous life.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Still she did not speak, and he was content
to look on her, satisfied that she was in truth too completely
happy at this hour to give vent to her feelings in so many words.
He loved to watch the play of emotions in her tell-tale face,
the pursed-up little mouth, so ready to smile, and those violet-tinted
eyes, now and then raised to him in perfect trust and abandonment
of self, then veiled once more demurely under his provoking glance.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He loved to tease her, for then she blushed,
and her long lashes drew a delicately pencilled shadow upon her
cheeks. He loved to say things that frightened her, for then she
would look up with a quick, inquiring glance, search his own with
a palpitating expression that quickly melted again into one of
bliss.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You look so demure, ma donna,&quot; he
exclaimed whimsically, &quot;that I vow I'll create a scandal
-- leap across the table and kiss Kaatje, for instance -- just
to see if it would make you laugh!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Do not make fun of Kaatje, my lord,&quot;
Gilda admonished. &quot;She hath more depth of feeling than you
give her credit for.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I do not doubt her depth of feeling,
dear heart,&quot; he retorted with mock earnestness. &quot;But,
oh, good St. Bavon help me! Have you ever seen so solid a yokemate,
or,&quot; he added, and pointed to Nicolaes Beresteyn, who sat
moody and sullen, toying with his food, beside his equally silent
bride, &quot;so ardent a bridegroom? Verily, the dear lady reminds
me of those succulent fish pasties they make over in England,
white and stodgy, and rather heavy on the stomach, but, oh, so
splendidly nourishing!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Fie! Now you are mocking again.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;How can I help it, dear heart, when you
persist in looking so solemn -- so solemn, that, in the midst
of all this hilarity, I am forcibly reminded of all the rude things
you said to me that night at the inn in Leyden, and I am left
to marvel how you ever came to change your opinion of me?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I changed my opinion of you,&quot; she
rejoined earnestly, &quot;when I learned how you were ready to
give your life to save the Stadtholder from those abominable murderers;
and almost lost it,&quot; she added under her breath, &quot;to
save my brother Nicolaes from the consequence of his own treachery.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Hush! That is all over and done with
now, ma donna,&quot; he retorted lightly. &quot;Nicolaes has become
a sober burgher, devoted to his solid Kaatje and to the cause
of the Netherlands; and I have sold my liberty to the fairest
tyrant that ever enslaved a man's soul.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Do you regret it,&quot; she queried shyly,
&quot;already?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Already!&quot; he assented gravely. &quot;I
am kicking against my bonds, longing for that freedom which in
the past kept my stomach empty and my head erect.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Will you never be serious?&quot; she
retorted.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Never, while I live. My journey to England
killed my only attempt at sobriety, for there I found that the
stock to which I belonged was both irreproachable and grave, had
been so all the while that I, the most recent scion of so noble
a race, was roaming about the world, the most shiftless and thriftless
vagabond it had ever seen. But in England&quot; -- he sighed and
raised his eyes and hands in mock solemnity -- &quot;in England
the climate is so atrocious that the people become grim-visaged
and square-toed through constantly watching the rain coming down.
Or else,&quot; he added, with another suppressed ripple of that
infectious laugh of his, &quot;the climate in England has become
so atrocious because there are so many square-toed folk about.
I was such a very little while in England,&quot; he concluded
with utmost gravity, &quot;I had not time to make up my mind which
way it went.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Methinks you told me,&quot; she rejoined,
&quot;that your home in England is beautiful and stately.&quot;<BR>
<BR>
&quot;It is both, dear heart,&quot; he replied more seriously;
&quot;and I shall learn to love it when you have dwelt therein.
I should love it even now if it had ever been hallowed by the
presence of my mother.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;She never went there?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;No, never. My father came to Holland
in Leicester's train. He married my mother in Haarlem, then deserted
her and left her there to starve. My friend Frans Hals cared for
me after she died. That is the whole of her history. It does not
make for deep, filial affection, does it?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;But you have seen your father now. Affection
will come in time.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Yes; I have seen him, thanks to your
father, who brought us together. I have seen my home in Sussex,
where one day, please God, you'll reign as its mistress.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I, the wife of an English lord!&quot;
she sighed. &quot;I can scarcely credit it.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Nor can I, dear heart,&quot; he answered
lightly; &quot;for that you'll never be. Let me try and explain
to you just how it all is, for, in truth, English honours are
hard to understand. My father is an English gentleman with no
handle to his name. Blake of Blakeney they call him over there;
and I am his only son. It seems that he rendered signal services
to his king of late, who thereupon desired to confer upon him
one of those honours which we over here find it so difficult to
apprise. My father, however, either because he is advanced in
years or because he desired to show me some singular mark of favour,
petitioned King James to bestow the proposed honour upon his only
son. Thus am I Sir Percy Blakeney, it seems, without any merit
on my part. Funny is it not? And I who, for years, was known by
no name save Diogenes, one of three vagabonds, with perhaps more
wits, but certainly no more worth, than my two compeers!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Then I should call you Sir Percy?&quot;
she concluded. &quot;Yet I cannot get used to the name.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You might even call me Percy,&quot; he
suggested; &quot;for thus was I baptized at my dear mother's wish.
Though, in truth, I had forgotten it until my father insisted
on it that I could not be called Diogenes by mine own servants,
and that he himself could not present me to his Majesty the King
of England under so fanciful a name.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I like best to think of you as Diogenes,&quot;
she murmured softly. &quot;Thus I knew you first, and your brother
philosophers, Socrates and Pythagoras -- such a quaint trio, and
all of you so unsuited to your names! I wish,&quot; she added
with a sigh, &quot;that they were here now.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And they should be here,&quot; he assented.
&quot;I am deeply anxious. But Pythagoras ---&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He broke off abruptly. Mynheer Beresteyn's
voice called to him from the recess by the open window.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;A goblet of wine!&quot; Mynheer commanded;
&quot;for his Highness.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Diogenes was about to comply with the order,
but Nicolaes forestalled him. Already he had poured out the wine.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Let me take it,&quot; he said curtly,
took up the goblet and went with it to the window. He offered
it to the Stadtholder, who drank greedily.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It was but a brief incident. Nicolaes had remained
beside the prince while the latter drank; then he returned, with
the empty goblet in his hand, to take his place once more beside
his stolid and solid bride.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You were speaking of Pythagoras, sir,&quot;
Gilda rejoined, as soon as Diogenes was once more seated beside
her. &quot;I never know which is which of the two dear souls.
Is Pythagoras the lean one with the deep, bass voice?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;No. He is the fat one, with the round,
red nose,&quot; Diogenes replied gravely. &quot;He was at Ede
the night before last, and was seen there, at the tavern of the
Crow's Nest, somewhere after midnight, imbibing copious draughts
of hot, spiced ale. After that all traces of him have vanished.
But he must have started to join me here, as this had been pre-arranged,
and I fear me that he lost his way on that verfloekte waste. I
have sent Socrates, my lean comrade -- to look for poor Pythagoras
upon the Veluwe. They should be here, in truth, and ---&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But the next word died in his throat. He jumped
to his feet.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The Stadtholder!&quot; he exclaimed.
&quot;He hath fainted.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">~4</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Indeed, there was quite a commotion now in
the window recess, where Prince Maurice had remained all this
while by the open casement, inhaling the fresh, keen air. The
English physician stood beside him, and Mynheer Beresteyn was
gazing with anxious eyes on the master to whom, in spite of all,
he had remained so splendidly loyal. The dizziness had apparently
come on quite suddenly, while the Stadtholder was acknowledging
the acclamations of the crowd who had seen and cheered him. He
tottered and would have fallen but for the physician's supporting
arm.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Not many of the guests had noticed the incident.
They were for the most part too much absorbed in their enjoyment
of the feast to pay attention to what went on in other parts of
the room. But Diogenes had seen it and was already over by the
window; and Nicolaes Beresteyn, too, had jumped to his feet. He
looked wide-eyed and scared, even whilst the stolid Kaatje, flushed
with good cheer, remained perfectly unconcerned, munching some
sweetmeats which seemed to delight her palate.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The Stadtholder, however, had quickly recovered.
The faintness passed off as suddenly as it came, but it left the
illustrious guest more silent and moody than before. His face
had become of a yellowish pallor, and his eyes looked sunken as
if consumed with fever. But he chose to return to his seat under
the dais, and this time he called to Diogenes to give him the
support of his arm.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;'Twas scarce worth while, eh, my friend,&quot;
he said bitterly, &quot;to risk your precious young life in order
to save this precarious one. Had Stoutenburg's bomb done the assassin's
work, it would only have anticipated events by less than three
months.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Your Highness is over-tired,&quot; Diogenes
rejoined simply. &quot;Complete rest in the midst of your friends
would fight this insidious sickness far better than the wisest
of physicians.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What do you mean?&quot; the Stadtholder
immediately retorted, his keen, hawk-like glance searching the
soldier's smiling face. &quot;Why should you say 'in the midst
of your friends?&quot; he went on huskily. &quot;You don't mean
---?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What, your Highness?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I mean -- you said it so strangely --
as if ---&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I, your Highness?&quot; Diogenes queried,
not a little surprised at the Stadtholder's febrile agitation.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I myself have oft wondered ---&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Maurice of Nassau paused abruptly, rested his
elbows on the table, and for a moment or two remained quite still,
his forehead buried in his hands. Gilda gazed on him wide-eyed
and tearful; even Kaatje ceased to munch. It seemed terrible to
be so great a man, wielding such power, commanding such obedience,
and to be reduced to a mere babbling sufferer, fearing phantoms
and eagerly gleaning any words of comfort that might come from
loyal lips.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Diogenes had remained silent, too; his eyes,
usually so full of light-heartedness and merriment, had a strange,
searching glitter in them now. A minute or two later the prince
had pulled himself together, tried to look unconcerned, and assumed
a geniality which obviously he was far from feeling. But it was
to Diogenes that he spoke once more.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Anyhow, I could not rest yet awhile,
my friend,&quot; he said with a sigh; &quot;whilst the Archduchess
threatens Gelderland, the De Berg is making ready to cross the
Ijssel.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Your Highness's armies under your Highness's
command,&quot; rejoined the soldier firmly, &quot;can drive the
Archduchess's hosts out of Gelderland, and send Henri de Berg
back across the Ijssel. Maurice of Nassau is still the finest
commander in Europe, even ---&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He paused, and the Stadtholder broke in bitterly:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Even though he is a dying man, you mean.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;No!&quot; here broke in Gilda, with glowing
fervour. &quot;I swear that nothing was further from my lord's
thoughts. Sir,&quot; she added, and turned boldly to her lover,
&quot;you spoke with such confidence just now. A toast, I pray
you, so that we may all join in expressions of loyalty to our
guest and sovereign lord, the Stadtholder!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She poured a goblet full of wine. Diogenes
gave her a quick glance of approval. Then he picked up the goblet,
stood upon his seat, and placed one foot on the table.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Long life to your Highness!&quot; he
cried aloud. &quot;May it please God to punish your enemies and
to give victory unto your cause!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then, holding the goblet aloft, he called at
the top of his voice:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Maurice of Nassau and the cause of Liberty!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Every one rose, and a rousing cheer went echoing
round the room. It was heard and taken up lustily by the crowd
outside, until the very walls of the ancient city echoed the loyal
toast, from the grim towers of Koppel Poort to the Vrouwetoren
of St. Maria Kerk; from gateway to gateway, and rampart to rampart.
And the bells of St. Joris and St. Maria took up the joyful call
and sent peal after peal of bells resounding gleefully through
the keen, wintry air.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Maurice of Nassau!&quot; rang the chimes.
&quot;Nassau and liberty!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">~5</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But after this manifestation of joy and enthusiasm,
comparative silence fell upon the wedding assembly. None but those
who had partaken over freely of Mynheer Beresteyn's good cheer
could fail to see that the Stadtholder felt ill, and only kept
up a semblance of gaiety by a mighty effort of his iron will.
Thereafter, conversation became subdued. People talked in whispers,
an atmosphere of constraint born of anxiety reigned there where
light-hearted gaiety had a while ago held undisputed sway. The
host himself did his best to revive the temper of his guests.
Serving-men and maids were ordered to go around more briskly with
the wine. One or two of the younger men hazarded the traditional
jokes which usually obtained at wedding feasts; but those who
laughed did so shamefacedly. It seemed as if a vague terror held
erstwhile chattering tongues in check.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The Stadtholder, leaning back against the cushions
of his chair, spoke very little. His long, nervy fingers played
incessantly with crumbs and pellets of bread. He looked impatient
and ill at ease, like a man who wants to get away yet fears to
offend his host. He had kept Diogenes by his side this time, and
Beresteyn was able to snatch a few last words with his daughter.
Once she was married, her husband would take her to his home in
England one day, and the thought of parting from the child he
loved was weighing the father's spirit down.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot; 'Tis the first time,&quot; he said sadly,
&quot;that you will pass out of my keeping. You were the precious
heritage bequeathed to me your dead mother. Now 'tis to a stranger
that I am entrusting my priceless treasure.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;A stranger, father,&quot; riposted Gilda
quietly, &quot;who hath proved himself worthy of the truth. And
when we do go to England,&quot; she went on gaily, &quot;there
will only be a narrow strip of water between us, and that is easily
crossed.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Beresteyn gave a quickly smothered sigh. He
looked across at the stranger to whom, as he said, he was about
to hand over the most precious gift he possessed. Handsome he
was, that erstwhile penniless soldier of fortune; handsome and
brave, frank and loyal, and with that saving grace of light-hearted
gaiety in him which had helped him through the past terrible crisis
in his life, and brought him to the safe haven of a stately home
in England and wealthy father, eager to make amends for the wrongs
committed long ago.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But still a stranger for all that, a man who
had seen more of the seamy side of the world, who had struggled
more, suffered more -- ay, perhaps sinned more -- than those of
his rank in life usually did at his age. Something of that rough-and-tumble
life of the soldier of fortune, without home or kindred, who sells
his sword to the highest bidder, and knows no master save his
own will, must have left its mark upon the temperament of the
man. Despite the humorous twinkle in the eyes, the bantering curl
on the lip, the man's face bore the impress of the devil-may-care
existence that takes no heed of the morrow. And at times, when
it was in repose, there was a strangely grim look in it of determination
as well as of turbulent passions, not always held in check.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Beresteyn sighed with inward apprehension.
His well-ordered mind, the mind of a Dutch middle-class burgher,
precise and unemotional, could not quite fathom that of the Anglo-Saxon
-- the most romantic and the most calculating, and the most impulsive
and the most studied, the most sensuous and most self-repressed
temperament that ever set the rest of the world wondering. He
could see the reckless scapegrace, the thoughtless adventurer,
fuming and fretting under the restraint put upon him by the cut-and-dried
conventions attendant upon these wedding ceremonies could watch
him literally writhing under the knowing looks and time-honoured
innuendos which custom deemed allowable on these occasions. His
hands indeed must be itching to come in contact with the checks
of mocking friends and smug relatives, all eager to give advice
or to chaff the young bride, until the hot blood rushed to her
cheeks and tears of annoyance gather in her eyes.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The whole atmosphere of noise and drinking
-- ay, of good-humour and complacency -- did, in truth, grate
upon Diogenes' nerves. He had not lied to Gilda nor yet exaggerated
his sentiments when he said that his sinews ached with longing
to seize her and carry her away into solitude and quiet, where
nought would come to disturb their love-dream; away upon his horse,
her soft arms encircling his neck her head resting on his shoulder,
her dear face turned up to his gaze, with those heavenly eyes
closed in rapture; the delicate mouth slightly parted, showing
a vision of tiny teeth, a tear mayhap trembling on her lashes,
a soft blush mantling on her cheek. Away! Across the ocean to
that stately home in England, where the spring air was soft with
the scent of violets and of fruit blossom, and where beside the
river the reeds murmured a soft accompaniment to songs of passion
and hymns of love. Away from all save the shrine which he had
set up for her in his heart; from all save the haven of his arms.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">To feel that, and then be forced to sit and
discuss plans for the undoing of the Spanish commander or for
the relief of Arnheim, was, in fact, more than Diogenes' restive
temperament could stand. His attention began to wander, his answers
became evasive; so much so that, after a while, the Stadtholder,
eyeing him closely, remarked with the pale ghost of a smile:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot; 'Tis no use fretting and fuming, my
friend. Your English blood is too mutinous for this sober country
and its multitude of stodgy conventions. One of these demands
that your bride shall sit here till the last of the guests has
departed, and only a few fussy and interfering old tantes are
left to unrobe her and commiserate with her over her future lot
-- a slave to a bullying husband, a handmaid to her exacting lord.
Every middle-aged frump in the Netherlands hath some story to
tell that will bring tears to a young bride's eyes or a blush
to her cheeks.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Please God,&quot; Diogenes ejaculated
fervently. &quot;Gilda will be spared that.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Impossible, you rogue!&quot; the Stadtholder
retorted, amused despite his moodiness by the soldier's fretful
temper. &quot;The conventions---&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Verfloekt will be the conventions as
far as we are concerned,&quot; Diogenes rejoined hotly. &quot;And
if your Highness would but help ---&quot; he added impulsively.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I? What can I do?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Give the signal for dispersal,&quot;
Diogenes entreated; &quot;and graciously promise to forgive me
if, for the first time in my life, I act with disrespect toward
your Highness.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;But, man, how will that help you?&quot;
the Stadtholder demurred.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I must get away from all this wearying
bombast, this jabbering and scraping and all these puppy-tricks!&quot;
Diogenes exclaimed with comical fierceness. &quot;I must get away
ere my wife becomes a doll and a puppet, tossed into my arms by
a lot of irresponsible monkeys! If I have to stay here much longer,
your Highness,&quot; he added earnestly &quot;I vow that I shall
flee from it all, leave an angel to weep for my abominable desertion
of what I hold more priceless than all the world, and an outraged
father to curse the day when so reckless and adventurer crossed
his daughter's path. But stand this any longer I cannot!&quot;
he concluded, and, with a quick sweep of the arm, he pointed to
the chattering, buzzing crowd below. &quot;And if your Highness
will not help me ---&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Who said I would not help you, you hotheaded
rashling?&quot; the Stadtholder broke in composedly. &quot;You
know very well that I can refuse you nothing, not even the furtherance
of one of your madcap schemes. And as for disrespect -- why, as
you say, in the midst of so much bowing and scraping some of us
are eager for disrespect as an aging spinster for amorous overtures.
By way of a change, you know.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He spoke quite simply and with an undercurrent
of genuine sympathy in his tone, as a man towards his friend.
Something of the old Maurice of Nassau seemed for the moment to
have swept aside the arbitrary tyrant whom men had learned to
hate as well as to obey. Diogenes' irascible mood melted suddenly
in the sunshine of the Stadtholder's indulgent smile, the mocking
glance faded out of his eyes, and he said with unwonted earnestness:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;No wonder that men have gone to death
or to glory under your leadership.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Would you follow me again if I called?&quot;
the prince retorted.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Your Highness hath no need of me. The
United Provinces are free, her burghers are free men. 'Tis time
to sheathe the sword, and a man might be allowed, methinks, to
dream of happiness.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Is your happiness bound up with the mad
scheme for which you want my help?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Ay, my dear lord!&quot; Diogenes replied.
&quot;And, secure in your gracious promise, I swear that naught
can keep me from the scheme now save mine own demise.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;There are more arbitrary things than
death, my friend,&quot; the Stadtholder mused.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Possibly, your Highness,&quot; the soldier
answered lightly; &quot;but not for me to-night.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">~6</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">More than one chronicler of the time hath averred
that Maurice of Nassau had in truth a soft corner in his heart
for the man who had saved him from the bomb prepared by the Lord
of Stoutenburg, and would yield to the &quot;Laughing Cavalier&quot;
when others, less privileged, were made to feel the weight of
his arbitrary temper. Be that as it may, he certainly on this
occasion was as good as his word. Wearied with all these endless
ceremonials, he was no doubt glad enough to take his departure,
and anon he gave the signal for a general breaking up of the party
by rising, and, in a loud voice, thanking Mynheer Beresteyn for
his lavish hospitality.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;An you will pardon this abrupt departure,&quot;
he concluded with unwonted graciousness, &quot;I would fain get
to horse. By starting within the hour, I could reach Utrecht before
dark.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">All the guests had risen, too, and there was
the usual hubbub and noise attendant on the dispersal of so large
a party. That Stadtholder stepped down from the dais, Mynheer
Beresteyn and the English physician remaining by his side, while
the bridal party brought up the rear. Room was made for his Highness
to walk down the room, the men standing bareheaded and the women
curtseying as he passed. But he did not speak to any one, only
nodded perfunctorily to those whom he knew personally. Obviously
he felt ill and tired, and his moodiness was, for the most part,
commented on with sympathy.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The brides and bridegrooms, on the other hand,
had to withstand a veritable fusillade of banter, which Nicolaes
Beresteyn received sulkily, and the solid Kaatje with much complacence.
Indeed, this bride was willing enough to be chaffed, had even
a saucy reply handy when she was teased, and ogled her friends
slily as she went by. But Gilda remained silent and demure. I
don't think that she heard a word that was said. She literally
seemed to glide across the room like the veritable sprite her
ardent lover had called her. Her tiny hand, white and slightly
fluttering, rested on his arm, lost in the richly embroidered
folds of his magnificent doublet. She was not fully conscious
of her actions, moved along as in a dream, without the exertion
of her will. She was wont to speak afterwards of this brief progress
of hers through the crowded room with the chattering throng of
friends all around, as a walk through air. Nothing seemed to her
to exist. There was no room, , no crowd, no noise. She alone existed,
and ethereally. Her lover was there, however, and she was fully
conscious of his will. She knew that anon she would be a captive
in his arms, to be dealt with my him as he liked; and this caused
her to feel that fearful and yet wholly content.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He, Diogenes, on the other hand, was the picture
of fretful impatience, squeezing his soft felt hat in his hand
as if it were the throat of some deadly enemy. He never once looked
at his bride; probably if he had he would have lost the last shred
of self-control, would have seized her in his arms and carried
her away then and there, regardless of the respect due to the
Stadtholder and to his host.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But the trial, though severe to any ebullient
temper, was not of long duration. Anon the Stadtholder was in
the hall, booted once more and spurred, and surrounded by his
equerries and by the bridal party.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">His bodyguard encumbered the hall, their steel
bonnets and short breastplates reflecting the wintry light which
came, many-hued, through the tall, stained glass windows. In the
rear the wedding guests were crowding forward to catch a last
glimpse of the Stadtholder, and of the pageant of his departure.
The great hall door had been thrown open, and through it, framed
in the richness of the heavy oaken jambs, a picture appeared,
gay, animated, brilliant, such as the small city had never before
seen.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">There was the holiday throng, moving ceaselessly
in an ever flowing and glittering stream. The women in huge, winged
hoods and short kirtles, the men in fur bonnets and sleeved coats,
were strolling up and down the quay. There were the inevitable
musicians with pipes, viols, and sackbuts, pushing their way through
the dense mass of people, with a retinue behind them of young
people and old, and of children, all stepping it to the measure
of the tune. There was the swarthy foreigner with his monkey dressed
out in gaily coloured rags, and the hawker with his tray full
of bright handkerchiefs, of glass beads, chains, and amulets,
crying out his wares. It was, in fact, a holiday crowd, drawn
thither by Mynheer Beresteyn's largesse; the shopkeepers with
their wives, who had been induced to shut down shop for the afternoon,
as if some official function had been in progress; the apprentices
getting in everybody's way, hilarious and full of mischief, trying
to steal the hawkers' wares, or to play impish pranks on their
employers; servant maids and sober apothecaries, out-at-elbow
scriveners and stolid rustics, to-gether with the rag and tag
of soldiery, the paid mercenaries of Maurice of Nassau's army,
in their showy doublets and plumed bonnets, elbowing their way
through with the air of masters.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And all this brilliant gathering was lit by
a pale, wintry sun: and with the sleepy waters of the Eem, and
the frowning towers of the Koppel-poort forming just the right
natural-tinted background to the scene.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Make way there!&quot; the prince's herald
shouted, whilst another rang a fanfare upon the trumpet. &quot;Make
way for his High and Mightiness, Maurice of Nassau, Prince of
Orange, Stadtholder of the United Provinces of Holland, Friesland,
Utrecht, Gelderland, Over Yssel, and Groningen! Make way!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The equerries were bringing the prince's charger,
the pikemen followed in gorgeous padded trunks and slashed hose.
To the noise of the moving throng, the chatter and the laughter,
the scraping of viols and piping of sackbuts, was now added the
din of champing horses, rattle of bits and chains, the shouts
of the men who were bringing the horses along. The crowd receded,
leaving an open space in front of the house, where mounted men
assembled so quickly that they seemed as if they had risen out
of the ground.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The Stadtholder was taking final leave of his
host listening with what patience he could master to lengthy,
loyal speeches from the more important guests, and from the other
bride and bridegroom. He had -- deliberately methinks -- turned
his back on Diogenes, who, strangely enough, was booted and spurred
too, had his sword buckled to his belt, and carried a dark cloak
on his arm, presenting not at all the picture of a bridegroom
in holiday attire.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And it all happened so quickly that neither
the guests within, nor the soldiers, nor the crowd outside, had
time to realize it or to take it in. No one understood, in fact,
what was happening, save perhaps the Stadtholder, who guessed;
and he engaged the sober fathers near him in earnest conversation.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A mounted equerry, dressed in rough leather
jerkin and leading another horse by the bridle, had taken up his
stand in the forefront of the crowd. Now at a signal unheard by
all save him, he jumped out of the saddle and stood beside the
stirrup leathers of the second charger. At that same instant Diogenes,
with movements quick as lightning, had thrown the cloak, which
he was carrying round Gilda's shoulders, and before she could
utter a scream or even a gasp, he had stooped and picked her up
in his arms as if she were a weightless doll.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Another second and he was outside the door,
at the top of the steps which led down to the quay. For an instant
he stood there, his keen eyes sweeping over the picture before
him. Like a young lion that hath been caged and now scents liberty
once more, he inhaled the biting air; a superb figure, with head
tossed back, eyes and lips laughing with the joy of deliverance,
the inert figure of the girl lying in his arms.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He felt her clinging more closely to him, and
revelled in that intoxicating sense of power when the one woman
yields who holds a world of happiness in her tiny hand. He felt
the tightening of her hold, watched the look of contentment stealing
over her face, saw her eyes close, her lips smile, and knew that
they were ready for a kiss.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then he caught sight of his horse, and of the
man in the leather jerkin. He signalled to him to bring the horses
near. The crowd understood his meaning and set up a ringing cheer.
Many things had been seen in Dutch cities before, but never so
romantic an abduction as this. The bridegroom carrying off his
bride in the face of scandalized and protesting wedding guests!
The Stadtholder even was seen to laugh. He could be seen in the
background, reassuring the horrified guests, and trying by kind
words and pressure of hand to appease Mynheer Beresteyn's agonized
surprise.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I knew of his mad project, and I must
say I approved,&quot; the prince whispered to the agitated father.
&quot;He is taking her to Rotterdam to-night. Let the child be,
Mynheer; she is safe enough in his arms.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Beresteyn was one of those men who throughout
his life had always known how to accept the inevitable. Perhaps
in his heart he knew that the Stadtholder was right.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Give them your blessing, Mynheer,&quot;
Maurice of Nassau urged. &quot;English gentleman or soldier of
fortune, the man is a man and deserves it. Your daughter loves
him. Let them be.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Diogenes had encountered Beresteyn's reproachful
glance. He did not move from where he stood, only his arms closed
tighter still around Gilda's motionless form. It was an instinctive
challenge to the father -- almost a defiance. What he had would
hold, in spite of all.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Beresteyn hesitated for the mere fraction of
a second longer; then he, too, stepped out through the door and
approached the man and his burden. He said nothing, but, in the
face of the crowd, he stooped and pressed his lips against his
daughter's forehead. Then Mynheer Beresteyn murmured something
which sounded like a blessing, and added solemnly:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;May God's wrath descend upon you, my
lord, if you ever cause her unhappiness.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Amen to that!&quot; responded Diogenes
lightly. &quot;She and I, Mynheer, will dream together for awhile
in England, but I'll bring her back to you when our orchards are
gay with apple-blossom and there is a taste of summer in the air.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He bowed his head to receive the father's blessing.
The crowd cheered again; sackbuts and viols set up a lively tune.
At every window of the house, along the quay eager faces were
peering out, gazing on the moving spectacle. In the doorway of
Mynheer Beresteyn's house the Stadtholder remained to watch. For
the moment he seemed better and brighter, more like his former
self. The rest of the bridal party was still in the hall, but
the wedding guests had gone back into the banqueting-room, whence
they could see through the open windows what was going on.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">~7</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then it was that suddenly a curious spectacle
presented itself to view. It was, in truth, so curious an one
that those of the crowd who were in the rear withdrew their consideration
from the romantic scene before them in order to concentrate it
on those two strange-looking cavaliers who had just emerged from
under the Koppel-port, and were slowly forging their way through
the throng.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It was the ringing shout, reiterated twice
in succession by one of these cavaliers, that had at first arrested
the attention of the crowd, and had even caused Diogenes to pause
in the very act of starting for his sentimental adventure. To
him the voice that uttered such peremptory clamour was familiar
enough, but what in St. Bavon's name did it all mean?</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Hola! you verdommte plepshurk!&quot;
came for the third time from the strange cavalier. &quot;Make
way there! We are for the house of Mynheer Beresteyn, where we
are bidden as his guests.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A loud burst of hilarity greeted this announcement,
and a mocking voice retorted lustily:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Hey! Make way there for the honoured
guests of Mynheer Beresteyn!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">In truth, it was small wonder that the aspect
of these two cavaliers caused such wild jollity amongst the people,
who at this precise moment were overready for laughter. One of
them, as lean as a gatepost, sat high on his horse with long shanks
covered in high leathern boots. A tall sugar-loaf hat sat precariously
upon his head, and his hatchet face, with the hooked, prominent
nose and sharp, unshaved chin, looked blue with the cold.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Behind him on a pillion rode -- or rather clung
-- his companion, a short man as rotund as the other was lean,
with round face which no doubt had once been of a healthy ruddy
tint, but was now streaked and blotched with pallor. He, too,
, wore a sugar-loaf hat, but it had slid down to the back of his
head, and was held in place by a piece of black tape, which he
had in his mouth like a horse has its bit. He was holding on very
tightly with his short, fat arms to his companion's body, and
his feet were tied together with thick cord beneath the horse's
belly. His doublet and hose were smeared with mud and stained
with blood, and altogether he presented a pitiable spectacle,
more especially when he rolled his small, beady eyes and looked
with a scared expression on the hilarious apprentices who were
dancing and screaming around him.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But the other appeared quite indifferent to
the jeers and mockeries of the crowd. He passed majestically through
the gateway of the Koppel-poort that spans the river, not unlike
the figure of that legendary knight of the rueful countenance
of whom the Se&Ograve;or Cervantes had been writing of late.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Diogenes had remained on the top of the steps,
perfectly still. His keen eyes, frowning now under the straight,
square brow, watched the slow progress of those two quaint figures.
Who will ever attempt to explain the subtle workings of that mysterious
force which men term Intuition? Whence does it come? Where does
it dwell? How doth it come knocking at a man's heart with cold,
hard knuckles that bruise and freeze? Diogenes felt that sudden
call. Gilda was still lying snugly in his arms; she had seen nothing.
But he had become suspicious now, mistrustful of that Fate which
had but a moment ago smiled so encourageingly upon him. All his
exhilaration fell away from him like a discarded mantle, leaving
him chilled to the soul and inert, and with the premonition of
something evil looming from afar on the horizon of his Destiny.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The two quaint companions came nearer. Soon
Diogenes could read every line upon the familiar countenances.
He and those men had fought side by side, shoulder to shoulder,
had bled together, suffered together, starved and triumphed together.
There was but little the one thought that the others could not
know. Even now, on Socrates; lean, lantern-jawed face Diogenes
read plainly the message of some tragedy as yet uncomprehended
by the other, but which Pythagoras' sorry plight had more that
suggested. It was a deeper thing than Intuition; it was Knowledge.
Knowledge that the hour of happiness had gone by, the hour of
security and of repose, and that the relentless finger of Fate
pointed once more to paths beset with sorrow and with thorns,
to the path of an adventurer and of a soldier of fortune, rather
than to the easy existence of a wealthy gentleman.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">As Socrates swung himself wearily out of the
saddle, Diogenes' piercing glance darted a mute, quick query toward
his friend. The other replied by a mere nod of the head. They
knew; they understood one another. Put into plain language, question
and answer might have been put thus:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Are we to go on the warpath again, old
compeer?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;So it seems. There's fighting to be done.
Will you be in it, too?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And Diogenes gave that quick impatient sigh
which was so characteristic of him, and very slowly, very gently,
as if she were a sheaf of flowers, he allowed his beloved to glide
out of his arms.</FONT></P>

<P>&nbsp;</P>

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<H3><CENTER><FONT FACE="Lucida Calligraphy">CHAPTER III - THE
GREAT INTERRUPTION</FONT></CENTER></H3>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">~1</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The next moment Diogenes was down on the quay,
in time to help Socrates to lift his brother philosopher off the
pillion.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Gilda, a little scared at first, not understanding,
looked wonderingly around her, blinking in the glare, until she
encountered her father's troubled glance.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What is it?&quot; she murmured, half-stupidly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He tried to explain, pointed to the group down
below, the funny, fat man in obvious pain and distress, being
lifted off the horse and received in those same strong arms which
had sheltered her -- Gilda -- but a moment ago.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The Stadtholder, too, was curious, asked many
questions, and had to be waited on deferentially with replies
and explanations, which were still of necessity very vague.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Attend to his Highness, father,&quot;
Gilda said more firmly. &quot;I can look to myself now.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She felt a little strange, a little humiliated
perhaps, standing here alone, as if abandoned by the very man
who but a moment ago had seemed ready to defy every convention
for her sake. Just now she had been the centre of attraction,
the pivot round which revolved excitement, curiosity, interest.
Even the Stadtholder had, for the space of those few minutes,
forgotten his cares and his responsibilities in order to think
of her and to plead with her father for her freedom and her happiness.
Now she was all alone, seemed so for the moment, while her father
and Mynheer van den Poele and the older men crowded around his
Highness, and every one had their eyes fixed on the curious spectacle
below.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But that sense of isolation and of disappointment
was only transient. Gilda Beresteyn had recently gone through
experiences far more bitter than this -- experiences that had
taught her to think and to act quickly and on her own initiative.
She saw her lover remounting the steps now. He was carrying his
friend in his arms as if the latter had been a child, his other
compeer following ruefully. The rowdy 'prentices had been silenced;
two or three kindly pairs of hands had proved ready to assist
and to care for the horse, which looked spent. The holiday crowd
was silent and sympathetic. Every one felt that in this sudden
interruption of the gay and romantic adventure there lurked a
something mysterious which might very well prove to be a tragedy.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It was Gilda who led the way into the house,
calling Maria to open a guest-chamber forthwith, one where the
bed was spread with freshly-aired linen. The English physician,
at a word from the Stadtholder, was ready to minister to the sick
man, and Mynheer Beresteyn himself showed the young soldier and
his burden up the stairs, while the crowd of wedding guests and
of the prince's bodyguard made way for them to pass through the
hall.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">What had been such a merry and excited throng
earlier in the day was now more than ever subdued. The happenings
in the house of Mynheer Beresteyn, which should have been at this
hour solely centred around the Stadtholder and the wedding party,
were strange enough indeed to call forth whispered comments and
subdued murmurings in secluded corners. To begin with, the Stadtholder
had put off his departure for an hour and more, and this apparently
at the instance of Diogenes, who had begged for the assistance
of the prince's English physician to minister to his friend.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">People marvelled why the town leech should
not have been called in. Why should a strange plepshurk's sickness
interfere with his Highness's movements? Also the Stadtholder
appeared agitated and fretful since Diogenes had had a word with
him. Maurice of Nassau, acquiescing with unwonted readiness both
in his physician remaining to look after the sick man and in the
postponement of his own departure, had since then retired to a
small private room on a floor above, in the company of Mynheer
Beresteyn and several of the more important guests. The others
were left to conjecture and to gossip, which they did freely,
whilst Gilda was no longer to be seen, and the worthy Kaatje was
left pouting and desolate beside her morose bridegroom. Nicolaes
Beresteyn, indeed, appeared more moody than any one, although
the interruption could not in itself have interfered with his
new domestic arrangements. At first he had thought of following
his father and Stadtholder into the private chamber upstairs,
but to this Mynheer Beresteyn had demurred.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Your place, my son,&quot; he said, with
a gently mocking smile, &quot;is beside your Kaatje. His Highness
will understand.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And when Nicolaes, trying to insist, followed
his father up the stairs to the very threshold of the council
room, Mynheer quite firmly and unceremoniously closed the door
in his face.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">~2</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Up in the guest-chamber, Diogenes was watching
over his sick friend. The first moment that he was alone with
his two old compeers, he had turned to Socrates and queried anxiously:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What is it? What hath happened?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;He'll tell you when he can speak,&quot;
the other replied. &quot;We found him lying in the snow outside
Lang Soeren with two bullet-wounds in his back, after we had searched
the whole verfloekte Veluwe for him all day. We took him into
Lang Soeren, where there was a leech, who extracted the one bullet
that had lodged under his shoulder blade; the other had only passed
through the flesh along his ribs, where it made a clean hole but
could not otherwise be found.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Well, yes -- and ---&quot; Diogenes went
on impatiently, for the other was somewhat slow of speech.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The leech,&quot; Socrates rejoined unperturbed,
&quot;said that the patient must lie still for a few days because
of the fever; but what must this fool do but shout and rave the
moment he is conscious that he must to Amersfoort to see you at
once. And so loudly did he shout and so wildly did he rave, that
the leech himself got scared and ran away. Whereupon I set the
bladder-bellied loon upon the pillion behind me and brought him
hither, thinking the ride would do him less harm than all that
wild screeching and waving of arms. And here we are!&quot; Socrates
concluded blandly, and threw himself into the nearest chair; for
he, too, apparently was exhausted with the fatigue of his perilous
journey across the waste.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Just then the leech returned, and nothing more
could be said. The sick man groaned a good deal under the physician's
hands, and Socrates presently dropped off to sleep.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The noise in the street below had somewhat
abated, but there was still the monotonous hubbub attendant on
a huge crowd on the move. Diogenes went to the window and gazed
out upon the throng. Even now the wintry sun was sinking slowly
down in the west in a haze of purple and rose, licking the towers
of St. Maria and Joris with glistening tongues of fire, and tinting
the snow-covered roofs and gables with a rosy hue. The sluggish
waters of the Eem appeared like liquid flame.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">For a few minutes the Koppel-poort, the bridges,
the bastions, the helmets and breastplates of the prince's guard
threw back a thousand rays of multi-coloured lights. For a brief
instant the earth glowed and blushed under this last kiss of her
setting lord. Then all became sombre and dreary, as if a veil
had been drawn over the light that illuminated the little city,
leaving but the grey shadows visible, and the sadness of evening
and the expectance of a long winter's night.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Diogenes gave a moody sigh. His fiery temper
chafed under this delay. Not for a moment would he have thought
of leaving his sick comrade until he had been reassured as to
his fate; but if everything had happened as he had planned and
wished, he would be half-way to Utrecht by now, galloping adown
the lonely roads with a delicious burden upon his saddle-bow,
and feeling the cold wintry wind whistling past his ears as he
put the leagues behind him.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He turned away from the window, and tiptoed
out of the room. The groans of the sick man, the measured movements
of the leech, the snoring of Socrates, were grating on his nerves.
Closing the door softly behind him, he strode down the gallery
which ran in front of him along the entire width of the house.
Up and down once or twice. The movement did him good, and he liked
the solitude. The house was still full of a chattering throng;
he could hear the murmur of conversation rising from below. Once
he peeped over the carved balustrade of the gallery and down into
the hall. The prince's bodyguard was still there, and two or three
equerries. The clank of their spurs resounded up the stairs as
they moved about on the flag-covered floor.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">~3</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">When Diogenes resumed his pacing up and down,
he suddenly became aware of the soft and distant sound of a woman's
voice, singing to the accompaniment of a quaint-toned virginal.
He paused and listened. The voice was Gilda's, and the sentimental
ditty which she sang had just that melancholy strain in it which
is to be found in the songs of all nations that are foredoomed
to suffer and to fight. Chiding himself for a fool, Diogenes,
nevertheless, felt for a moment or two quite unable to move. It
seemed as if Gilda's song -- he could not catch the words -- was
tearing at his heart even whilst it reduced him to a state of
silent ecstasy. Much against his will he felt the hot tears welling
to his eyes. With his wonted impatience he swept them away with
the back of his hand.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Curse me for a snivelling blockhead!&quot;
he muttered; and strode resolutely in the direction whence had
come the sweet sad sound.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then it was that he noticed that one of the
doors which gave on the gallery was ajar. It was through this
that the intoxicating sound had come to his ears. After an instant's
hesitation he pushed the door open. It gave on a small panelled
room with deep-embrasured window, through which the grey evening
light came in, shyly peeping. On the window-ledge a couple of
pots of early tulips flaunted their crude colours against the
neutral-tinted background, whilst on the shelves in a corner of
the room gleamed the vivid blue of bright-patterned china plates.
But the flowers and the china and the grey evening light were
but momentary impressions, which did not fix themselves upon the
man's consciousness. All that he retained clearly was the vision
of Gilda sitting at the instrument, her delicate hands resting
upon the keys. She had ceased to play, and was looking straight
out before her, and Diogenes could see her piquant profile silhouetted
against the pale, slivery light. She had changed her stiff bridal
robes for a plain gown of dark-coloured worsted, relieved only
by dainty cuffs and collar of filmy Flemish lace.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">At the sound of her husband's footsteps she
turned to look on him, and her whole face became wreathed in smiles.
He was still booted and spurred, ready for the journey, with his
long, heavy sword buckled to his belt; but he had put hat and
mantle aside. The moment he came in Gilda put a finger to her
lips.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Sh-sh-sh!&quot; she whispered. &quot;If
you make no noise they'll not know you are here.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She pointed across the room to where a heavy
tapestry apparently masked another door.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The Stadtholder is in there,&quot; she
added naively, &quot;with father and Mynheer van den Poele and
a number of other grave seigneurs. Kaatje is weeping and complaining
somewhere down in mejuffrouw van den Poele's arms. So I sat down
to the virginal and left the door open, so that you might hear
me sing; for if you heard I thought you would surely come. I was
lonely,&quot; she added simply, &quot;and waiting for you.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Quite enough in truth to make a man who is
dizzy with love ten thousand times more dizzy still. And Diogenes
was desperately in love, more so indeed than he had ever thought
himself capable of being. He quietly unbuckled his sword, which
clanged against the floor when he moved, and deposited in cautiously
and noiselessly in an angle of the room. Then he tiptoed across
to the virginal and knelt beside his beloved.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">For a moment or two he rested his head against
her cool white hands.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;To think,&quot; he murmured, with a sigh
of infinite longing, &quot;that we might be half-way to Rotterdam
by now! But I could not leave my old Pythagoras till I knew that
he was in no danger.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What saith the physician, my lord?&quot;
she asked.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I am waiting now for his final verdict.
But he gives me every hope. In an hour I shall know.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He paused, trying to read the varying play
of emotions upon her face. From the other side of the tapestry
came the low sound of subdued murmurings.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;It would not be too late,&quot; he went
on, slightly hesitating, taking her hands in his and forcing her
glance to meet his. &quot;You knew I meant to take you to England
-- to carry you away -- to-night?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She nodded.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Yes, I knew,&quot; she replied. &quot;And
I was glad to go.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Will you be afraid to come presently?&quot;
he urged, his voice quivering with excitement. &quot;In the dark
-- I know the road well. We could make Rotterdam by midnight --
and set sail for England To-morrow as I had prearranged ---&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Just as you wish, my dear lord,&quot;
she assented simply.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I could not wait, ma donna! I had planned
it all -- to ride with you Rotterdam to-night -- and then to-morrow
on the seas -- with you -- and England in sight, I could not wait!&quot;
he reiterated, almost pathetically, so great was his impatience.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I am ready to start when you will, my
lord,&quot; she said again, with a smile.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And you'll not be afraid?&quot; he insisted.
&quot;It will be dark -- and cold. We could not reach Rotterdam
before midnight.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;How should I be afraid of the darkness
or of anything,&quot; she retorted, &quot;when I am with you.
And how should I be cold, when I am nestling in your arms?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He had his arms round her in an instant. He
would have kissed her if he dared. But with the kiss all restraint
would of a surety have vanished, as doth the snow in the warm
embrace of the sun. He would have seized her then and there once
more and carried her away. And this time no consideration on earth
would have stayed him. With a muttered exclamation, he jumped
to his feet and passed his slender hand across his forehead.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Good St. Bavon!&quot; he murmured whimsically.
&quot;Why are you so unkind to me to-night?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And she, a little disappointed because, in
truth, she had been ready for the kiss, rejoined with a quaint
little pout:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You are always appealing to St. Bavon,
my dear lord! Why is that?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Because,&quot; he replied very seriously,
&quot;St. Bavon is the patron saint of all men that are weak.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She fixed great, wondering eyes on him. The
reply was ambiguous; she did not quite understand the drift of
it.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;But you, my lord, are so strong,&quot;
she objected.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It was perhaps too dark for her to see the
expression in his face; but even so she felt herself unaccountably
blushing under that gaze which she could not clearly see. Whereupon
he uttered an ejaculation which sounded almost as if he were angered,
and abruptly, without any warning, he turned on his heel and went
out of the room, leaving Gilda alone once more beside the virginal.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But she no longer felt the desire to sing.
The happiness which filled her entire soul was too complete even
for song.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">~4</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">One of the equerries had awhile ago found his
way to the guest-chamber where the sick man was lying, and had
informed Diogenes that the Stadtholder was now ready to start
on his way, but desired his presence that he might take his leave.
Then it was that Diogenes sent an urgent message to his Highness,
entreating him to remain but a little while longer. The sick man
was better, would soon wake out of a refreshing sleep. Diogenes
would then question him. Poor old Pythagoras had something to
say, something that the Stadtholder himself must hear. Of this
Diogenes was absolutely convinced.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I know it,&quot; the young soldier asserted
earnestly. &quot;I seem to feel it in my bones.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Whereupon the Stadtholder had decided to wait,
and Diogenes, after his brief glimpse of Gilda, felt easier in
his mind, less impatient. Already he chided himself for his gloomy
forebodings. Since his beloved was ready to entrust herself to
him, the journey to England would only be put off by a few hours.
What need to repine? Joy would be none the less sweet for this
brief delay.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A quarter of an hour later Pythagoras was awake
the physician out of the room, and Diogenes was sitting on the
edge of the bed holding his faithful comrade's hand, and trying
to disentangle some measure of coherence out of the other's tangled
narrative, whilst Socrates stood by making an occasional comment
or just giving an expressive grunt from time to time. It took
both time and patience, neither of which commodities did Diogenes
possess in super-abundance; but after the first few moments of
listening to the rambling of the sick man, he became very still
and attentive. The busy house, the noisy guests, the waiting Stadtholder
down below, all slipped out from his ken. Holding his comrade's
hand, he was with him on the snow-clad Veluwe, and had found his
way with him into the lonely mill.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;It was the Lord of Stoutenburg,&quot;
Pythagoras averred, with as much strength as he could command.
&quot;I'd stake my life on't! I knew him at once. How could I
ever forget his ugly countenance, after all he made you suffer?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Well -- and?&quot; queried Diogenes eagerly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I knew the other man too, but could not
be sure of his name. He was one of those who was with Stoutenburg
that day at Ryswick, when you so cleverly put a spoke in their
abominable wheel. I knew them both, I tell you!&quot; the sick
man insisted feverishly; &quot;but I had the good sense not to
betray what I knew.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;But Stoutenburg did not know you?&quot;
Diogenes insisted.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Yes, he did,&quot; the other replied,
sagely nodding his head. &quot;That is why he ordered his menial
to put a bullet into my back. The two noble gentlemen questioned
me first,&quot; he went on more coherently; &quot;then they plied
me with wine. They wanted to make me drunk so as to murder me
at their leisure.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;They little know they, eh, thou bottomless
barrel?&quot; Diogenes broke in with a laugh. &quot;The cask hath
not been fashioned yet that would contain enough liquor even to
quench thy thirst, what?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;They plied me with wine,&quot; Pythagoras
reiterated gravely; &quot;and then I pretended to get very drunk.
For I soon remarked that the more drunk they thought I was, the
more freely they talked.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Well, and what did they say?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;They talked of De Berg crossing the Ijssel
with ten thousand men between Doesburg and Bronchorst; and of
Isembourg coming up from Kleve at the same time. I make no doubt
that the design is to seize Arnheim and Nijmegen. They talked
a deal about Arnheim, which they thought was scantily garrisoned
and could easily be taken by surprise and made to surrender. Having
got these two cities, the plan is to march across the Veluwe and
offer battle to the Stadtholder with a force vastly superior to
his, if in the meanwhile ---&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He paused. It seemed as if his voice, hoarse
with fatigue, was refusing him service. Diogenes reached for the
potion which stood on a small table beside the bed. The sick man
made a wry face.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Physic?&quot; he ejaculated reproachfully.
&quot;From you, old compeer? Times were when---&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;There will be a time now,&quot; retorted
the other gruffly, &quot;when you'll sink back into a raging fever,
and will be babbling bibulous nonsense if you don't do as you
are told.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I'll sink into a raging fever now,&quot;
the sick man retorted fretfully, &quot;if I have not something
potable to drink ere long.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You'll drink this physic now, old compeer,&quot;
Diogenes insisted, and held the mug to his friend's parched lips,
forcing him to drink. &quot;Then I'll see what can be done for
you later on.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He schooled himself to patience and gentleness.
At all costs Pythagoras must complete his narrative. There was
just something more that he wished to say, apparently -- something
fateful and of deadly import, but which for some obscure reason
he found difficult to put into words.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Now then, old friend, make an effort!&quot;
Diogenes urged insistently. &quot;There is still something on
your mind. What is it?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Pythagoras' round, beady eyes were rolling
in their sockets. He looked scared, like one who has gazed on
what is preternatural and weird.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Stoutenburg has a project,&quot; he resumed
after a while, and sank his spent voice to the merest whisper.
&quot;Listen, my compeer; for the very walls have ears. Bend yours
to me. There! That's better,&quot; he added, as Diogenes bent
his long back until his ear was almost on a level with the sick
man's lips. &quot;Stoutenburg hath a project, I tell you. A damnable
project, akin to the one which you caused to abort three months
ago.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Assassination?&quot; Diogenes queried
curtly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The sick man nodded.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Do you know the details?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Alas, no! But it is aimed at the Stadtholder.
What form it is to take I know not, and they had evidently talked
it all over before. It seemed almost as if the other man -- Stoutenburg's
friend -- was horrified at the project. He tried to argue once
or twice, and once I heard him say quite distinctly: 'Not that,
Stoutenburg! Let us fight him like men; even kill him, like men
kill one another. But not like that.' But my Lord Stoutenburg
only laughed.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Diogenes was silent. He was deep in thought.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You had no other indication?&quot; he
asked reflectively.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;No,&quot; Pythagoras replied. All I saw
was that my lord kept the finger and thumb of his right hand in
a hidden pocket of his doublet, and once he said: 'The Prince
of Poets taught me to manufacture them; and I supply them to him
you know of, wherever he can find an opportunity to come out here
to me. He uses them at his discretion. But we can judge by results!
And then he laughed because his friend appeared to shudder. I
was puzzled,&quot; the sick man went on wearily, &quot;because
of it all; and I marvelled who the Prince of Poets might be, for
I am no scholar and I thought that perhaps ---&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You are quite sure Stoutenburg said 'Prince
of Poets'?&quot; Diogenes insisted, frowning. &quot;Your ears
must have been buzzing by then.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I am quite sure,&quot; Pythagoras asserted.
&quot;But I could not see what he had in his hand.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Diogenes said nothing more, and silence fell
upon the stately chamber, the sombre panelling and heavy tapestries
of which effectually deadened every sound that came from the outside.
Only the monumental clock up against the wall ticked in a loud
monotone. The sick man, wearied with so much talking, fell back
against the pillows. The shades of evening were quickly gathering
in now; the corners of the room were indistinguishable in the
gloom. Only the bed-clothes still gleamed white in the uncertain
light. From the distant tower of St. Maria Kerk a bell chimed
the hour of seven. A few minutes went by. Anon there came a scratching
at the door.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">In response to Diogenes' loud &quot;Enter!&quot;
the physician came in, preceded by a serving-man carrying two
lighted candles in massive silver sconces.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;His Highness cannot wait any longer,&quot;
the physician said, as soon as he had perceived Diogenes, still
sitting pensive on the edge of the bed. &quot;And as I have no
anxiety about the patient now, I will, by your leave, place him
in your hands.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Diogenes appeared to wake as if out of a dream.
He rose and looked about him somewhat vaguely. The physician thought
he must have been asleep.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Will you pay your respects to his Highness?&quot;
the latter said. &quot;I think he desires to see you.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Just for a moment Diogenes remained quite still.
The physician had approached the sick man, and was surveying him
with critical but obviously reassured attention. Socrates was
again snoring somewhere in a far corner of the room, and the serving-man,
having placed the candles on the table, stood waiting at the door.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Yes. I'll to his Highness,&quot; Diogenes
said abruptly; and , beckoning to the serving-man to precede him,
he strode out of the room.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Outside on the landing he paused. Then, with
a characteristic, impulsive gesture, he suddenly beat his forehead
with the palm of his hand.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The Prince of Poets, of course!&quot;
he murmured under his breath. &quot;Francis Borgia, the true descendant
of his infamous ancestors! Poison! And a slow one at that! Oh,
the miserable assassins! Please God, this knowledge hath not come
too late!&quot; he added with earnest fervor.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">~5</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A quarter of an hour later the Stadtholder
was in possession of all the facts as they had been revealed to
Diogenes by his comrade in arms.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I seem fated,&quot; he said to Diogenes
kindly, yet not without a measure of bitterness, &quot;to owe
my safety to you and your brother philosophers.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He was discussing De Berg's surprise plans
on Arnheim and Nijmegen. Of that abominable crime, hatched with
the chance aid of a poison-mongering Borgia, Diogenes had not
as yet spoken one word. Accustomed to swift decisions and prompt
action, he had already made up his mind that he would speak of
it first to the English physician, whose business it would be
to see to it that the insidious poison no longer reached the prince's
lips, at the same time enjoining the strictest secrecy in the
matter; for it would only be by rigid circumspection and ceaseless
watching that the assisin's accomplice could be brought to justice.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Mynheer Beresteyn and some of his older friends
were in the room with his Highness. They all put their grave heads
together, for there was no doubt that the Archduchess's advisers
had planned an invasion of the United Provinces on a grand scale.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Arnheim is insufficiently defended, of
that there's no doubt,&quot; the Stadtholder said. &quot;It was
my intention to reinforce all the frontier cities, and to keep
their garrisons up to the requisite numbers. If I only had the
strength--&quot;<BR>
He paused. The feeling of physical weakness consequent on disease
caused him endless and acute bitterness.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;It is not too late to send troops to
Arnheim and to Nijmegen,&quot; Diogenes broke in, in his usual
abrupt manner. &quot;Three thousand in one city, four thousand
in the other would be sufficient, if your Highness can act quickly.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I cannot detach seven or eight thousand
troops from my forces at the present moment,&quot; the prince
rejoined. &quot;If Spinola were to attack from the south I am
only just strong enough to defend myself as it is.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Marquet is in Overijssel, I believe,&quot;
urged the soldier. &quot;He hath three or four thousand troops.
Let him push on to Arnheim to reinforce the garrison.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And De Keysere is at Wageningen,&quot;
the prince broke in, fired, despite himself, by the other's enthusiasm.
&quot;He hath three thousand mercenaries from Switzerland and
Germany.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Excellent fighters and well-seasoned,&quot;
Diogenes asserted. &quot;And trained under Maurice of Nassau,
the first captain of this or any epoch!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Ay!&quot; sighed Maurice wearily. &quot;But
time is against us. Marquet is at Vorden ---&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;But Arnheim and Nijmegen can hold out
for awhile,&quot; Diogenes argued forcefully.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And would hold out to the last man,&quot;
Mynheer Beresteyn added, &quot;if they knew that succor would
come in due course.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot; 'Tis only uncertainty that paralyses
the endurance of a garrison,&quot; Diogenes went on with firm
emphasis. &quot;Send to Arnheim and to Nijmegen, your Highness!
Bid them hold out against any attack until you come with ten thousand
troops to their aid. In the meanwhile, send orders to Marquet
and to De Keysere to advance forthwith with reinforcements for
these two garrisons. Then raise your standard once more in Friesland,
Drenthe, and Groningen. I'll warrant you will have twenty thousand
men there ready to fight once more for liberty and for you!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">His sonorous voice rang clear and metallic
in the small, panelled room. His enthusiasm appeared almost like
a living thing, a tangible force that touched the hearts and minds
of all the solemn burghers here, causing their eyes to glow and
their fists, not yet wholly unskilled in the use of the sword,
to clench with inward excitement. The Stadtholder looked up at
him with undisguised admiration.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Is it the English blood in you, man,&quot;
he said with a smile, &quot;that makes you valorous in war and
wise in counsel?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Diogenes shrugged his broad shoulders.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I fought for your Highness before now,&quot;
he rejoined, with a quaint, self-deprecating laugh, &quot;when
I had nothing to lose save my skin, and still less to gain. The
English blood in me dearly loves a fight, and all doth hate the
Spaniard and all his tyrannies.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Then I can reckon on you?&quot; the prince
riposted quickly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;On me, your Highness?&quot; the other
exclaimed.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;On you, of course. With your mother's
blood in your veins, the United Provinces have a double claim
on you. You have fought for us before, as you say, unknown to
us then, an obscure soldier of fortune with nothing to lose and
but little to gain. Join us now, man, in the field and under the
council tent. Get to horse to-night. You will find Marquet at
Vorden, on his way south from Overijssel. Tell him to push on
at once to Arnheim with all the troops he hath at his command.
From thence I would bid you go straightway to De Keysere, who
is at Wageningen, and order him to reinforce Nijmegen forthwith
with three thousand men, if we have them. Tell both Marquet and
De Keysere to fight and hold the towns. I'll to their aid as soon
as may be. Then, man, join my brother Frederick, and help him
to raise my standard in Gelderland and in Overijssel, and rally
ten thousand men to our cause. I feel that success will attend
our arms if we keep you by our side.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Maurice of Nassau had spoken with more vigor
and verve than he had shown for the past three months. Indeed,
his deeply anxious friends could not help but feel that the old
fighting spirit of this peerless commander had not wholly been
undermined by disease. Five pairs of eager eyes had scanned his
features while he spoke; five hearts beat in response to his enthusiasm.
Now, when he had finished speaking, Mynheer Beresteyn and the
others turned their expectant gaze upon the stranger who had been
so signally honoured; but he looked uncertain, gravely perturbed.
In the flickering light of the wax candles his face appeared haggard
and drawn, and a set line had crept around his ever-laughing lips.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You seem to hesitate, my friend,&quot;
the Stadtholder remarked, with that tone of bitterness which had
become habitual to him. &quot;Methought you said that the English
blood in you dearly loved a fight. But in truth, I had forgotten!
You have other claims upon you now -- one, at least, which is
paramount. An easy, untroubled life awaits you. No wonder you
hesitate to embark on so perilous an adventure!&quot; Then, as
if loth to give up the thought that was foremost in his mind,
he added, with persuasive insistence; &quot;If you followed me,
you'd have everything to gain -- nothing to lose save a sentimental
pastime.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Just then Diogenes caught Mynheer Beresteyn's
eyes fixed steadily upon him. The old man who knew well enough
what was going on in that wayward, turbulent mind -- the doubts,
the fears, the hideous, horrible disappointment.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Nothing to lose! Ye gods, at the hour when
a whole life's happiness not only beckoned insistently, but was
actually there to hand, like a bunch of ripe and luscious fruit,
ready to drop into a yearning hand! Here was the end of a vagabond
life, here was love and home and peace, and all to be given up
as soon as found to the equally insistent call of honour and of
duty!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The others did not speak; perhaps they, too,
understood. Men in those days were used to stern sacrifices. They
and there forebears had given up their all so that their children's
children might live in freedom and security. They only marvelled
if this stranger, with the combative English blood in him, would
give up what was so infinitely dear to him -- the exquisite wife
to whom he had plighted his troth but a few hours ago -- and if
he would fight for them again as he had done in the past.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The Stadtholder remained moody and silent,
and the close atmosphere of the heavily curtained room seemed
to become suddenly still, hushed, as if expectant of the grave
decision to come. The wax candles burned quite steadily, with
just a tiny fillet of smoke rising up towards the low-raftered
ceiling, almost like the incense of silent prayer rising unwaveringly
to God.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">To many the silence appeared absolute, but
not to the man who stood in the midst of them all beside a table
littered with papers and documents, his slender hand -- the hand
of an idealist, rendered firm and hard by action -- resting lightly
upon the board. A tense look in his eyes. Through the silence
he could hear his beloved in the little room behind the heavy
tapestry. He could hear the soft, insidious sound of the quaint-toned
virginal, and her voice, tender and melancholy as the call of
the bird to its mate, humming the sweet refrain gently under her
breath. with every note she seemed to tear at his heart with an
unendurable regret for what might have been.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Oh, it had been such a perfect dream! Gilda
and that stately home over in England, and the ride through the
night in pursuit of happiness which had proved as elusive as Fata
Morgana, as unreal as the phantoms born in the mind of a rhapsodist.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then the silence did, indeed, become absolute,
even to him. Gilda had ceased her song. Only his straining ears
caught the sound of her footsteps as she rose from the virginal,
then moved swiftly about the room.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Well,&quot; the Stadtholder reiterated,
after awhile, &quot;which is it to me, my friend? I start for
Utrecht within the hour and if we are to save Arnheim and Nijmegen,
you should be on your way to Vorden with the necessary moneys
and my written orders to-night. Of course, I cannot compel you,&quot;
he added simply &quot;The decision rests with you, and if you
---&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The words died on his lips, and in an instant
all eyes were turned to that end of the room where a heavy portiere
divided it from the room beyond. A faint rustling sound had come
from there, then the grating of metal rings upon the cornice-pole
that held the tapestry. The next moment Gilda appeared in the
doorway, shadowy, wraith-like in her sombre gown that melted into
the gloom. Just her small, white face and delicate hands stood
out against the murky background, and the gossamer lace at her
throat and wrists.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">For a moment she stood there, one hand still
holding back the heavy portiere, quite still, taking in the company
at a glance. A sigh of longing and of renunciation came from an
overburdened heart, and was wafted up to the foot of Him who knows
all and understands all. Then Gilda allowed the tapestry to fall
together behind her, and she came quickly forward. In the other
hand she was holding, firmly clasped, her husband's heavy sword.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She came close to him, and then said simply,
with an ingenuous smile: &quot;I thought you might wonder where
you had left it. It was in the other room. You will be wanting
it, my dear lord, if you start for Vorden within the hour.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">With deft fingers she buckled the sword to
his belt. This, in truth, was her decision, and she had acted
with scarce a moment's hesitation, even whilst he marvelled how
he could set to work to break her heart by leaving her this night.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Now, when their glances met, they understood
one another. The power that lay within both their souls had met
and, as it were, clasped hands. They accepted one another's sacrifice.
Hers, mayhap, was the more complete of the two, because for her
his absence would mean weary waiting, the dull heartache so terrible
to bear.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">For the man, the wrench would be eased by action,
danger and hard fighting; for her there would be nothing to do
but wait. But she acquiesced. No one had seen the struggle which
it had cost her, over there in the little room, all alone with
only the dumb virginal and the dying light to see the tears of
rebellion and of agony which for one brief moment -- for her an
eternity -- had seared her eyes. By the time the full meaning
of what she had overheard from the other side of the portiere
had entered into her brain, she had recovered full outward calm,
and had brought him his sword in token of her resolve.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Gilda Beresteyn came of a race that had learned
to fight even from its infancy. She had handled her father's sword
at an age when little maids are content with playthings. Now,
when she made the buckles of her husband's sword secure, she met
his glance with perfect serenity, and said simply and calmly:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You will find me, as before, in the other
room. I will be waiting there to bid you farewell.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then she glided out of the room, wraith-like,
ethereal, as she had come. And Diogenes woke as if out of a trance.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The Stadtholder jumped to his feet. &quot;Then
you're with us?&quot; he exclaimed.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;If your Highness hath need of me,&quot;
the soldier replied.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Have I not said so?&quot; the prince
retorted. &quot;Henceforth, Sir Percy Blakeney -- for that is
your name, is it not? -- accompanies us as our Master of the Camp
wherever we go!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Nay, &quot; the other replied quite firmly
and without even a sigh of regret this time, &quot;my name is
Diogenes, as it hath always been. It is the nameless and homeless
adventurer, the son of the poor Dutch tramp, who once again places
his sword at your Highness's disposal. Sir Percy Blakeney was
only a myth, a shade that hath already been exorcized by the magic
of your Highness's call, in the name of our faith and of liberty.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Frankly, man,&quot; the Stadtholder retorted
with a smile, &quot;I could not picture you in the character of
a placid and uxorious country gentleman, watching with unruffled
complacence the life and death struggles of your friends.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I should have waxed obese, your Highness,&quot;
Diogenes assented whimsically; &quot;and the horror of it would
have sent me to my grave.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Then, you inveterate mocker, are you
ready to start?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Booted and spurred, your Highness, and
a sword on my hip,&quot; replied the other lightly. &quot;And
my horse hath been waiting for me these two hours past.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Already Maurice of Nassau was on his feet.
He took the sacrifice, the self-denial, as a matter of course;
was unaware of it, probably. Every other thought was completely
merged in that of the coming struggle -- De Berg crossing the
Ijssel, Spinola threatening from the south, and victory beckoning
once more.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The burghers crowded round him, speaking words
of loyalty and of encouragement. He responded with somewhat curt
farewells. His thoughts were no longer here; they were across
the Veluwe with Marquet and De Keysere; inside Arnheim and Nijmegen.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He kept Diogenes by his side, wrote out his
orders in sign-manual, discussed plans, possibilities with the
man in whose luck and resource he had unbounded belief.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It took time to get everything ready. There
was the financial question, too, for some of the troops were mercenaries,
who would be demanding their pay ere they engaged to start on
a fresh expedition. For this the aid of the loyal burghers had
again to be requisitioned. Arrangements had to be made for credits
at Zutphen and Arnheim.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">This part of the great adventure the Stadtholder
was willing to leave in the hands of Mynheer Beresteyn and his
friends. Money to him was dross, save as a means of gaining his
great ends. For the nonce he was in a hurry to get away, to get
back to his camp at Utrecht, and to make ready for the coming
fight.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then at last there came a moment when everything
appeared settled. The messenger had his sealed orders, and the
credit notes and the read money upon his person. The Stadtholder
was back in the hall with his equerries around him, ready for
departure, giving brief, decisive orders such as soldiers love
to hear.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But Diogenes did not follow him immediately,
and Mynheer Beresteyn remained behind with him. He was the only
one who really understood what the once careless and thoughtless
adventurer felt at this moment, in face of the inevitable farewell.
It was an understanding born in a staunch heart that had known
both love and sorrow.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Beresteyn had idolized his young wife, who
had died leaving her baby-girl in his arms. That deep affection
the lonely widower had thereupon transferred to his motherless
daughter, had cherished and guarded her as his most precious treasure,
and had only consented to relinquish her into the guardianship
of another because he knew that the other was worthy of the trust.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He knew also what hungering passion means;
he knew the bitterness of parting and of a burning disappointment
with the prospect of loneliness through the vista of years. But,
with that infinite tact which is the attribute of a self-less
heart, he offered no words of consolation or even of comment.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I will leave you to bid farewell to Gilda
alone,&quot; was all that he said.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Diogenes nodded in assent. The most terrible
moment of this terrible hour was yet to come, for Gilda, having
precipitated his decision, was now waiting for the last kiss.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">~6</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She was, in truth, waiting for him, submissive
and composed. What she had done, when she with her own act had
mutely bidden him to go, that she did not regret. She had done
it not so much perhaps from a sense of duty or of patriotism,
but rather because she knew that this course was the only one
that he would never rue.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Hers was that perfect love that dwells on the
other's happiness, and not on its own. She knew that, though for
the time being he would find bliss and oblivion in her arms, he
would soon repine in inactivity whilst others fought for that
which he held sublime.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">So now, when he pushed aside the tapestry and
once more stood before her, with the lovelight in his eyes obscured
by the shadow of this coming parting, she met him without a tear.
The next moment he had her in his arms, and his hand rested lightly
across her eyes, lest they should perceived that his were full
of tears.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">For a long while he could not speak; then he
drew her closer to him and pressed his lips against hers, drinking
in all the joy and rapture which he might never taste again.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What is it that hath happened, my lord?&quot;
she murmured. &quot; I could not hear everything, and did not
wish to be caught prying. All that I heard was that the Stadtholder
needed you, and that in your heart you knew that your place, whilst
there was danger to our land, was by his side, and not by mine.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Your father will explain more fully,
my beloved,&quot; he replied. You are right. The Stadtholder hath
need of every willing sword. This unfortunate land is gravely
threatened. The Archduchess is throwing the full force of her
armies against the Netherlands. His Highness thinks that I might
help to save the United Provinces from becoming once more the
vassals of Spain. As you say, my place is on this soil where I
and my mother were born. I should be a coward indeed were I to
turn my back now on this land when danger is so grave. So I am
going, my beloved,&quot; he continued simply.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;To-night I go to Vorden on his Highness's
business, thence on to Wageningen. I shall go, taking your dear
image in my heart, and with your exquisite face before me always.
For I love you with every fibre of my being, every bone in my
body and with every beat of my heart. Try not to weep, my dear.
I shall return one day soon to take you in my arms, as I shall
clasp your spirit only until then. I shall return, doubt it not.
Such love as ours was not created to remain unfulfilled. Whatever
may happen, believe and trust in me, as I shall believe in you,
and keep the remembrance of me in your heart without sadness and
without regret.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He spoke chiefly because he dared not trust
to the insidiousness of silence. He knew that she wept for the
first time because of him. Yet how could it be otherwise? And
sorrow made her sacred. When, overcome with grief, she lay half-swooning
in his arms, he picked her up quite tenderly and laid her back
against the cushions of the chair. Then, as she sat there, pale
and wan-looking in the uncertain light of the wax candles, with
those exquisite hands of hers lying motionless in her lap, he
knelt down before her.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">For a second or two he rested his head against
those soft white palms, fragrant as the petals of a lily. Then
he rose, and, without looking at her again, he walked firmly out
of the room.<BR>
</FONT></P>

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  <TITLE>Chp 4 - Adder's Fork</TITLE>
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<H3><CENTER><FONT FACE="Lucida Calligraphy">CHAPTER IV - ADDER'S
FORK</FONT></CENTER></H3>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">~1</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Nicolaes Beresteyn accompanied his brother-in-law
during the first part of the journey. He had insisted on this,
despite Diogenes' preference for solitude. There was not much
comradeship lost between the two men. Though the events of that
memorable New Years Day, distant less than three months, were
ostensibly consigned to oblivion, nevertheless, the bitter humiliation
which Nicolaes had suffered at the hands of the then nameless
soldier of fortune still rankled in his heart. Since then so many
things had come to light which, to an impartial observer, more
than explained Gilda Beresteyn's love for the stranger, and Mynheer
her father's acquiescence in an union based on respect for so
brave a man.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But Nicolaes had held aloof from the intimacy,
and soon his own courtship of the wealthy Kaatje gave him every
reason for withdrawing more and more from his own family circle.
But to-night, after the tempestuous close of what should have
been a merely conventional day, he sought Diogenes' company in
a way he had never done before.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Like you,&quot; he said, &quot;I am wearied
and sick with all this mummery. A couple of hours on the Veluwe
will set me more in tune with life.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Diogenes chaffed him not a little.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The lovely Kaatje will pout,&quot; he
suggested, &quot;and rightly, too. You have no excuse for absenting
yourself from her side at this hour.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I'll come with you as far as Barneveld,&quot;
Nicolaes insisted. &quot;A matter of less than a couple of hours'
ride. It will do me good. And Kaatje is still closeted with her
garrulous mother.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You think it will do her good to be kept
waiting,&quot; Diogenes retorted with good-natured sarcasm. &quot;well,
come, if you have a mind. But I'll not have your company further
than Barneveld. I am used to the Veluwe, and intend taking a short
cut over the upland, through which I would not care to take a
companion less well acquainted with the waste than I.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Thus it was decided. Already the Stadtholder
had gone with his numerous retinue, with his bodyguard and his
pike-men and with his equerries, and those of the wedding-party
who had come in his train from Utrecht, friends of Mynheer Beresteyn,
who had ridden over for the most part with wife or daughter pillioned
behind them, and all glad to avail themselves of the protection
of his Highness's escort against highway marauders, none too scarce
in these parts. Torch-bearers and linkmen completed the imposing
cavalcade, for the night would be moonless, and the tracks across
the moorland none too clearly defined.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Diogenes had waited with what patience he could
muster until the last of the numerous train had defiled under
the Koppel-poort. Then he, too, got to horse. Despite Socrates'
many protestations, he was not allowed to accompany him.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You must look after Pythagoras,&quot;
was Diogenes' final word on the subject.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot; 'Tis the first time,&quot; the other
answered moodily, &quot;that you go on such an adventure without
us. Take care, comrade! The Veluwe is wide and lonely. That swag-bellied
oaf up there hath cause to rue his solitary wanderings on that
verfloekte waste.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I'll be careful, old compeer,&quot; Diogenes
retorted with a smile. &quot;But mine errand is not one on which
I desire to draw unnecessary attention, and I can remain best
unperceived if I am alone. 'Tis no adventure I am embarking on
this night. Only a simple errand as far as Vorden, a matter of
ten leagues at most.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And the whole of the verdommte Veluwe
to traverse at dead of night!&quot; the other muttered sullenly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I know every corner of it,&quot; Diogenes
rejoined impatiently. &quot;And it will not be the first time
that I travel on it alone.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Thus Socrates was left grumbling, and anon
Diogenes, accompanied by Nicolaes Beresteyn, started on his way.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">~2</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">At first the two men spoke little. The air
was still cold and very humid, and the thaw was persisting. The
horses stepped out briskly on the soft, sandy earth.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The distance between Amersfoort and Barneveld
is but a couple of leagues. Within the hour the lights of the
little city could be seen gleaming ahead. After a while Nicolaes
Beresteyn became more loquacious, talked quite freely of the past.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;My father no longer trusts me,&quot;
he said, with ill-concealed bitterness. &quot;Did you see how
he shut me out of the council-chamber?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Yet the Stadtholder himself told you
everything that occurred subsequently,&quot; Diogenes retorted
kindly, &quot;including his own plans and mine errand at this
hour. I think that your conscience troubles you unnecessarily,
and you see a deliberate intention in every simple act.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And if he did, you could scarce blame
him. 'Tis only in the future you can prove your true worth. And
methinks,&quot; he added, more seriously than he was usually wont
to speak, &quot;that you will have occasion to do this very soon.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;In the meanwhile, here's Barneveld ahead
of us,&quot; Nicolaes rejoined, with a quick, indefinable sigh,
and giving a sudden turn to the conversation. &quot;I'll see you
across the city, then return to the bosom of my family, there
to live in uxorious idleness, whilst you, a stranger, are entrusted
with the destinies of our land. A poor outlook for a man who is
young and a patriot, you'll own.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">To this Diogenes thought it best to make no
reply. He knew well enough that the mistrust of which Nicolaes
accused his father was a very real thing, and that it was indeed
only time that would soften the proud burgher's heart toward his
only son. It was not likely that one who but a brief while ago
had conspired against the Stadtholder's life with that abominable
Stoutenburg could be admitted readily into the councils of the
very man whom he had plotted to assassinate. With every desire
to forgive, it was but natural that Mynheer Beresteyn should fail
entirely to forget.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">No more, however, was said upon the subject
now, and Nicolaes soon relapsed into that sullen mood which had
of late become habitual to him. Thus Diogenes was glad enough
to be rid of his company. At Barneveld he obtained a fresh horse,
left his own in charge of a man known to him, with orders to ride
it quietly on the morrow as far as Wageningen, where he himself
would pick it up a couple of days later. His journey would now
lie due east to Zutphen. There he meant to make a halt of a few
hours, and thence proceed to Vorden, where Marquet was in camp,
with four thousand seasoned troops, trained under Mansfeld, and
rested now since the campaign in Groningen.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The Stadtholder's orders were that the general
proceed, at once to Arnheim, ere the forces of the Archduchess
had time to cross the Ijssel, and to cut off all access to so
important a city.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">From Vorden to Wageningen, which lies due south
form Barneveld, the journey would be a long one, and, with De
Berg's army so near, might even prove perilous. But De Keysere
was at Wageningen, with three thousand troops and some artillery.
His help would be of immense service to Nijmegen if the latter
city, too, were to be attacked.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;How will you journey from Vorden to Wageningen?&quot;
Nicolaes asked Diogenes in the end. &quot;You will have to avoid
the Ijssel.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I'll cut across to Lang Soeren,&quot;
the other replied; &quot;and thence go to Ede.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;There's scarce a track on the Veluwe
just there,&quot; the other urged.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Such as there is, I know,&quot; Diogenes
retorted curtly. &quot;And I must trust to luck.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">They had brought their horses to a halt about
a quarter of a league outside Barneveld, where the two men decided
to part. The stretch of the great waste, with its undulating,
barren hills, and narrow, scarce visible tracks, lay straight
out before them. Diogenes was sniffing the frosty air out toward
the east, where lay Vorden, and whence there came to his nostrils
the sharp tang of the breeze, that cut like a knife. The thaw
which had held sway in the cities and on the low-lying lands had
been vanquished ere it reached the arid upland. The snow upon
the Veluwe lay as even and as pure as before. Above, a canopy
of stars seemed but a diamond-studded veil of mysterious indigo,
stretched over a world of light, which it failed altogether to
dim. The silence and desolation were absolute; but not so the
darkness. To the keen eye of the adventurer, accustomed to loneliness,
the vast stretches of open country and limitless horizons, there
was no such thing as absolute darkness. He could perceive the
slightest accidental upon the smooth carpet of snow, noted every
tiny mound that marked a clump of rough shrub or grass, and every
footmark of beast or bird, mere flecks of blue upon the virgin
pall.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Such track as there is, I know,&quot;
he had carelessly asserted awhile ago, in response to a warning
from Nicolaes. And now, without an instant's hesitation, and tossing
to the other a last curt word of farewell, he gave his horse a
slight taste of the spur, and soon became a mere speck upon the
illimitable waste.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">~3</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It was close on midnight when, weary, saddle-sore,
his boots covered in half-melted snow, Mynheer Nicolaes Beresteyn
demanded admittance into his native city.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">At first the guard at the Koppel-poort, roused
from his slumbers, refused to recognize in the belated traveler
the bridegroom of a few hours ago. Had anyone ever heard, I ask
you, of a bridegroom absenting himself on the very night of his
nuptial until so late an hour? And then returning in a mood that
was so irascible and inconsequent that the sergeant in command
of the gate was on the point of ordering his detention in the
guard-room, pending investigation and the orders of the burgomaster,
whose decision on such points was final? But since the burgomaster,
whose decision on such points was final? But since the burgomaster
happened to be Mynheer Beresteyn, and as the weary and pugnacious
traveler did, in truth, appear to be his only son -- why, it was
perhaps best on the whole to take the matter as a joke, and not
to say too much about it. The sergeant did, indeed, as Nicolaes
was finally allowed to ride over the bridge, essay one or two
of the most time-honoured witticisms at the expense of the belated
bridegroom; but Mynheer Nicolaes was clearly in no mood for chaff,
and when he had passed by, the sergeant and one or two of the
men, who had witnessed his strangely sullen mood, shook their
heads in ominous prognostication of sundry matrimonial difficulties
to come.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The house on the quay, plainly visible from
the Koppel-poort, was dark enough to suggest that every one of
its inmates was already abed. Nicolaes, however, did not ride
up to the front door; but, after he had crossed the bridge, he
went straight on through one or two narrow streets which lay at
the back of his home until he reached the corner of the Korte
Gracht, which, again, abuts on the quay. Thus he had gone round
in a semicircle, in obvious avoidance of the paternal house, and
now he brought his horse to a halt outside a tall and narrow door
which was surmounted by a lanthorn let into the wall. A painted
sign which hung from an iron bracket above the door indicated
to the passing wayfarer that the place was one where rider and
horse could find food and shelter.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Nicolaes dismounted, and going up to the door,
he knocked against it with the point of his foot. This he had
to do several times before the welcome sound of someone moving
inside the house came to his ear. A moment or two later the door
was opened cautiously. A man appeared on the threshold, wrapped
in a night-robe and still wearing a night-bonnet on his head.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Is that you, mynheer?&quot; he queried
drowsily.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Who else should it be, you loon?&quot;
Nicolaes replied irritably. &quot;here's your horse,&quot; he
added, and without waiting for further commend or protest from
the unfortunate landlord thus roused from his slumbers, he proceeded
to tether the animal by the reins to one of the iron rings in
the wall.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;It is so late, mynheer,&quot; the man
protested dolefully; and so cold. Will you not take the horse
round to the stable yourself? It is but a step to the right, and
there's the gate ---&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;It is late, as you say, and cold,&quot;
Nicolaes retorted curtly. &quot;And when I paid you so liberally
for the horse, I did not bargain to take service with you as ostler
in the middle of the night.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;But, mynheer ---&quot; urged the landlord,
still protesting.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But Nicolaes did not listen. In faith, he had
ceased to hear, for already he was striding rapidly down the Korte
Gracht, and the next moment was back on the quay. A few steps
brought him to the door of his father's house. Here he paused
for a moment ere he mounted the stone steps that led up to the
massive front door, stamped his feet so as to shake the melted
snow from his boots, and with a few quick touches tried to re-establish
some semblance of order in his clothes. Indeed, when presently
he rapped vigorously with the iron knocker against the door, he
looked no longer like a wearied and querulous traveler, but rather
like a man just returned from a short and pleasant ride.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">To his astonishment it was Maria, his sister
Gilda's faithful tire-woman, who opened the door for him. She
anticipated his very first query by a curt:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Everyone is abed. The jongejuffrouw alone
chose to wait for you, and I could not let her wait alone.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Nicolaes uttered an angry exclamation.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Tell my sister to go to bed, too,&quot;
he commanded briefly. &quot;I'll go to my rooms at once, as it
is so late.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Maria made no audible reply. She mumbled something
about &quot;Shameful conduct!&quot; and &quot;Wedding-night!&quot;
But Nicolaes paid no heed, strode quickly across the hall, and
ran swiftly up the stairs.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But on the landing he came abruptly to a halt.
He had almost fallen against his sister Gilda, who stood there
waiting for him.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Behind her, a little way down the passage,
a door stood ajar, and through it there came a narrow fillet of
light. At sight of him, and before he could utter a sound, she
put a finger to her lip, then let the way along the passage. The
door which stood ajar was the one which gave on her own room.
She went in, and he followed her, his heart beating with something
like shame or fear.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Hush!&quot; she whispered, and gently
closed the door behind him. &quot;Make no noise!&quot; Kaatje
has at last sobbed herself to sleep. She hath been put to bed
in her mother's room. 'Twere a shame to disturb her.&quot; Then,
as Nicolaes muttered something that sounded very like a curse,
the girl added reproachfully: &quot;Poor Kaatje! You have shown
very little ardour toward her, Klaas.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I lost my way in the dark,&quot; he answered.
&quot;I had no thought it could be so late.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Just then the tower clock of St. Maria Kerk
chimed the midnight hour.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Gilda hazarded timidly: &quot;You should not
have thought of accompanying my lord. He was ready to start out
alone; and your place, Klaas, was beside your wife!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Are you going to lecture me about my
duty, Gilda?&quot; he said irritably. &quot;You must not think
that because ---&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I think nothing,&quot; she broke in simply,
&quot;save that Kaatje wept when the evening wore on and you did
not return; and that the more she wept the greater was our father's
anger against you.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;He knew that I meant to accompany your
husband a part of the way,&quot; Nicolaes retorted. &quot;In truth,
had he done me the justice to read my thoughts, he himself would
have bade me go.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;It was kind of you,&quot; she rejoined
somewhat coolly, to be concerned as to my lord's safety. But I
can assure you ---&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot; 'Twas not concern for his safety,&quot;
he broke in gruffly, &quot;that caused me to accompany him to-night.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What then?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But he gave no reply, but his lip and turned
away from her, with the air of one who fears that he hath said
too much and cares not to be questioned again.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I'd best go now,&quot; he said abruptly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He looked around for his gloves, which he had
thrown down upon the table. His manner seemed so strange that
Gilda was suddenly conscious of a nameless kind of fear; the sort
of premonition that comes to highly sensitive natures, at times
when hitherto unsuspected danger suddenly looms upon the cloudless
sky of life. She forced him to return her searching glance.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You are hiding something from me, Klaas,&quot;
she said determinedly. &quot;What is it?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I?&quot; he riposted, feigning surprise.
&quot;Hiding something? Why should I have something to hide?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;That I know not,&quot; she replied. &quot;But
there was some hidden meaning in your words just now when you
said that 'twas not concern for my lord's safety that caused you
to accompany him this night. What, then, was it?&quot; she insisted,
seeing that he remained silent, even though he met her gaze with
a look that appeared both fearful and pitying.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She had her back to the door now, looked like
some timid creature brought to bay by a cruel and hitherto unsuspected
enemy.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You must not ask me for my meaning, Gilda,&quot;
Nicolaes said at last. &quot;There are things which concern men
only, and with which women should have no part.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">His tone of ill-concealed compassion stung
her like a cut from a whip across the face.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;There is nothing that concerns my lord,&quot;
she retorted proudly, &quot;in which he would not desire me to
bear my part.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Then let him tell you himself.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She threw the question at him like a challenge,
stepped up to him and seized him by the wrist -- no longer a timid
creature at bay. But a strong, determined woman, who feels in
some mysterious way that the man whom she loves is being attacked,
and who is prepared, with every known and unknown weapon almighty
love can suggest, to defend him, his life or his honour, or both.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You are not going out of this room, Klaas,
until you have explained!&quot; she said with unquestionable determination.
&quot;What is it that my lord should tell me himself?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Why he, newly wed and a stranger, was
so determined on this, his wedding night, to carry the Stadtholder's
message across the Veluwe.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Nicolaes spoke abruptly, almost fiercely now,
as if wearied of this wrangling, and burdened with a secret he
could no longer hold. But she did not at first understand his
meaning.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I do not understand what you mean,&quot;
she murmured vaguely, a perplexed frown between her eyes.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;There were plenty there eager and willing
to go,&quot; Nicolaes went on roughly. &quot;Nay, the errand was
not in itself perilous. Speed was required, yes; and a sound knowledge
of the country. But a dozen men at least who were in this house
to-day know the Veluwe as well as this stranger, and any good
horse would cover the ground fast enough. But he wanted to go
-- he, this man whom none of us know, who was married this day,
and whose bride had the first call on his attention. He insisted
with the Stadtholder, and he went --- And I went with him; would
have gone all the way if he had not forced me to go back. Why
did he wish to go, Gilda? Why did he leave you deliberately this
night? Think! Think! And why did he insist on going alone, with
not even one of those besotted boon companions of his to share
in his adventure? A message to Marquet -- my God!&quot; he added
with a sneer. &quot;A message to the Archduchess, more like, to
cross the Ijssel ere it be too late!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You devil!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She hissed out the words through set lips and
teeth clenched in an access of fierce and overwhelming passion.
And before he could recover himself, before he could guess her
purpose, she had seized his heavy, leathern gloves, which were
lying on the table, and struck him with them full in the face.
He staggered, and put his hand up to his eyes.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Go!&quot; she commanded briefly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He tried to laugh the situation off, said almost
flippantly:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I'll punish you for this, you young vixen!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But she did not move, and her glance seemed
to freeze the words upon his lips.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Go!&quot; she commanded once more.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He shrugged his shoulders.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I understand your indignation, Gilda.
Nay, I honour it. But remember my warning! Your stranger lord,&quot;
he went on with slow and deliberate emphasis, &quot;will be returning
anon to the Stadtholder's camp, a courted and honoured man; but
'tis the armies of the Archduchess who will have crossed the Ijssel
by then, whilst the orders to Marquet will have reached that commander
too late.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then he turned on his heel and went out of
the room, and anon Gilda heard his footstep resounding along the
passage. She listened until she heard the opening and closing
of a distant door, after which she sighed and murmured, &quot;Poor
Kaatje!&quot; That was all; but there was a world of meaning in
the sorrowful compassion wherewith she said those words.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then she raised her left hand, round the third
finger of which glittered a plain gold ring. The ring she pressed
long and lingeringly against her lips, and in her heart she prayed,
&quot;God guard you, my dear lord!&quot;</FONT></P>

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<H3><CENTER><FONT FACE="Lucida Calligraphy">CHAPTER V - A RACE
FOR LIFE</FONT></CENTER></H3>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">~1</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">As for Diogenes, he reached Zutphen in the
small hours of the morning, and after a few hours' rest pushed
on to Vorden at dawn. He himself would have deprecated any suggestion
of making of this journey across the Veluwe a romantic adventure.
The upland, under its covering of snow, held neither terrors nor
secrets for him. The wind, the stars, an unerring instinct and
sound knowledge of the scarce visible tracks, guided him across
the arid waste. A real child of the open, he had less difficulty
in finding his way across such a God-forsaken wild than he would
through the intricate streets of a city.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Messire Marquet, encamped outside Vorden, welcomed
the Stadtholder's messenger effusively. His troops, for the most
part composed of mercenaries from Germany, were getting restive
in idleness; once or twice they had used threats when demanding
their pay. Diogenes, bringing both money and the prospect of a
fight, was doubly welcome. His stay at the camp was brief. By
late morning he was once more on his way, with the intention of
re-crossing the Ijssel at Dieren and of reaching Wageningen before
dark. He had but half a dozen leagues to cover, and eight hours
of daylight wherein to do it. Weather, too, and circumstances
favored him. The thaw, which had been so completely vanquished
upon the upland, had remained sole monarch in the plain. The air
was mild and intensely humid. A dense sea-fog lay over the river
and the surrounding marshes. The numerous little tributaries of
the Ijssel and the intervening canals and ditches were already
free from ice, and as Diogenes put his horse to an easy gallop
in the direction of the river, the animal sank fetlock deep in
mud.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The road was solitary, and, as far as the eye
could reach through the mist, seemed entirely deserted. The countryside
here had the desolate appearance peculiar to districts that have
been fought over. The few thatched cottages, which from time to
time loomed out of the mist, still bore the marks of passing fire
and sword; the trees were truncated and sparse, the marshland
was riddled with the scars of ceaseless tramping of men, of wagons,
and of beasts. The inevitable windmills, gaunt-looking and ghost-like
through the humid atmosphere, appeared neglected and forlorn.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But the solitary rider had no eyes for landscape
just now. He could have wished for a clearer day, for it was impossible
even for his keen eyes to see what was going on behind that impenetrable
wall of fog. If Pythagoras' ears had not played him false, De
Berg was there, not very far away, waiting to cross the Ijssel
when opportunity arose.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Thanks to that faithful hypertrophied loon,
the ambitious designs of the Archduchess could still be frustrated.
De Berg's armies were still on the right bank of the Ijssel, and
if Marquet got his men on the move by midday, as he had promised
he would do, the crossing of the enemy troops would become difficult,
mayhap impossible.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">These were pleasing thoughts for the man on
whose speed and resource these important plans depended. All that
he chafed against was the imperative slowness of his progress,
as the mist enveloped him more closely the nearer he got to the
river. But withal it protected him, too, hid him mayhap from the
prying eyes of vedettes on the watch. Already, judging by certain
landmarks that met him on the way, Brummen was half a league behind
him on his right, Hengles far away on the left, and Dieren not
more than another league on ahead. For the last quarter of an
hour he had heard from time to time the heavy booming sound, akin
to the reverberation of distant cannonade, which came from the
breaking and cracking of the ice as it drifted downstream. He
put his horse to slow trot, as he pried through the mist for the
first indication of a short cut he knew of, which would take him
to the river bank in less than half an hour.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">~2</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The next moment he had spied the narrow track
and set his horse to follow it; when suddenly, out of the mist,
there came a loud report, and Diogenes heard the whistle of a
bullet close to his ear. It almost grazed his shoulder. Without
an instant's pause, without turning to look whence had come this
unexpected greeting, he set spurs to his horse and galloped at
breakneck speed toward the river. Over fields and ditches; no
thought of prudence now, only of speed! Mud and water flew out
in all directions under the horse's frantic gallopade, the plucky
beast sinking at times almost to his knees in the marshy ground.
A few minutes later -- five, perhaps -- Diogenes heard the sound
of many hoofs behind him, obviously in pursuit. He turned to look
this time, and through the mist vaguely discerned some three or
four cavaliers, who were distant from him then less than two hundred
yards. So far, so good! The Ijssel was close by now, and if, when
he reached the banks, he turned off in the direction of the stream,
he could easily reach the ford on this side of Brummen and get
across -- on foot, if need be, if his horse proved an obstacle
to rapid progress.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A few more minutes now and the river was in
sight, with, far away on the opposite bank, Brummen, nestling
at the foot of the rising ground, the gate of the Veluwe. With
renewed vigor the rider sped along, his blood whipped up by the
chase, his whole body exhilarated by this sensation of danger
and of one of those sportive races for life for which three months
of idleness and luxury had given him a hitherto unsuspected longing.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Ah, there was the shore at last, the group
of three windmills close to the bank, an unmistakable landmark.
Here, too, within two hundred paces on ahead, was the ford, which
no amount of drifting ice would cause the daring adventurer to
miss. Already he was within a few yards of the low-lying bank,
searching the approach to the ford with eyes now doubly keen,
when, with staggering suddenness, another cavalier appeared, straight
in front of him this time, and barring the way to the river-brink.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">No time to note his face; just a second wherein
to decide what had best be done, not only to save his own life,
but also the message which he must carry to Wageningen, at whatever
cost. Then the cavalier turned for one brief second in his saddle,
to call to some companions as yet unseen. A brief second, did
I say? 'Twas but a fraction. The next moment Diogenes had whipped
out a pistol from his saddlebow, and with a steady hand fired
at his foe. The cavalier reeled in his saddle and fell, just as
half a dozen others issued with a shout from out the mist, and
those in pursuit put fresh spurs to their mounts.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It had been madness to attempt the ford now.
The young soldier, sore-pressed, might in truth have sold his
life dearly, but with it, too, he would have sold Nijmegen and
the possible success of the Stadtholder's plans. Ofttimes before,
in the course of his adventurous life, he had been in as tight
a place, where life and death hung quite evenly in the scales
of Fate; but never before had he been quite so anxious to flee.
He could not trust the valor of his sword, his own well-nigh unexampled
skill in a fight against odds that would have made the bravest
pause. No! It meant running away, away as fast as his horse would
take him, and faster if the poor brute gave out. A short gallop
along the bank, the cavalier behind him warming to the pursuit;
keeping closer and closer to the low-lying bank, till the horse
began to flounder in what was sheer morass.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The ford now lay well behind him. The waters
of the Ijssel, tossed for awhile upon the shallows, flowed with
increased swiftness here. Huge ice-blocks floated seaward upon
the heaving bosom of the stream. The foremost of the pursuing
cavaliers was then less than fifty yards behind, and more than
one bullet had whizzed past the fleeing rider, one of them piercing
his hat, the other grazing his thigh, but none doing him serious
injury. Already the rallying cry of the pursuers had turned to
one of triumph as the distance lessened between them and their
quarry, when, with a sudden jerk of the reins, Diogenes plunged
headlong into the river.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">~3</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The Ijssel at this point is close on a quarter
of a mile wide, her current is no longer sluggish, whilst the
drifting ice-blocks constitute a peril which had to be boldly
faced. But the mist, which hung thickly over the river, was the
daring adventurer's most faithful ally.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Strangely enough, Diogenes' first thought,
when his horse, finally losing its foothold upon the rapidly shelving
bank, started to swim, was of Gilda, and of that ride which he
had promised himself, with her dear arms clinging around him,
her fair hair, tossed by the wind, brushing against his face.
It was one of those sweet, sad visions which some mocking sprite
seems to conjure up at moments such as this when life -- ay, and
honour too! -- are trembling in the balance. Sad and swift! It
vanished almost as quickly as it came, giving place to thoughts
of De Keysere, still unsuspecting at Wageningen, and of Marquet,
who haply had already started. Was there a trap waiting for him,
too? Was this just an outpost of De Berg's armies; and had they
indeed been mysteriously warned by traitor or spy, as Diogenes
more than half suspected?</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But what was the use of speculating? Indeed,
every conjecture was futile, for this now was a supreme struggle
-- a tussle with Death, who was watching, uncertain whence and
how he would strike. For the moment the adventurer was at grips
with the flood and with the ice, guiding his horse as best he
could toward mid-stream, where the current kept the threatening
floes at bay. His pursuers had come to a halt upon the bank. Indeed,
not one of them had the mind to follow his quarry on this perilous
adventure. They stood there, some half-dozen of them, holding
council, their eyes peering through the mist in search of the
one black speck -- horse and rider -- now appearing clearly silhouetted
against the silvery water, now vanishing again under cover of
the floes. Then one of them raised his musket and took steady
aim at the valiant swimmer, who had succeeded at last in reaching
mid-stream.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The bullet whizzed through the mist. Diogenes'
horse, hit through the neck, plunged and reared, pawed the waters
wildly for a moment, then gave that heart-rending scream which
is so harrowing to the ears of all animal-lovers. But already
the rider had his feet clear of the stirrups, and as the waters
finally swept over the head of the stricken beast, he slid out
of the saddle and struck out for the opposite shore.</FONT></P>

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<H3><CENTER><FONT FACE="Lucida Calligraphy">CHAPTER VI - A NEST
OF SCORPIONS</FONT></CENTER></H3>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">~1</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Of the extraordinary events which threatened
to make March 21, 1624, one of the most momentous dates in the
history of the Netherlands we have not much in the way of detail.
The broad facts we know chiefly through Van Aitzema's ponderous
and minute &quot;Saken v. Staet,&quot; whilst De Voocht was, of
course, a friend of the Beresteyn family, and, as I understand
it, was present in the house at Amersfoort when the terrible catastrophe
was so auspiciously and mysteriously averted.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The one thing, however, which neither he nor
Van Aitzema have made quite clear is the motive which prompted
the Stadtholder to go to Amersfoort in person. He had quite a
number of knights and gentlemen around him whom he could have
fully trusted to take even so portentous a message and such explicit
orders as he desired to send. De Voocht, indeed, suggests that
it was Nicolaes Beresteyn who persuaded him, urging the obstinacy
of his father, the burgomaster, and of the burghers of the city,
who had steadily opposed the Stadtholder's wishes when he -- Nicolaes
-- had been sent to convey them.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Nicolaes Beresteyn had joined his sovereign
lord at the camp at Utrecht a couple of days after his wedding.
Wearied of sentimental dalliance with the stolid Kaatje, he was
glad enough that his duty demanded his presence in camp rather
than in the vicinity of his young wife's apron-strings.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It was but natural that, when the Stadtholder
desired to send orders to Amersfoort, he should do so through
the intermediary of Nicolaes. But on that day, which was March
20, the young man returned, vowing that these were not being obeyed;
not a matter of disloyalty, of course, just of tenacity. Civic
dignitaries, conscious of their worth and of the sacrifices they
had made in the common cause, were wont to wax obstinate where
the affairs of their own cities were concerned. But, on the other
hand, resistance to his will had invariably the effect of rousing
the Stadtholder's arbitrary temper to a point of unreasoning anger.
Olden Barneveldt had expiated his contumacy on the scaffold, and
I doubt not that, when Nicolaes returned from Amersfoort that
evening and delivered his report, the fate of even so trusted
a councillor as Mynheer Beresteyn hung for awhile in the balance.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">That the matter was one of supreme importance
it were impossible to doubt. Maurice of Nassau would not lightly
have left his camp at Utrecht that day. The forces of the Archduchess
Isabella, who, under the leadership of De Berg and of Isembourg,
were threatening Gelderland from two sides, had succeeded on the
one part in crossing the Ijssel. His own army was threatened by
that of Spinola from the south. On the other hand, the messenger
whom he had sent across the Veluwe to urge Marquet and De Keysere
to concentrate inside Arnheim and Nijmegen had not yet returned.
Nevertheless, he chose, by this suddenly planned excursion to
Amersfoort, to expose his valuable person to serious danger; a
fact which subsequent events proved only too conclusively.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Nicolaes Beresteyn was sent back at dawn the
following morning to warn the burgomaster of the Stadtholder's
coming, and enjoining the strictest secrecy. The young man was
under orders to say nothing beyond that fact. When closely questioned,
however, by his father and also by others, he did admit that fugitives
from Ede had succeeded in reaching the camp.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Fugitives from Ede? What did that mean? Why
should there be fugitives from Ede, when the armies of the Archduchess
were so many leagues away?</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Nicolaes Beresteyn shrugged his shoulders.
&quot;The Stadtholder will explain,&quot; was all that he said.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He appeared impatient and consequential, made
them all feel that he could say more if he cared. He had been
kept out of the prince's councils while he was under the paternal
room, but now he had gained a place in the camp which had always
been his by right. These solemn burghers -- important enough within
the purlieus of their own city -- had become insignificant, mere
civilians, now that the fate of the country rested upon those
who were young enough to bear arms.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Nicolaes tried to meet his sister's glance.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Her indifference toward him galled his sense
of importance, and he wished her to know that he neither repented
nor was ashamed of what he had said the other night. Anon, when
he had succeeded in forcing her eyes to meet his, he gave her
a look charged with a mocking challenge. Up to this hour, she
had said nothing to her father; now Nicolaes appeared to dare
her to speak. But his sneers had not the power to disturb her
sublime trust in the man she loved. That some mystery did cling
to his journey across the Veluwe she could no longer doubt; but
her fears upon the subject dwelt solely on any personal danger
that might have overtaken him.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">As for her father and his friends, they had
apparently decided to possess their souls in patience. There was,
indeed, nothing to do but to wait the Stadtholder's arrival, and
in the meanwhile to try and hold those fears in check which had
been aroused by the ominous words, &quot;Fugitives from Ede.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">~2</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The Stadtholder arrived in the course of the
morning. Mynheer Beresteyn did not receive him on the doorstep,
as he would have done had the visit been an open one. As it was,
the passers-by on the busy quay did not bestow more than a passing
glance on the plainly clad cavalier who swung himself out of the
saddle outside the burgomaster's house. A message from the camp,
probably, they thought. Mynheer Nicolaes had been backward and
forward from Utrecht several times these past two or three days.
The burgomaster awaited his exalted guest in the hall. His attitude
and the expression of his face were alike pregnant with eager
questionings. The Stadtholder gave curt acknowledgement to the
greetings of Mynheer Beresteyn, of his family, and of his friends,
and then strode deliberately into the banqueting-hall.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It looked vast and deserted at this early hour
of a winter's morning. Nothing of the animation, the riotous gaiety
of that day, less that a week ago, seemed to linger in its sombre,
panelled walls. The dais upon which the brides and bridegrooms
and the wedding party had sat, and which had crowned so brilliant
a spectacle, had been removed, and the magnificent gold and silver
plate, the fine linens and priceless crystals been carefully stowed
away. Serving-men and sweepers were busy airing and dusting the
room when the door was thrown open, and His Highness came in,
ushered in by his host. They fled at sight of these great gentlemen,
like so many rabbits into carefully hidden burrows.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The Stadtholder went up to the long centre
table and faced Mynheer Beresteyn and those who had come in with
him -- the members of his family and half a dozen burghers, men
of importance in the little city. Every one could see that His
Highness's anger was bitter against them all. &quot;And so, mynheer,&quot;
he began curtly, and in tones of marked irritation, and addressing
himself more particularly to the burgomaster, &quot;you have thought
fit to defy my orders.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Your Highness!&quot; protested Mynheer
Beresteyn.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Yet they were clear enough,&quot; the
Stadtholder went on, not heeding the interruption. &quot;Or did
your son Nicolaes fail to explain?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;He told us, your Highness, that it was
feared the armies of the Archduchess had crossed the Ijssel ---&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The armies of the Archduchess crossed
the Ijssel three days ago,&quot; Maurice of Nassau broke in impatiently.
&quot;Since then they have overrun Gelderland and occupied Ede,
putting that city to fire and sword.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">There came a sound like the catching of breath,
the rise of a gasp of horror and anguish in every one's throat.
But it was quickly suppressed, and His Highness was listened to
in silence until the end. Even now, when he paused, no one spoke.
All eyes were cast to the ground in self-centered meditation.
The whole thing had come as a thunderbolt out of a cloudless sky.
Ede had always seemed so safe, so remote. A little city which
led nowhere save to the Zuyder Zee, and in the very heart of the
United Provinces. What could be the motive of the Archduchess's
commanders to adventure thus far into a country which was so universally
hostile to them, even to the most miserable peasant, who would
pollute every well and stream rather than see the enemy overrun
the land?</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But all these men -- ay, and the women, too
-- had seen so much, suffered so much; fire and sword were such
familiar dangers before their eyes, that for them the time had
gone when sighs and lamentations would ease their overburdened
hearts. They had learned to receive every fresh blow from God's
hands in silence, but with determination to fight on, to fight
again and to the death once more, if need be, for their liberties,
their rights, and the welfare of their children. It was indeed
Mynheer Beresteyn who took the next words out of the Stadtholder's
mouth.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Then Amersfoort, too, is threatened?&quot;
he said simply.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The prince nodded.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Think you,&quot; he retorted, &quot;that
I would have ordered the evacuation of the town had there not
been imperative necessity for such a course? Now, you may pray
God that your wilful disobedience hath not placed your city in
jeopardy.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot; 'Twas but yesterday we had the order,&quot;
one of the burghers urged. &quot;And ---&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot; 'Twas yesterday it should have been
obeyed,&quot; the Stadtholder broke in roughly. &quot;You would
then have saved me a perilous journey, for the country already
is infested with spies and vedettes, outposts of the Spanish armies.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;We are all ready to guard your Highness
with our lives,&quot; the burgomaster said quietly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot; 'Tis your wits I want, mynheer,&quot;
the prince riposted dryly, &quot;not your blood. Indeed, I do
fear that Amersfoort is threatened, though I know not if De Berg
will spend his forces on you, or, rather, concentrate them on
Arnheim. But you must be prepared,&quot; he added with stern emphasis.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You are not in a position to defend yourselves,
and I cannot detach any of my troops to come to your assistance
if you are attacked. Therefore, my orders were: 'Evacuate the
town.' You, mynheer burgomaster, must issue your proclamation
at once. Let every one go who can, taking women and children with
them. Those who remain do so at their risk. Some of you can go
north to Amsterdam, others west to Utrecht. Let De Berg find an
empty shell when he comes.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">~3</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Only those who had ever had the sorry task
of abandoning a home in the face of an advancing enemy can have
any conception of what this peremptory order meant to these burghers
-- fathers of families for the most part, who after the terrible
privations which they had suffered for over half a century, had
begun but a few years ago to reconstitute their country and their
homes, to resume their interrupted industries, their commerce,
their splendid art, to re-establish the wealth and power which
had been their birthright, and which the tyranny of a bigoted
and jealous overlord had wilfully wrested from them.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Now it meant laying aside spindles and looms
once again, lathes, chisels, or books, in order to buckle on swords
which threatened to rust in their scabbards, and to don steel
helmets. It meant leaving the women to weep, the children fatherless.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Anxious eyes searched the Stadtholder's drawn,
moody face; more than one mind reverted to memories of this peerless
and fearless commander, the hero of Turnhout and Ostend. Would
he have spoken in those days of &quot;evacuation&quot; and of
&quot;helplessness&quot;? Would he have dreaded Spinola or the
hosts of the Archduchess?</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Ah, that subtle, insidious disease had indeed
done its work! What mysterious poison was it that had shaken this
great man's nerve, made him gloomy and fretful, weakened that
indomitable will which had once made the tyrant of Madrid quake
for the future of his kingdom?</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;De Berg would not dare ---&quot; one
of the burghers hazarded timidly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;He may not,&quot; His Highness answered.
&quot;In which case it might be safe for you all to return to
your homes a few days hence. But some of those who fled from Ede
believe that De Berg intends to detach some of his troops and
with them push on as far as the Zuyder Zee, leaving it to others
to join Isembourg, who is coming up from Kleve, and with his help
capture Nijmegen first and then Arnheim.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Marquet by now,&quot; observed Beresteyn,
&quot;must be well on the way to Arnheim, and De Keysere close
to Nijmegen. They can intercept Isembourg and cut him off from
Ede and De Berg. Your Highness's messenger ---&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Our messenger,&quot; the prince broke
in curtly, &quot;failed to deliver our messages. Marquet is not
on his way to Arnheim, and De Keysere was still at Wageningen
when the first fugitives from Ede ran terror-stricken into our
camp.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The words were scarce out of his mouth when
the sound of a low, quickly suppressed cry came from the rear
of the little group that had gathered around His Highness. Few
heard it, or guessed whence it had come. Only Mynheer Beresteyn,
turning swiftly, caught his daughter's eyes fixed with a set expression
upon him. With an almost imperceptible glance he beckoned to her,
and she pushed her way through to his side, and slid her cold
little hand into his firm grasp. Encouraged by her father's nearness,
it was Gilda who uttered the word of protest which had risen to
more than one pair of lips.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Impossible, your Highness!&quot; she
said resolutely.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Impossible!&quot; Maurice of Nassau retorted
curtly. &quot;Why impossible, mejuffrouw?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Because my lord is a brave man, as full
of resource as he is of courage. He undertook to deliver your
Highness's commands to Messire Marquet and Mynheer de Keysere.
He is not a man to fail.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She looked brave and determined, without a
trace of self-consciousness, even though the rigid education meted
out to girls in these times forbade their raising a voice in the
councils of their lords. But in this case she had been voicing
what was in more than one mind, and when she looked around her
with a kind of timid defiance, she only encountered kindly glances.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Her father pressed her hand in tender encouragement.
The Stadtholder himself appeared gracious and indulgent. It was
only her brother's gaze that was unendurable, for it was charged
with sarcasm, not unmixed with malevolence. Did Nicolaes hate
her, then? A sickening sense of horror filled the poor girl's
soul at the thought. Klaas, her little brother, whom she had loved
and mothered, though he was her elder.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Ofttimes had she stood between his childish
peccadillos and his father's wrath. And now -- she could not even
bear to meet his glance. She knew that he triumphed, and that
he rejoiced in his triumph, even though he must know that she
was wounded to the quick. His warning was ringing in her ear,
his warning which had, in truth, proved prophetic: &quot;The orders
to Marquet will reach that commander too late!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">As in a dream, she listened to the Stadtholder's
words. The whole situation appeared unreal -- impossible.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Your defense of your husband,&quot; the
prince was saying, &quot;does you honour, mejuffrouw. But this
is not a time for sentiment, but for facts. And these it is our
duty to face. We placed our every hope on Marquet's co-operation,
but Arnheim and Nijmegen are in peril at this hour because certain
messages which I sent failed to reach their destination. We have
not the leisure to discuss the causes of this failure; rather
must we take immediate measures for the safety of our subjects
here.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Gilda perforce had to remain silent. To the
others, in fact, the matter was only important, in so far that
the messenger's failure to arrive had placed Arnheim and Nijmegen
in jeopardy. What cared they for her heart-breaking anxiety on
account of her beloved?</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She looked up at her father, because from him
she could always expect sympathy. But he, too, was over-preoccupied
just now; patted her hand gently, then let it go, absorbed as
he was in listening to the Stadtholder's orders for the speedy
evacuation of Amersfoort.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She turned away with a bitter sigh, all the
more resolutely suppressed as her brother's mocking glance followed
her every movement. The men now were in close conference, the
Stadtholder sitting at the table, the burgomaster beside him,
with pen and ink, drafting the necessary proclamation, the others
grouped around, discussing and tendering advice. Every one was
busy, every one had something to think about.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Gilda, heavy-hearted, took the opportunity
of slipping unseen out of the room.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">~4</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">What prompted her to run up to the very top
of the house, like some stricken bird seeking an eyrie, she could
not herself have told you. There is such a thing as instinct,
and instinct takes innumerable forms according to the most pressing
needs of the heart. For the moment, Gilda's most pressing need
was a sight of her beloved. Quite apart from the importance of
his presence now with news from the threatened cities, she longed
to see him, to feel his arms round her, to warm her starved soul
in the sunshine of his love and his never absent smile. This longing
it was that drove her up to the attic chambers, under the apex
of the roof; for these chambers had tiny dormer windows which
commanded extensive views of the countryside far beyond the ramparts
and beyond the Eem.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Gilda wandered into one of the attic chambers
and threw open the narrow casements that gave on the back of the
house. Leaning against the window frame, she looked out over the
river and beyond it into the mist-laden distance. The sharp, humid
air did her good, with its savour of the sea and the tang of spring
already lurking in the atmosphere. The sea-fog which had hung
over the country for some days still made a dense white veil that
enveloped all the life that lay beyond the ramparts, and gave
to the little city a strange air of isolation, as if the very
world ended on the other side of its walls. From where Gilda stood,
high above a forest of roofs and gables, she could see the picturesque
fortifications, the monumental gates and turrets, and the Joris
Poort and Nieuwpoort, which spanned the Eem on this side. Far
away on her right was Utrecht; on her left Barneveld, beyond which
stretched the arid upland which held in its cruel breast the secret
of her husband's fate.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The girl felt inexpressibly alone, weighted
with that sense of forlornness from which only the young are wont
to suffer. With the years there comes a more complete self-sufficiency,
a greater desire for solitude. Gregariousness is essentially the
attribute of youth. And Gilda had no one in whom she could confide.
Her father, in truth, had been all to her that a mother might
have been; but just now the girl was pining for one of her own
sex, for some one who would not be busy with many things, with
politics and wars and dissensions, but whose breast would be warm
and soft to pillow a head that was weary.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The tears gathered in Gilda's eyes and fell
unheeded down her cheeks. It seemed to her as if every moment
now she must see a rider galloping swiftly toward her as if she
must hear that merry laugh ringing right across the marshland.
But all that she saw was the sleepy little city, stretching out
before her until it seemed to melt and merge in the arms of the
mist; the network of narrow streets, the crow's foot gables, the
dormer windows and ornamental corbellings; and, above everything,
the tower of St. Maria and St. Joris, with quaint market-place
alive with people that looked like ants, fussy and minute.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Even as she gazed, wide-eyed and tearful, the
bell of St. Maria began to toll. The slow monotonous reverberation
seemed in itself a presage of evil. From the height, Gilda could
see the human ants pause awhile in their activities. Their very
attitude, the grouping of individual figures, a kind of arrested
action in the entire life of the town, proclaiming brooding terror.
A moment or two later the sharp clang of the town-crier's bell
mingled with the majestic booming, and people started to run toward
the market-place from every direction.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Gilda watched this gathering, could see the
narrow streets waxing dark with moving forms. She saw the casements
thrown open one by one, heads and shoulders filling the dark squares
of the window frames. And down below, the arrival of the town-crier,
with his halberd and his bell, a crowd of diminutive ant-like
forms pressed round his heels. A grey picture, yet all alive with
movement, like unto one over which an impatient artist has hastily
passed an obliterating brush; the outlines blurred, the colours
dull and hazy in the humid atmosphere. It all seemed so dreamlike,
so remote. Only a week ago life had appeared so exquisitely gay
and so easy! An ardent lover, a happy future, home, adventure!
Everything was tumbling out fulsomely from the Cornucopia of Fate.
And now all the tragedy represented by those running people below;
the enemy at the gates; the abandoned homes; the devastated city;
crying children and starving women -- a whole herd of fugitives
wandering over the desolate marshland, seeking shelters in cities
already over-filled, asking for food where so little was to be
had.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It was cruel! Oh, horribly cruel! And aweful
to see the children dancing around the town-crier, teasing by
pulling at his doublet or trying to steal his bell. The crowd
in the market-place had become very dense, and still people came
running out of the side streets. The steps of St. Maria Kerk were
black with the moving throng, and Gilda thought with added heartache
of that same crowd, five short days ago, rallying for a holiday,
cheering her and her handsome lover, wishing her joy and prosperity
in the endless days to come.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Soon the city appeared weltering in confusion.
The town-crier continued to ply his bell, and to call the proclamation
ordered by the burgomaster. He went on so that every citizen in
turn might hear, and now the crowd no longer tended all one way.
Some had heard and were hurrying home to consult with their families,
to make arrangements either for speedy departure or for weathering
the terrible alternative of an invading army. Others lingered
in groups on the market-place or at street corners, discussing
or lamenting, according to their temperament, pausing to ask friends
what they would do or what they thought of the terrible situation.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Gilda, up at the attic casement, could almost
guess by the attitude, the gestures of the scared human ants,
just how unsteady had become their mental balance. It was all
so unexpected, and there was nothing that anyone could do to help
in this terrible emergency. The Stadtholder was going back to
camp. He had declared that he could not help. Threatened from
every side, he could not spare his forces to come to the aid of
so small a place as Amersfoort. And he -- the stranger with the
happy smile and the gay, inconsequent temper -- who had been sent
across the Veluwe to obtain succour -- had failed to return. There
was no garrison at Amersfoort, so there was nothing for it but
to flee.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">~5</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">At what precise moment Gilda became aware of
the solitary rider galloping tete baissee toward the city, it
were impossible to say. He came out of the mist from the direction
of Utrecht, and Gilda saw him long before the sentry at the Joris
Poort challenged him. Apparently he had papers and all necessaries
in order, for he was admitted without demur; and at the sight
Gilda turned away from her point of vantage, ran across the attic
chamber and down the stairs. It was such a very short distance
between the Joris Poort and the front door of the burgomaster's
house, and she wanted so much to be the first to welcome him.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It was then half an hour before noon. The city
by this time was in the throes of a complete upheaval. The noise
in the streets had become incessant and deafening. Church bells
tolling, town-criers bawling, the clang of the halberds of the
city guards mingling with the rattle of cart-wheels upon the cobble-stones,
with the tramping of hundreds of feet and stamping of innumerable
horses' hoofs. The air was resonant with shrieks and cries, with
the grating and jarring of metal, with peal of bells and the hubbub
of a throng on the move. Gilda, when she reached the foot of the
stairs, found herself facing the wide-open doorway, and through
it saw the quay alive with people running, with horses and driven
cattle, with crowds scrambling into the boats down below, with
carts and dogs and children and barrows piled up with furniture
and luggage hastily tied together.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The confusion bewildered her. Determined not
to allow futile terror to overmaster her, she, nevertheless, felt
within her whole being the sense of an impending catastrophe.
She could not approach the door, because the crowd was swarming
up the stone steps, and her father's serving-men, armed with stout
sticks and cudgels, had much ado to keep some of the more venturesome
or more terrified among that throng from invading the house.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">How that solitary rider whom she had spied
in the distance would succeed in forging his way through the dense
mass of surging humanity, she could not imagine; and yet through
all the turmoil, the din, the terror she was more conscious of
his nearness than of any other sensation. The longing to see him
was, in a certain sort of way, appeased. She knew that he lived
and that time alone stood between her present and past longing
and the bliss of nestling once more in his arms.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Oh, the crowd! It was rapidly becoming unmanageable.
The serving-men plied their cudgels in vain. There were men and
women there stronger and bolder than others who were determined
to have a word with the burgomaster.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I am Mynheer Beresteyn's friend!&quot;
was shouted authoritatively to the helpless guardians of their
master's privacy. Or, &quot;You know me, Anton? Make way for me
there. I must speak with the burgomaster!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The burgomaster is busy!&quot; the serving-men
bawled out until they were hoarse. &quot;No one can be admitted!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But it was difficult for any man to raise a
stick against well-known burghers of the city, friends and acquaintances
who had supped here in the house at Mynheer's own table; and the
pressure became more and more difficult to withstand every moment.
Some of the people had actually pushed their way into the hall,
making it impossible for Gilda to get near the door; and the longing
was irresistible to be close at hand when he dismounted, so that
her smile might be the first to greet him as he ran up the steps.
She pictured it all -- his coming, his appearance, the way he
would look about him, knowing that she must be near.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then all at once something awful happened.
Gilda, from where she stood, could neither see nor hear what it
was; and yet she knew, just from looking at the crowd, that something
more immediately terrifying had turned this seething mass of humanity
into a horde of scared beasts. Their movements suddenly became
more swift; it seemed as if some fearsome goad had been applied
to the entire population of the city, and the desire, to get away,
to run, to flee had become more insistent.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Those who had swarmed up the steps of the burgomaster's
house ran down again. They had no longer the desire to speak with
anyone, or to appeal to the servants to let them pass. They only
wanted to run like the others, the few more grave ones gathering
their scattered families around them like a mother hen does her
chicks.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And, oh, the awful din! It had intensified
a thousand-fold, and seemed all of a sudden like hell let loose.
So many people shrieked, the women and the children for the most
part. And the boatmen down on the water, plying for hire their
small craft, already dangerously overloaded with fugitives and
their goods. But now everyone on the quay appeared obsessed with
the desire to get into the boats. There was scrambling and fighting
upon the quay, shrieks of terror followed by ominous splashes
in the murky waters. Gilda closed her eyes, not daring to look.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And still the clang of the church bells tolling
and the hideous cacophony of a whole population stampeding in
a mad panic.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The hall, the doorway, the outside steps were
now deserted. Life and movement and din were all out on the quay
and in the streets around. The serving-men even had thrown down
their sticks and cudgels. Some of them had disappeared altogether,
others stood in groups, skulking and wide-eyed. Gilda tried to
frame a query. Her pale, anxious face no doubt expressed the words
which her lips could not utter, for one of the men in the hall
replied in a husky whisper:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The Spaniards! They are on us!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She wanted to ask more, for at first it did
not seem as if this were fresh news. The Spaniards were at Ede,
the town was being evacuated because of them. What had occurred
to turn an ordered evacuation into so redoubtable a stampede?</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And still no sign of my lord.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">~6</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then suddenly the doors of the banqueting-hall
were thrown open, and the burgomaster appeared. Had Gilda doubted
for a moment that something catastrophic had actually happened,
she would have felt her doubts swept aside by the mere aspect
of her father. He, usually so grave, so dignified, was trembling
like a reed, his hair was dishevelled, his cheeks of a grey, ashen
colour. The word &quot;Gilda&quot; was actually on his lips when
he stepped across the threshold, and quite a change came over
him the moment he caught sight of his daughter. Before he could
call to her she was already by his side, and in an instant he
had her by the hand and dragged her with him back into the banqueting-hall.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What has happened?&quot; she asked, in
truth more bewildered than frightened.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The Spaniards!&quot; her father replied
briefly. &quot;They are on us.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Yes,&quot; she ventured, frowning; &quot;but
---&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Not three leagues away,&quot; he broke
in curtly. &quot;Their vanguard will be here by nightfall.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She looked round her, puzzled to see them all
so calm in contrast to the uproar and the confusion without. The
Stadtholder was sitting beside the table, his head resting on
his hand. He looked woefully ill. Nicolaes Beresteyn was beside
him, whispering earnestly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What are you going to do, father dear?&quot;
Gilda asked in a hurried whisper.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;My fellow-burghers and I are remaining
at our posts,&quot; Beresteyn replied quietly. &quot;We must do
what we can to save our city, and our presence may do some good.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And Nicolaes?&quot; she asked again.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Nicolaes has his horse ready. He will
take you to Utrecht in His Highness's train.&quot; Then, as Gilda
made no comment on this, only gave his hand a closer pressure,
he added tentatively: &quot;Unless you would prefer to go with
Mynheer van den Poele and his family. He is taking Kaatje and
her mother to Amsterdam.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I would prefer to remain with you,&quot;
she said simply.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Impossible, my dear child!&quot; he retorted.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;My place is here,&quot; she continued
firmly, &quot;and I'll not go. Oh, can't you understand?&quot;
she pleaded, with a break in her voice. &quot;If you sent me away,
I should go mad or die!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;But, Gilda ---&quot; the poor man protested.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;My lord is here,&quot; Gilda suddenly
broke in more calmly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;My lord? What do you mean?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I saw him awhile ago. I was up in the
attic-chamber, he came through the Joris Poort.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Your eyes deceived you. He would be here
by now.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;He should be here,&quot; she asserted.
&quot;I cannot understand what has happened. Perhaps the crowd
---&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Your eyes deceived you,&quot; he reiterated,
but more doubtfully this time. Then, as just at that moment the
Stadtholder and caught his eye, Beresteyn called to him, &quot;My
daughter says that my lord has returned.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Impossible!&quot; burst forth impulsively
from Nicolaes.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Why should it be impossible?&quot; Gilda
retorted quickly, and fixed coldly challenging eyes upon her brother.
&quot;Why should you say that it is impossible?&quot; she insisted,
seeing that Nicolaes now looked shamefaced and confused. &quot;What
do you know about my lord?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Nothing, nothing!&quot; Nicolaes stammered.
&quot;I did not mean that, of course; it only seems so strange
---&quot; And he added roughly, &quot;Then why is he not here?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The crowd is very dense about the streets,&quot;
one of the burghers suggested. &quot;My lord, mayhap hath found
it difficult to push his way through.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Why should he be coming to Amersfoort?&quot;
mused Mynheer Beresteyn.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;He came from the direction of Utrecht,&quot;
Gilda replied. &quot;Some one at the camp must have told him that
His Highness was here.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;No one knew I was coming hither,&quot;
the Stadtholder broke in impatiently.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;My sister more like hath been troubled
with visions,&quot; Nicolaes rejoined with a sneer. &quot;Nor
have we the time,&quot; he added, &quot;to wait on my lord's pleasure.
If your Highness is ready, we should be getting to horse.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;But surely,&quot; Gilda protested with
pitiful earnestness, &quot;your Highness will wait to see your
messenger. He must be bringing news from Messire Marquet. He ---&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Yes,&quot; the Stadtholder broke in decisively,
&quot;I'll see him. Let some one go out into the streets at once
and find the man. Tell him that we are waiting ---&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;He knows his way about the town,&quot;
Nicolaes interposed, with an ill-concealed note of spite in his
voice. &quot;Why should he need a pilot.?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">There was a moment's silence. Every one looked
nervy and worried. Then the Stadtholder turned once more to the
burgomaster, and queried abruptly:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Are those two companions of my lord's
still in your house, mynheer? Can you not send one of them?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The suggestion met with universal approval.
And Mynheer Beresteyn himself urged the advisability of finding
my lord's friends immediately. He took his daughter's hand. It
was cold as ice, and quivered like a wounded bird in his warm
grasp. He patted it gently, reassuringly. Her wild eyes frightened
him. He knew what she suffered, and in his heart condemned his
son for those insinuations against the absent. But this was not
a moment for delicacy or for scruples. The hour was a portentous
one, and fraught with peril for a nation and its chief. The individual
matters so little at such times. The feelings, the sufferings,
the broken heart of one women or one man -- how futile do they
seem when a whole country is writhing in the throes of her death
agony?</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Go, my dear child,&quot; Beresteyn admonished
firmly. &quot;Obey His Highness's commands. Find my lord's friends
and tell them to go at once, and return hither with my lord. Go,&quot;
he added; and whispered gently in Gilda's ear, as he led her,
reluctant yet obedient, to the door, &quot;Leave your husband's
honour in my hands.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She gave him a grateful look, and he gave her
hand a last reassuring pressure. Then he let her go from him,
only urging her to hurry back.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It must not be supposed for a moment that he
did not feel for her in her anxiety and her misery. But the man
in question was a stranger -- an Englishman, what? -- and Mynheer
Beresteyn was above all a patriot, a man who had suffered acutely
for his country, had sacrificed his all for her, and was ready
to do it again whenever she called to him. The Stadtholder stood
for the safety and the integrity of the United Provinces; he was
the champion and upholder of her civil and religious liberties.
His personal safety stood, in the minds of Beresteyn and his fellow
burghers, above every consideration on earth.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Gilda knew this, and though she trusted her
father implicitly, she knew that her beloved would be ruthlessly
sacrificed, even by him, if, through misadventure or any other
simple circumstance entirely beyond his control, he happened to
have failed in the enterprise which had been entrusted to him.
Nicolaes, of course, was an avowed enemy. Why? Gilda could not
conjecture. Was it jealousy, or petty spite only? If so, what
advantage could he reap from the humiliation of one who already
was a member of his own family? But she felt herself encompassed
with enemies. No one had attempted to defend my lord's honour
when it was so ruthlessly impugned save her father, and he was
too absorbed, too much centered in thoughts of his country's peril,
to do real battle for the absent.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It was with a heavy heart that she turned to
go up the stairs in search of the two men who alone were ready
to go through fire in the defense of their friend. A melancholy
smile hovered round Gilda's lips. She felt that with those two
quaint creatures she had more in common at this hour than with
her father, whom she idolized. In those too poor caitiffs she
had all that her heart had been hungering for: simple hearts that
understood her sorrow, loyal souls that never wavered. For evil
or for good, through death-peril or through seeming dishonour,
their friend whom they reverenced could count upon their devotion.
And as Gilda went wearily up the stairs, her mind conjured up
the picture of those two ludicrous vagabonds, with their whimsical
saws and rough codes of honour, and she suddenly felt less lonely
and less sad.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">~7</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Great was her disappointment, therefore, when
she reached the guest-chamber, which they still occupied, to find
that it was empty. The whole house was by this time in a hopeless
state of turmoil and confusion. Serving-men and maids rushed aimlessly
hither and thither, up and down the stairs, along the passages,
in and out of the rooms; or stood about in groups, whispering
or cowering in corners. Some of them had already fled; the few
who remained looked like so many scared chickens, fussy and inconsequent,
-- the maids, with kirtles awry and hair unkempt, the men striving
to look brave and determined, putting on the air of masters, and
adding to the maids' distress by their aimless, hectoring ways.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">There was nothing in the house now left of
that orderly management which is the pride of every self-respecting
housewife. Doors stood open, displaying the untidiness of the
rooms; there was noise and bustle everywhere, calls of distress
and loud admonitions. From no one could Gilda learn what she desired
to know. She was forced to seek out Maria, her special tiring-woman,
who, it was to be hoped, had some semblance of reason left in
her. Maria, however, had no love for the two rapscallions, who
were treated in the house as if they were princes, and knew nothing
of the respect due to their betters. She replied to her young
mistress's inquiries by shrugging her shoulders and calling heaven
to witness her ignorance of the whereabouts of those abominable
louts.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Spoilt, they have been,&quot; the old
woman asserted sententiously. &quot;Shamefully spoilt. They have
neither order nor decency, nor the slightest regard for the wishes
of their betters ---&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;But, Maria, whither have the two good
fellows gone?&quot; Gilda broke in impatiently.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Gone? Whither have they gone? Maria ejaculated,
in pious ignorance of such probable wickedness. &quot;Nay, that
ye cannot expect any self-respecting woman to know. They have
gone, the miserable roysterers! Went but an hour ago, without
saying by your leave. This much I do know. And my firm belief
is that they were naught but a pair of Spanish spies, come to
hand us all, body and soul, to ---&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Maria, I forbid thee to talk such rubbish!&quot;
Gilda exclaimed wrathfully.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And, indeed, her anger and her white and worried
look did effectually silence the garrulous woman's tongue.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Even the waiting-maids! Even these ignorant
fools! Gilda could have screamed with the horror of it all, as
if she had suddenly landed in a nest of scorpions and their poison
encompassed her everywhere. This story of spies! God in Heaven,
how had it come about? Whose was the insidious tongue that had
perverted her brother Nicolaes first, and then every trimmer and
rogue in the house? Gilda felt as if it might ease her heart to
run around with a whip, and lash all these base detractors into
acknowledgment of their infamy. But she forced herself to patience.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A vague instinct had already whispered to her
that she must not go back to the banqueting-hall with the news
that my lord's friends had gone, and that no one had any knowledge
of their whereabouts. She felt that if she did that, her brother's
sneers would become unendurable, and that she might then be led
to retort with accusations against her only brother which she
would afterwards forever regret.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">So she waited for awhile, curtly bade Maria
to be gone, and to leave her in peace. She wanted to think, to
put a curb on her fears and her just wrath against this unseen
army of calumniators; for wrath and fear are both evil counsellors.
And above all, she wanted to see her beloved.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He was in the town. She knew it as absolutely
as that she was alive. Were her eyes likely to be deceived? Even
now, when she closed her eyes, she could see him, as she had done
but a few minutes ago, walking his horse through the Joris Poort,
his plumed hat shading the upper part of his face. She could see
him, with just that slight stoop of his broad shoulders which
denoted almost unendurable fatigue. She had noted this at the
moment, with a pang of anxiety, and then forgotten it all in the
joy of seeing him again. She remembered it all now. Oh, how could
they think that she could be deceived?</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Just for a second or two she had the mind to
run back to the casement in the attic-chamber and see if she could
not from thence spy him again. But surely this would be futile.
He must have reached the quay by now, would be at the front door,
with no one to welcome him. In truth, the longing to see him had
become sheer physical pain.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">So Gilda once more made her way down into the
hall.</FONT></P>

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  <TITLE>Chp 7 - A Subtle Traitor</TITLE>
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<H3><CENTER><FONT FACE="Lucida Calligraphy">CHAPTER VII - A SUBTLE
TRAITOR</FONT></CENTER></H3>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">~1</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Down below, in the banqueting-hall, Gilda's
departure had at first been followed by a general feeling of obsession,
which caused the grave men here assembled to remain silent for
awhile and pondering. There was no lack of sympathy, I repeat;
not even on the part of the Stadtholder, whose heart and feelings
were never wholly atrophied. But there had sprung up in the minds
of these grave burghers an unreasoning feeling of suspicion toward
the man whom they had trusted implicitly such a brief while ago.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Terror at the imminence of their danger, the
appearance of the dreaded foe almost at their very gates, had
in a measure -- as terror always will -- blurred the clearness
of their vision, and to a certain extent warped their judgements.
The man now appeared before them as a stranger, therefore a person
to be feared, even despised to the extent of attributing the blackest
possible treachery to him. They forgot that the closest possible
ties of blood and of tradition bound the English gentleman to
the service of the Prince of Orange. Sir Percy Blakeney now, and
Diogenes the soldier of fortune of awhile ago, were one and the
same. But no longer so to them. The adder's fork had bitten into
their soul and left its insidious poison of suspicion and of misbelief.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">So none of them spoke, hardly dared to look
on Mynheer Beresteyn, who, they felt, was not altogether with
them in their distrust. The Stadtholder had lapsed into one of
his surly moods. His lean, brown hands were drumming a devil's
tattoo upon the table.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then suddenly Nicolaes broke into a harsh and
mirthless laugh.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;It would all be a farce,&quot; he exclaimed
with bitter malice, &quot;if it did not threaten to become so
tragic.&quot; Then he turned to the Stadtholder, and his manner
became once more grave and earnest. &quot;Your Highness, I entreat,&quot;
he said soberly, &quot;deign to come away with me at once, ere
you fall into some trap set by those abominable spies ---&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Nicolaes,&quot; his father broke in sternly,
&quot;I forbid you to make these base insinuations against your
sister's husband.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I'll be silent if you command me,&quot;
Nicolaes rejoined quietly. &quot;But methinks that his Highness's
life is too precious for sentimental quibbles. Nay,&quot; he went
on vehemently, and like one who is forced into speech against
his will, &quot;I have warned Gilda of this before. While were
all waiting here calmly, trusting to that stranger who came, God
knows whence, he was warning De Berg to effect a quick crossing&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;It is false!&quot; protested the burgomaster
hotly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Then, I pray you,&quot; Nicolaes insisted
hotly, &quot;tell me how it is that De Berg did forestall his
Highness's plans? Who was in the council-chamber when the plans
were formulated save yourselves? Who knew of the orders to Marquet?
Marquet hath not gone to relieve Arnheim, and the armies of the
Archduchess are at our gates!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He paused, and a murmur of assent went round
the room, and when Mynheer Beresteyn once more raised his voice
in protest, saying firmly: &quot;I'll not believe it! Let us wait
at least until we've heard what news my lord hath brought!&quot;
No one spoke in response, and even the Stadtholder shrugged his
shoulders, as if the matter of a man's honour or dishonour had
no interest for him.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Your Highness,&quot; Nicolaes went on
with passionate earnestness, &quot;let me beg of you on my knees
to think of your noble father, of the trap into which he fell,
and of his assassin, Gerard -- a stranger, too ---&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;But this man saved my life once!&quot;
the Stadtholder said, with an outburst of generous feeling in
favour of the man to whom, in truth, he owed so much.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;He hated Stoutenburg then, your Highness,&quot;
Nicolaes retorted, and boldly looked his father in the face --
his father who knew his own share in that hideous conspiracy three
months ago. &quot;He loved my sister Gilda. It suited his purpose
then to use his sword in your Highness's service. But remember,
he is only a soldier of fortune after all. Have we not all of
us heard him say a hundred times that he had lived hitherto by
selling his sword to the highest bidder?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">This time his tirade was greeted by a distinct
murmur of approval. Only the burgomaster raised his voice admonishingly
once more.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Take care, Nicolaes!&quot; he exclaimed.
&quot;Take care!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Take care of what?&quot; the young man
retorted with all his wonted arrogance, and challenged his father
with a look.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Would you give your only son away,&quot;
that look appeared to say, &quot;in order to justify a stranger?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then, as indeed Mynheer Beresteyn remained
silent, not exactly giving up the contention, but forced into
passive acquiescence by the weight of public opinion and that
inalienable feeling of family and kindred which makes most men
or women defend their own against any stranger, Nicolaes continued,
with magnificent assumption of patriotic fervor:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Have we the right hazard so precious
a thing as his Highness's life for the sake of sparing my sister's
feelings?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">In this sentiment every one was ready to concur.
They did not actually condemn the stranger; they were not prepared
to call him a traitor and a potential assassin, or to believe
one half of Nicolaes Beresteyn's insinuations. They merely put
him aside, out of their minds, as not entering into their present
schemes. And even the burgomaster could not gainsay the fact that
his son was right.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The most urgent thing at the present juncture
was to get the Stadtholder safely back to his camp at Utrecht.
Every minute spent in this garrisonless city was fraught with
danger for the most precious life in the United Provinces.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Where is his Highness's horse?&quot;
he asked.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Just outside,&quot; Nicolaes replied
glibly; &quot;in charge of a man I know. Mine is ready too. Indeed,
we should get to horse at once.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The Stadtholder did not demur.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Have the horses brought to,&quot; he
said quickly. &quot;I'll be with you in a trice.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">~2</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Nicolaes hurried out of the room, his Highness
remaining behind for a moment or two, in order to give his final
instructions, a last admonition or two to the burghers.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Do not resist,&quot; he said earnestly.
&quot;You have not the means to do aught but to resign yourselves
to the inevitable. As soon as I can, I will come to your relief.
In the meanwhile, conciliate De Berg by every means in your power.
He is not a harsh man, and the Archduchess has learnt a salutary
lesson from the discomfiture of Alva. She knows by now that we
are a stiff-necked race, whom it is easier to cajole than to coerce.
If only you will be patient! Can you reckon on your citizens not
to do anything rash or foolish that might bring reprisals upon
your heads?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Yes,&quot; the burgomaster replied. &quot;I
think we can rely on them for that. When your Highness has gone
we'll assemble on the market place, and I will speak to them.
We'll do our best to stay the present panic and bring some semblance
of order into the town.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Their hearts were heavy. 'Twas no use trying
to minimize the deadly peril which confronted them. There was
a century of oppression, of ravage, and pillage, and bloodshed
to the credit of the Spanish armies. It was difficult to imagine
that the spirit of an entire nation should have changed suddenly
into something more tolerant and less cruel.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">However, for the moment, there was nothing
more to be said, and alas! it was not as if the whole terrible
situation was a novel one. They had all been through it before,
at Leyden and Bergen-op-Zoom, at Haarlem and Delft, when they
were weeping their land free from the foreign tyrant; and it was
useless at this hour to add to the Stadtholder's difficulties
by futile lamentations. All the more as Nicolaes had now returned
with the welcome news that the horses were there, and everything
ready for his Highness's departure. He appeared more excited than
before, anxious to get away as quickly as may be.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;There is a rumour in the town,&quot;
he said, &quot;that Spanish vedettes have been spied less than
a league away.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And have you heard any rumour as to the
arrival of our Diogenes?&quot; the Stadtholder asked casually.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Nicolaes hesitated a moment ere he replied:
&quot;I have heard nothing definite.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">~3</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A minute later the Stadtholder was in the hall.
The doors were open and the horses down below in the charge of
an equerry.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Nicolaes, half way down the outside stone steps,
looked the picture of fretful impatience. With a dark frown upon
his brow, he was scanning the crowd, and now and again a curse
broke through his set lips when he saw the Stadtholder still delayed
by futile leave-takings.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;In the name of heaven, let us to horse!&quot;
he exclaimed almost savagely.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Just at that moment his Highness was taking
a kindly farewell of Gilda.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I wish, mejuffrouw,&quot; he was saying,
&quot;that you had thought of taking shelter in our camp.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Gilda forced herself to listen to him, her
lips tried to frame the respectful words which convention demanded.
But her eyes she could not control, nor yet her thoughts, and
they were fixed upon the crowd down below, just as were those
of her brother Nicolaes. She thought that every moment she must
catch sight of that plumed hat, towering above the throng, of
those sturdy shoulders, forging their way to her. But all that
she saw was the surging mass of people. A medley of colour. Horses,
carts, the masts of ships. People running. And children. Numberless
children, in arms or on their tiny feet; the sweet, heavy burdens
that made the present disaster more utterly catastrophic.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then suddenly she gave a loud cry.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;My lord!&quot; she called, at the top
of her voice. Then something appeared to break in her throat,
and it was with a heart-rending sob that she murmured almost inaudibly:
&quot;Thank God! It is my lord!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The Stadtholder turned, was across the hall
and out in the open in a trice.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Where?&quot; he demanded.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She ran after him, seized his surcoat with
a trembling hand, and with the other pointed in the direction
of the Koppel-poort.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;A plumed hat!&quot; she murmured vaguely,
for her teeth were chattering so that she could scarcely speak.
&quot;All broken and battered with wind and weather -- a torn
jerkin -- a mud-stained cloak. He is leading his horse. He has
a three days' growth of beard on his chin, and looks spent with
fatigue. There! Do you not see him?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But Nicolaes already had interposed.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;To horse, your Highness!&quot; he cried.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He would have given worlds for the privilege
to seize the Stadtholder then and there by the arm, and to drag
him down the steps and set him on his horse before the meeting
which he dreaded could take place. But Maurice of Nassau, torn
between his desire to get out of the threatened city as quickly
as possible and his wish to speak with the messenger whom an inalienable
instinct assured him that he could trust, was lingering on the
steps trying in his turn to catch sight of Diogenes.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Beware of the assassin's dagger, your
Highness!&quot; Nicolaes whispered hoarsely in his ear. &quot;In
this crowd who can tell? Who knows what deathly trap is being
laid for you?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Not by that man, I'll swear!&quot; the
Stadtholder affirmed.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Nay, if he is loyal he can follow you
to the camp and report to you there. But for God's sake remember
your father and the miscreant Gerard. There too, a crowd; the
hustling, the hurry! In the name of your country, come away!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">There was no denying the prudence of this advice.
Another instant's hesitation, the obstinacy of an arbitrary temperament
that abhors being dictated to, the Stadtholder was ready to go.
Gilda, on the top of the steps, was more like a stone statue of
expectancy than like a living woman. Nay, all that she had alive
in her were just her eyes, and they had spied her beloved. He
was then by the Koppel-poort, some hundred yards or more on the
other side of the quay, with a seething mass of panic-stricken
humanity between him and the steps of Mynheer Beresteyn's house.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He had dismounted and was leading his horse.
The poor beast, spent with fatigue, looked ready to drop, and,
indeed, appeared too dazed to pick his own way through the crowd.
As it was, he was more than a handful for his equally wearied
master, whose difficulties were increased a hundredfold by the
number of small children who were for ever getting in the way
of the horse's legs, and were in constant danger of being kicked
or trampled on.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But Gilda never lost sight of him now that
she had seen him. With every beat of her heart she was measuring
the footsteps that separated him from the Stadtholder. And the
more Nicolaes fretted to hurry his Highness away, the more she
longed and yearned for the quick approach of her beloved.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">~4</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Amongst all those here present, Gilda was the
only one who scented some unseen danger for them all in Nicolaes'
strangely feverish haste. What the others took for zeal, she knew
by instinct was naught but treachery. What form this would take
she could not guess; but this she knew, that for some motive as
sinister as it was unexplainable, Nicolaes did not wish the Stadtholder
and his messenger to meet. That same motive had caused him to
utter all those venomous accusations against her husband, and
was even now wearing him into a state of fretfulness which bordered
on dementia.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;My lord!&quot; she cried out to her beloved
at one time; and felt that even through all the din and clatter
her voice had reached his ear, for he raised his head, and it
even seemed to her as if his eyes met hers above the intervening
crowd and as if the supernal longing for him which was in her
heart had drawn him with its mystic power over every obtruding
obstacle.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">For, indeed, the next moment he was right at
the foot of the steps, not five paces from the Stadtholder.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Nicolaes spied him in a moment, and a loud
curse broke from his lips.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;That skulking assassin!&quot; he cried;
and with a magnificent gesture covered the Stadtholder with his
body. &quot;To horse, your Highness, and leave me to deal with
him!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Maurice of Nassau, indeed was one of the bravest
men of his time, but the word &quot;assassin&quot; was bound to
ring unpleasantly in the ears of a man whose father had met his
death at a murderer's hand. Half-ashamed of his fears, he nevertheless
did take advantage of Nicolaes' theatrical attitude to slip behind
him and mount his horse as quickly as he could. But with his foot
already in the stirrup compunction appeared to seize him. Wishing
to palliate the gross insult which was being hurled at the man
who had once saved his life at imminent peril of his own, he now
turned and called to him in gracious, matter-of-fact tones:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Why, man, what made you tarry so long?
Come with us to Utrecht now. We can no longer wait.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">With this he swung himself in the saddle.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Not another step man, at your peril!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">This came from Nicolaes Beresteyn, who was
still standing in a dramatic pose between Diogenes and the Stadtholder,
with his cloak wrapped around his arm.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Stand back, you fool!!&quot; retorted
the other loudly, and would have pushed past him, when suddenly
Nicolaes disengaged his arm from his cloak wrapped around his
arm.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">For one fraction of a second the gleam of steel
flashed in the humid air; then, without a word of warning, swift
as a hawk descending on his prey, he struck at Diogenes with all
his might.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It had all happened in a very few brief seconds.
Diogenes, spent with fatigue, or actually struck, staggered and
half fell against the bottom step. But Gilda, with a loud cry,
was already by his side, and as Nicolaes raised his arm to strike
once again, she was on him like some lithe pantheress.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She seized his wrist, and gave it such a violent
twist that he uttered a cry of pain, and the dagger fell with
a clatter to the ground. After which everything became a blur.
She heard her brother's loudly triumphant shout:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;His Highness's life was threatened. Mine
was but an act of justice!&quot; even as he in his turn swung
himself into the saddle.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">~5</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The Stadtholder looked dazed. It had all happened
so quickly that he had not the time to visualize it all. De Voocht,
who was in the hall of the burgomaster's house from the moment
when the Stadtholder bade farewell to Gilda until that when he
dug his spurs into his horse and scattered the crowd in every
direction, tells us in his &quot;Brieven&quot; -- the one which
is dated March 21, 1626 -- that the incidents followed on one
another with such astounding rapidity that it was impossible for
any one to interfere.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">All that he remembers very clearly is seeing
his Highness getting to horse, then the flash of steel in the
air and Nicolaes Beresteyn's arm upraised ready to strike. He
could not see if any one had fallen. The next moment he heard
Gilda's heart-piercing shriek, and saw her running down the stone
steps -- almost flying, like a bird.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Mynheer Beresteyn followed his daughter as
rapidly as he could. He reached the foot of the steps just as
his son put his horse to a walk in the wake of his Highness. He
was wont to say afterwards that at the moment his mind was an
absolute blank. He had heard his daughter's cry and seen Nicolaes
strike; but he had not actually seen Diogenes. Now he was just
in time to see his son's final dramatic gesture and to hear his
parting words:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;There, father,&quot; Nicolaes shouted
to him, and pointed to the ground, &quot;is the pistol which the
miscreant pointed at the Stadtholder when I struck him down like
a dog!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The people down on the quay had hardly perceived
anything. They were too deeply engrossed in their own troubles
and deadly peril.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">When the horses reared under the spur they
scattered like so many hens out of the way of immediate danger;
but a second or two later they were once more surging everywhere,
intent only on the business of getting away.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Gilda, at the foot of the steps, saw and heard
nothing more. The sudden access of almost manlike strength wherewith
she had fallen on her brother and wrenched the murderous dagger
from his grasp had as suddenly fallen from her again. Her knees
were shaking; she was almost ready to swoon.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She put out her arms and encountered those
of her father, which gave her support. Her brother's voice, exultant
and cruel, reached her ears as through a veil.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;My lord!&quot; she murmured, in a pitiful
appeal.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She did not know how severely he had been struck;
indeed, she had not seen him fall. Her instinct had been to rush
on Nicolaes first and to disarm him. In this she succeeded. Then
only did she turn to her beloved.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But the crowd, cruelly indifferent, was all
around like a surging sea. They pushed and they jostled; they
shouted and filled the air with a medley of sounds. Some actually
laughed. She saw some comely faces and ugly ones; some that wept
and others that grinned. It seemed to her even for a moment that
she caught sight of a round red face and of lean and lanky Socrates.
She tried to call to him, to beg him to explain. She turned to
her father, asking him if in truth she was going mad.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">For she called in vain to her beloved. He was
no longer here.</FONT></P>

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  <TITLE>Chp 8 - Devil's-Writ</TITLE>
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<H3><CENTER><FONT FACE="Lucida Calligraphy">CHAPTER VIII - DEVIL'S-WRIT</FONT></CENTER></H3>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">~1</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">When Diogenes, taken wholly unawares by Nicolaes'
treacherous blow, had momentarily lost his balance, he would have
been in a precarious position indeed had not his faithful friends
been close at hand at the moment.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It is difficult to surmise how terribly anxious
the two philosophers had been these past few days. Indeed, their
anxiety had proved more than a counterpart to that felt by Gilda,
and had, with its simple-hearted sympathy, expressed in language
more whimsical than choice, been intensely comforting to her.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Both these worthies had been inured to blows
and hurts from the time when as mere lads, they first learned
to handle a sword, and Pythagoras' wound, which would have laid
an ordinary man low for a fortnight, was, after four days, already
on the mend. To keep a man of that type in bed, or even within
four walls, when he began to feel better was more than any one
could do. And when he understood that Diogenes had been absent
four days on an errand for the Stadtholder, that the jongejuffrouw
was devoured with anxiety on his behalf, and that that spindle-legged
gossoon Socrates was spending most of the day and one half of
the night on horseback, patrolling the ramparts watching for the
comrade's return; when he understood all that, I say, it was not
likely that he -- Pythagoras -- an able-bodied man and a doughty
horseman at that, would be content to lie abed and be physicked
by any grovelling leech.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Thus the pair of them were providentially on
the watch on that memorable March 21, and they both saw their
comrade-in-arms enter the city by the Joris Poort. They followed
him as best they could through the crowd, cursing and pushing
their way, knowing well that Diogenes' objective could be none
other than a certain house they wot of on the quay, where a lovely
jongejuffrouw was waiting in tears for her beloved.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Remember that to these two caitiffs the fact
that the Spaniards were said to be at the very gates of Amersfoort
was but a mere incident. With their comrade within the city, they
feared nothing, were prepared for anything. They had been in far
worse plights than this many a time in their career, the three
of them, and had been none the worse for it in the end.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Of course, now matters had become more complicated
through the jongejuffrouw. She had become the first consideration,
and though it was impossible not to swear at Diogenes for thus
having laid this burden on them all, it was equally impossible
to shirk its responsibilities.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The jongejuffrouw above all. That had become
the moral code of these two philosophers, and with those confounded
Spaniards likely to descend on this town -- why, the jongejuffrouw
must be got out of it as soon as may be! No wonder that Diogenes
had turned up just in the nick of time! Something evidently was
in the wind, and it behooved for comrades-in-arms to be there,
ready to help as occasion arose.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A simple code enough, you'll admit; worthy
of simple, unsophisticated hearts. Socrates, being the more able-bodied
of the two, then took command, dismounted, and left his lubberly
compeer in charge of the horses at a comparatively secluded corner
of the market-place.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;If you can get hold of one more horse,&quot;
he said airily, &quot;one that is well-saddled and looks sprightly
and fresh, do not let your super-sensitive honesty stand in your
way. Diogenes' mount looked absolutely spent, and I'm sure he'll
need another.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">With which parting admonition he turned on
his heel and made his way toward the quay.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">~2</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Thus it was that Socrates happened to be on
the spot, or very near it, when Diogenes was struck by the hand
of a traitor, and, wearied, sick, and faint, lost his footing
and fell for a moment helpless against the steps, whilst Nicolaes
Beresteyn dug his spurs into his horse's sides and urged the Stadtholder
to immediate haste.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A second or two later these two were lost to
sight in the crowd. It was Socrates who received his half-swooning
friend in his arms, and who dragged him incontinently into the
recess formed by the side of the stone steps and the wall of the
burgomaster's house.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">By great good fortune, the dagger-thrust aimed
by the abominable miscreant had lost most of its virulence in
the thick folds of Diogenes' cloak. The result was just a flesh
wound in the neck, nothing that would cause so hardened a soldier
more than slight discomfort. His scarf, tied tightly around his
shoulders by Socrates' rough, but experienced hands, was all that
was needed for the moment. It had only been fatigue, and perhaps
the unexpectedness of the onslaught, that had brought him to his
knees for that brief second, and rendered him momentarily helpless.
Time enough, by mischance for Nicolaes to drag the Stadtholder
finally out of sight.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But by the time Diogenes' faithful comrade
had found shelter for him in the angle of the wall the feeling
of sickness had passed away.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The Stadtholder,&quot; he queried abruptly,
&quot;where is he?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Gone!&quot; Socrates grunted through
clenched teeth. &quot;Gone, together with that spawn of the devil
who ---&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;After him!&quot; Diogenes commanded,
speaking once more with that perfect quietude which is the attribute
of men of action at moments of acute peril. &quot;Get me a horse,
man! Mine is spent.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;In the market-place,&quot; Socrates responded
laconically. &quot;Pythagoras is in charge. You can have the beast,
and we'll follow.&quot; Then he added, under his breath: &quot;And
the jongejuffrouw? She was so anxious---&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Diogenes made no reply, gave one look up at
the house which contained all that for him was dearest on God's
earth. But he did not sigh. I think the longing and the disappointment
were too keen even for that. The next moment he had already started
to push his way through the throng along the quay, and thence
into Vriese Straat in the direction of the market-place, closely
followed by his long-legged familiar.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">As soon as the Groote Market lay open before
him, his sharp eyes searched the crowd for a sight of the Stadtholder's
plumed bonnet. Soon he spied his Highness right across the place,
with Nicolaes riding close to his stirrup.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The two horsemen were then tending toward Joris
Laan, which leads straight to the poort.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">At that end of the markt the crowd was much
less dense, and Joris Laan beyond appeared practically deserted.
It was, you must remember, from that side that the enemy would
descend upon the city when he came, and the moving throng, if
viewed from a height, would now have looked like a column of smoke
when it is all blown one way by the wind. Already the Stadtholder
and Nicolaes had been free to put their horses to a trot. Another
moment and they would be galloping down Joris Laan, which is but
three hundred yards from the poort.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Oh, God, grant me wings!&quot; Diogenes
muttered, between his teeth.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What are you going to do?&quot; Socrates
asked.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Prevent the Stadtholder from falling
into an abominable trap, if I can,&quot; the other replied briefly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Socrates pointed to the distant corner of the
markt, where Pythagoras could be dimly perceived waiting patiently
beside three horses.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I see the ruffian has stolen a horse,&quot;
he said. &quot;So long as it is a fresh one ---&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I shall need it.&quot; Diogenes remarked
simply.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I told him only to get the best, but
you can't trust that loon since good fortune hath made him honest.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The next few seconds brought them to the spot.
Pythagoras hailed them with delight. He was getting tired of waiting.
Three horses, obviously fresh and furnished with excellent saddlery,
were here ready. Even Socrates had a word of praise for his fat
compeer's choice.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Where did you get him from?&quot; he
queried, indicating the mount which Diogenes had without demur
selected for himself.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Pythagoras shrugged his shoulder. What did
it matter who had been made the poorer by a good horse? Enough
that it was here now, ready to do service to the finest horseman
in the Netherlands. Already Diogenes had swung himself into the
saddle, and now he turned his horse toward Nieuwpoort.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Where do we go?&quot; the others cried.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;After me!&quot; he shouted in reply.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">~3</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Nose to heels, the three riders thundered through
the city. It was deserted at this end of it, remember. Thank God
for that! And now for a host of guardian angels to the rescue!
Down the Oude Straat they galloped, their horses' hoofs raising
myriads of sparks from the uneven cobblestones. &quot;God grant
me wings!&quot; the leader had cried ere he set spurs to his horse,
and the others followed without an instant's thought as to the
whither or the wherefore. &quot;After me!&quot; he had called;
and they who had fought beside him so often, who had bled with
him, suffered with him, triumphed at times, been merry always,
were well content to follow him now and forget everything in the
exhilaration of this chase.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A chase it was! They could not doubt it, even
though they seemed at this moment to be speeding in the opposite
direction to that pursued by the Stadtholder and Nicolaes Beresteyn.
But they well knew their friend's way, when he let his mount have
free rein and threw up his head with that air of intense vitality
which in him was at its height when life and death were having
a tussle somewhere at the end of a ride.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Down the Oude Straat, which presently abuts
on the ramparts. Then another two hundred yards to Nieuwpoort.
No one in sight now. This part of the city looks like one of the
dead. Doors open wide, litter of every sort encumbering the road.
The din from afar, even the ceaseless tolling of St. Maria bell,
seem like dream-sounds, ghost-like and unreal. Now the poort.
Still no one insight. No guard. No sentry. The gate left open.
Here two or three halberds hastily thrown down in some hurried
flight. There a culverin, forlorn looking, gaping wide-mouthed,
like some huge toad yawning, as if astonished or wearied to find
itself deserted. Then again, a pile of muskets. It must have been
a sudden panic that drove the guard from their post. But, thank
God, the gate!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Diogenes is already through; after him his
two compeers. A quarter of a league further on they suddenly draw
rein. The horses rear, snorting and tossing, panting with the
excitement and fretted with the curb. The riders blink for a second
or two in the glare. The white mist is positively blinding here,
where its sovereignty is unfettered. Just a clump of trees, way
out on the right, here and there a hut with thatched roof and
a piece of low fencing, or the gaunt arms of a windmill stretched
with eerie stillness to the silvery sky. And above it all the
mist -- a pale shroud that envelopes everything.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">To the east and the south the arid upland plunges
head-long through it into infinity, cloaks within its stern bosom
the secrets of the lurking enemy -- the armies of De Berg, the
Spanish outposts, the ambuscades. To the west Utrecht, unseen
-- and just now two tiny specks speeding along its road -- the
Stadtholder and Nicolaes Beresteyn. They came out into the open
through Joris Poort, and are now some four hundred yards or less
from the spot where three panting but exhilarated philosophers
were now filling their lungs with the crisp, humid air.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">They looked neither to right nor left. The
Stadtholder, easily recognizable by his plumed bonnet, rides a
length or less in advance of his companion. The fog has not yet
swallowed them up. Diogenes takes all this in. A simple enough
picture -- the sea-fog and two riders speeding towards Utrecht.
But a swift intaking of his breath, a tight closing of his firm
lips, indicate to the others that all is not as simple as it seems.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">~4</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then a very curious thing happened. At first
it seemed nothing. But to the watchers outside Nieuwpoort it had
the same effect as a flash of lightning would have in an apparently
cloudless sky. It began with Nicolaes Beresteyn drawing his horse
close up to the Stadtholder, on his Highness's right. Then for
another few seconds the two riders went along side by side, like
one black speck now, still quite distinguishable through the fog.
Socrates and Pythagoras had their eyes on Diogenes. But Diogenes
did not move. He was frowning, and his face had a set and tense
expression. He had his horse tightly on the curb, and appeared
almost wilfully to fret the animal, who was pawing the wet, sandy
ground and covering itself with lather -- a picture of tearing
impatience.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What do we do now?&quot; Pythagoras exclaimed
at last, unable, just like the horse, to contain his excitement.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Wait,&quot; Diogenes replied curtly.
&quot;All may be well after all.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;In which case?&quot; queried Socrates.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Nothing!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A groan of disappointment rose to a couple
of parched throats; but it was never uttered. What went on in
the mist on the road to Utrecht, four hundred yards away, had
stifled it at birth.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The Stadtholder's horse had become restive.
A simple matter enough; but in this case unexplainable, because
Maurice of Nassau was a splendid horseman. He could easily have
quietened the animal if there had not been something abnormal
in its sudden antics. It reared and tossed for no apparent reason,
would have thrown a less experienced rider.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The brute is being teased with a goad,&quot;
Pythagoras remarked sententiously.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">That was clear enough. Even in the distance,
and experienced eye could have perceived that the horse became
more and more unmanageable every moment, and the Stadtholder's
seat more and more precarious. Then suddenly there came the sharp
report of a pistol. The horse, goaded to madness, took the bit
between its teeth, and with a final plunge bolted across country,
away from that strident noise, which, twice repeated at intervals,
had turned its fretfulness into blind panic.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It was at the first report that Socrates and
Pythagoras again glanced at their leader. A gurgle of delight
escaped them when they caught his eye. They had received their
orders. The next moment all three had dug their spurs in their
horses' flanks and were galloping over sand and ditch.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Diogenes' horse, given free rein at last, after
the maddening curb of awhile ago, was soon half a dozen lengths
ahead of the others, tearing along with all its might at right
angles to the direction in which the Stadtholder's panic-stricken
animal was rushing like one possessed. That direction was Ede.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">~5</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">In truth, the low-lying land veiled in sea-fog
must at that moment have presented a very curious spectacle. Maurice
of Nassau, Prince of Orange, the hope and pride of the Netherlands,
helpless upon a horse that was running away with him straight
in the direction of the nearest Spanish outposts.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Three soldiers of fortune, strangers, in the
land hastening to intercept him, and a couple of hundred yards
or so behind the Stadtholder, Nicolaes Beresteyn, puzzled and
terror-filled at this unexpected check to his manoeuvre, pushing
along for dear life.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It had been such a splendid scheme, evolved
over there in the lonely mill on the Veluwe, between a reprobate
and a traitor. The Spaniards on the watch. The Stadtholder helpless,
whilst his mount carried him headlong into their hands. What a
triumph for Stoutenburg, who had planned it all, and for Nicolaes
Beresteyn, the worker of the infamous plot! The Stadtholder prisoner
in the hands of the Archduchess! His life the price of the subjection
of the Netherlands!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And all to be frustrated by a foolish mischance!
Three riders intent upon intercepting that runaway horse! Who
in thunder were they? The mist, remember, would have blurred Nicolaes'
vision. His thoughts were not just then on the man whom he hated.
They were fixed upon the possibility -- remote, alas! -- of convincing
the Stadtholder after this that the goaded horse had been the
victim of a series of accidents.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Even at this moment the foremost of the three
riders had overtaken the runaway. He galloped for a length or
two beside it, then, with a dexterous and unerring grip, he seized
the panic-stricken animal by the bridle. A few seconds of desperate
struggle 'twixt man and beast. Then man remained the conqueror.
The horse, panting, quivering in every limb, covered in sweat
and foam, was finally brought to a standstill, and the Stadtholder
in an instant had his feet clear of the stirrups and swung himself
out of the saddle.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">~6</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then, and then only, did Nicolaes Beresteyn
recognize the man who for the second time had frustrated his nefarious
plans -- the man whom, because of his easy triumphs, the humiliation
which he had inflicted upon him, because of his careless gaiety
and his very joy of life, he hated with a curious, sinister intensity.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A ferocious imprecation rose to his lips. For
awhile everything became a blank. The present, the future, even
the past. Everything became chaos in his mind, he could no longer
think. All that he had planned became a blur, as if the sea-fog
had enveloped his senses as well as the entire landscape.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But this confused mental state only lasted
a very little while -- a few seconds perhaps. Slowly, while he
gazed on that distant group of men and horses, his perceptions
became clearer once more. And even before the imprecation had
died on his lips it gave place to a smile of triumph. Nicolaes
Beresteyn had remembered that his Majesty the devil might well
be trusted to care for his own. Had he not served the hell-born
liege lord well?</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">For the nonce he brought his horse to a halt.
It would be worse than folly to go on. With recognition of those
three horsemen over there had also come the certainty that he
was now irretrievably unmasked. The Stadtholder, his father, his
sister, even his young wife, would turn from him in horror, as
from a traitor and an outcast -- a pariah, marked with the brand
of Cain.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">No! Henceforth, for good or for evil, his fortunes
must be linked openly with Stoutenburg -- with the man who wielded
such a strange cabalistic power over him that he (Nicolaes) --
rich, newly wed, in a highly enviable worldly position -- had
been ready to sacrifice his all in his cause, and to throw in
the last shred of his honour into the bargain. In Stoutenburg's
cause -- ay, and in order to be revenged on the man who had never
wronged him save in his conceit -- that most vulnerable spot in
the moral armour of such contemptible rogues as was Nicolaes Beresteyn.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The spot where he had brought his horse to
a halt was immediately behind a low, deserted hut, which concealed
him from view. Here he dismounted and, throwing the reins over
his arm, advanced cautiously to a point of vantage at the angle
of the little building, whence he could see what those four men
were doing over there but himself remain unseen.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">They, too, had dismounted, and were obviously
intent on examining the Stadtholder's horse. A sinister scowl
spread over Nicolaes Beresteyn's face. There was still a chance,
then, of putting a bullet in one or other of those two men --
the hated enemy or the Stadtholder. Nicolaes pondered; the scowl
on his face became almost satanic in its expression of cruelty.
Awhile ago, he had replaced his pistol in the holster, after it
had served its nefarious purpose. Now he took it out again and
examined it thoroughly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It had one more charge in it, the devilish
charge invented by the Borgias, the secret of which one of that
infamous race had confided to Stoutenburg. The fumes from the
powder when it struck the eyes must cause irretrievable blindness.
Indeed, it had proved its worth already.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Nicolaes, from his hiding-place, could see
those four men quite clearly. The Stadtholder, Diogenes, the two
caitiffs, all standing round the one horse. Then Diogenes took
something out of his belt. He raised his arm, and the next moment
a sharp report rang through the mistladen air. The poor animal
rolled over instantly into the mud.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The scowl on Nicolaes' face now gave place
once more to a smile of triumph -- more sinister than the frown.
With the gesture of a conqueror, he clutched the pistol more firmly.
The potent fumes had, in truth, wrought their fiendish work on
the innocent beast. Diogenes had just put it out of its misery,
and his two familiars were preparing to mount one of the horses,
whilst he and the Stadtholder had the other two by the reins.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Why not?</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The miscreant was sure enough of his aim, and
the others would be unprepared. He was sure, too, of the swiftness
of his horse, and the Spanish outposts were less than a quarter
of a league away, whilst within half that distance Stoutenburg
was on the watch with a vedette, waiting to capture the Stadtholder
on his runaway horse as it had been prearranged.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Once there he -- Nicolaes -- would be amongst
friends.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then, why not?</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Already the riders had put their horses to
a trot. Diogenes and the Stadtholder on ahead, the two loons some
few lengths in their rear. In less than three minutes they would
be within range of Nicolaes' pistol and its blinding fumes. And
Diogenes was riding on the side nearest to his enemy.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Nicolaes Beresteyn grasped his weapon more
firmly. He realized with infinite satisfaction that his arm was
perfectly steady. Indeed, he had never felt so absolutely calm.
The measured tramp of the horses keyed him up to a point of unswerving
determination. He raised his arm. The horses were galloping now.
They would pass like a flash within twenty paces of him.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The next moment the sharp report of the pistol
rang stridently through the mist. There was a burst, a flash,
a column of smoke. Nicolaes jumped into the saddle and set spurs
to his horse. The other riders went galloping on for a few seconds
-- not more. Then one of them swayed in his saddle. Nicolaes then
was a couple of hundred yards away.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You are hit, man!&quot; the Stadtholder
exclaimed. &quot;That abominable assassin ---&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But the words died in his throat. The reins
had slipped out of Diogenes' grasp, and he rolled down into the
mud.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">~7</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A sudden jerk brought the Stadtholder's horse
to a halt. He swung himself out of the saddle, ran quickly to
his companion.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You are hit, man!&quot; he reiterated;
this time with an unexplainable feeling of dread.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The other seemed so still, and yet his clothes
and the soft earth around him showed no stains of blood.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Pythagoras now was also on the spot. He had
slid off the horse as soon as the infamous assassin had started
to ride away. Socrates was trying to give chase. Even now two
pistol-shots rang out in quick succession right across the moorland.
But the hell-hound was well mounted, and the avenging bullets
failed to reach their mark. All this the Stadtholder took in with
a rapid glance, even whilst Pythagoras, round-eyed and scared,
was striving with gentle means to raise the strangely inert figure.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;He hath swooned,&quot; the Stadtholder
suggested.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The stricken man had one arm across his face.
His had had fallen from his head, leaving the fine, square brow
free and the crisp hair weighted by the sweat of some secret agony.
The mouth, too, was visible, and the chin, with its four days'
growth of beard, the mouth that was always ready with a smile.
It was set now in an awesome contraction of pain, and, withal,
that terrible immobility.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Now Socrates was arriving. A moment or two
later he, too, had dismounted, cursing lustily that he had failed
to hit the hell-hound. A mute query, an equally mute reply, was
all that passed between him and Pythagoras.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then the stricken man stirred as if suddenly
roused to consciousness.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Are you hit, man?&quot; the Stadtholder
queried again.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;No -- no!&quot; he replied quickly. &quot;Only
a little dazed. That is all.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He raised himself to a sitting posture, helping
himself up with his hands, which sank squelching into the mud;
whereat he gave a short laugh, which somehow went a cold shiver
down the listener's spines.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Where is my hat?&quot; he asked. &quot;Pythagoras,
you lazy loon, get me my hat.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He must indeed have been still dazed, for when
his friend picked up the hat and gave it to him, his hand shot
out for it quite wide of the mark. He gave another laugh, short
and toneless as before, and set the hat on his head, pulling down
well over his eyes.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I had a mugful of hot ale at Amersfoort
before starting,&quot; he said. &quot;It must have got into my
head.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He made no attempt to get to his feet, but
just sat there, with his two slender hands all covered with mud,
tightly clasped between his knees.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Can you get to horse?&quot; his Highness
queried at last.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;No,&quot; Diogenes replied, &quot;not
just yet, an' it please you, I verily think that I would roll
out of my saddle again, which would, in truth, be a disgusting
spectacle.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;But we cannot leave you here, man,&quot;
the Stadtholder rejoined, with a slight tone of impatience.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And why not, I pray you?&quot; he retorted.
&quot;Your Highness must get to Utrecht as quickly as may be.
A half-drunken lout like me would only be a hindrance.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">His voice was thick now and halting, in very
truth like that of a man who had been drinking heavily. He rested
his elbows on his knees and held his chin between his mud-stained
hands.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Socrates, you lumpish vagabond,&quot;
he exclaimed all of a sudden, &quot;don't stand gaping at me like
that! Bring forth his Highness's horse at once, and see that you
accompany him to Utrecht without further mishap, or 'tis with
us you'll have to deal on your return!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;But you, man!&quot; the Stadtholder exclaimed
once more.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He felt helpless and strangely disturbed in
his mind, not understanding what all this meant; why this man,
usually so alert, so keen, so full of vigour, appeared for the
moment akin to a babbling imbecile.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I'll have a good sleep inside that hut,
so please you,&quot; the other replied more glibly. &quot;These
two ruffians will find me here after they have seen your gracious
Highness safely inside your camp.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then, as the Stadtholder still appeared to
hesitate, and neither of the others seemed to move, Diogenes added,
with an almost desperate note of entreaty:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;To horse, your Highness, I beg! Every
second is precious. Heaven knows what further devilry lies in
wait for you, if you linger here.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Or for you, man,&quot; the Stadtholder
murmured involuntarily.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Nay, not for me!&quot; the other retorted
quickly. &quot;The Archduchess and her gang of vultures fly after
higher game than a drunken wayfarer lost on the flats. To horse,
I entreat!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And once more he pressed his hands together,
and so tightly that the knuckles shone like polished ivory, even
through their covering of mud.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The Stadtholder then gave a sign to the two
men. It was obviously futile to continue arguing here with a man
who refused to move. He himself had very rightly said that every
second was precious. And every second, too, was fraught with danger.
Already his Highness had well-nigh been the victim of a diabolical
ambuscade, might even at this hour have been a prisoner in the
hands of the enemy, a hostage of incalculable value, even if his
life had been spared, but for the audacious and timely interference
of this man, who now appeared almost like one partially bereft
of reason.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;We'll see you safely inside the hut,
at any rate,&quot; was his Highness's last word.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And I'll not move,&quot; Diogenes retorted
with a kind of savage obstinacy, &quot;until the mist has swallowed
up your gracious Highness on the road to Utrecht.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">After that there was nothing more to be said.
And we may take it that the Stadtholder got to horse with unaccountable
reluctance. Something in that solitary figure sitting there, with
the plumed hat tilted over his eyes and the slender, mud-stained
hands tightly locked together, gave him a strange feeling of nameless
dismay, like a premonition of some obscure catastrophic tragedy.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But his time and his safety did not belong
to himself alone. They were the inalienable property of a threatened
country, that would be grasping in her death-throes if she were
deprived of him at this hour of renewed and deadly danger. So
he gathered the reins in his hands and set spurs to his horse,
and once he had started he did not look behind him, lest his emotion
got the better of his judgement.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The two gossoons immediately followed in his
wake. This they did because the friend they had always been wont
to obey had thus commanded, and his seeming helplessness rendered
his orders doubly imperative at this hour. They rode a length
or two behind the Stadtholder, who presently put his horse to
a gallop. Utrecht now was only a couple of leagues away.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The three horsemen galloped on for a quarter
of a league or less at the same even, rapid pace. Then Pythagoras
slackened speed. The others did not even turn to look at him,
he seemed to have done it by tacit unspoken consent. The Stadtholder
and Socrates sped on in the direction of Utrecht and Pythagoras
turned his horse's head round toward the direction whence he had
come.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">~8</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The afternoon lay heavy and silent upon the
plain. There was as yet no sign of the approach of the enemy from
the south, and the low-lying land appeared momentarily hushed
under its veil of mist, as if conscious of the guilty secret enshrined
within its bosom. The fog, indeed, had thickened perceptibly.
It lay like a wall around that lonely figure, still sitting there
on the soft earth, with its head buried in its hands.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Far away, the gaunt-looking carcase of the
dead horse appeared as the only witness of a hideous deed as yet
un-recorded. Each a blurred and uncertain mass -- the dead horse
and the lonely figure, equally motionless, equally pathetic --
were now the sole occupants of the vast and silent immensity.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Not far away, in the little town of Amersfoort,
humanity, panic-stricken and terrorized, filled the air with clamour
and with wails. Here, beneath the ghostly shroud of humid atmosphere,
everything was stilled as if in ghoulish expectancy of something
mysterious, indiscernible which was still to come. It was like
the arrested breath before the tearing cry, the hush which precedes
a storm.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Overhead, a flight of rooks sent their melancholy
cawing through the air.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">When Pythagoras was within fifty yards of his
friend he dismounted, and, leading his horse by the bridle, he
walked toward him. When he was quite near Diogenes put out a hand
to him.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I knew you would come back, you fat-witted
nonny,&quot; he said simply.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Socrates had to go on with the Stadtholder,&quot;
the other remarked, &quot;or he'd be here, too.&quot; Then he
added tentatively: &quot;Will you lean on my arm?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Yes, I'll have to do that now, old crony,
shall I not?&quot; Diogenes replied. &quot;That devil,&quot; he
murmured under his breath, &quot;has blinded me!&quot;<BR>
</FONT></P>

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<H3><CENTER><FONT FACE="Lucida Calligraphy">CHAPTER IX - MALA
FIDES</FONT></CENTER></H3>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">~1</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Nicolaes Beresteyn, riding like one possessed
had reached Stoutenburg's encampment one hour before nightfall.
He brought the news of the failure of his plan for the capture
of the Stadtholder, spoke with many a muttered oath of the Englishman
and his two familiars, and of how they had interposed just in
the nick of time to stop the runaway horse.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;But for that cursed rogue!&quot; he exclaimed
savagely, &quot;Maurice of Nassau would now be a prisoner in our
hands. We would be holding him to ransom, earning gratitude, honours,
wealth at the hands of the Archduchess. Whereas -- now ---&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But there was solace to the bitterness of this
disappointment. The blinding powder, invented by the infamous
Borgia, had done its work. The abominable rogue, the nameless
adventurer, who had twice succeeded in thwarting the best-laid
schemes of his lordship of Stoutenburg, had paid the full penalty
for his audacity and his arrogant interference.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Blind, helpless, broken, an object now of contemptuous
pity rather than of hate, he was henceforth powerless to wreak
further mischief.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Just before I put my horse to a swift
gallop,&quot; Nicolaes Beresteyn had concluded, &quot;I saw him
sway in the saddle and roll down into the mud. One of the vagabonds
tried to chase me; but my horse bore me well and I was soon out
of his reach.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">That news did, indeed compensate Stoutenburg
for all the humiliation which he had endured at the hands of his
successful rival in the past. A rival no longer; for the Laughing
Cavalier, blind and helpless, was not like ever to return to claim
his young wealthy wife and to burden her with his misery. This
last tribute to the man's pluck and virility Stoutenburg paid
him unconsciously. He could not visualize that splendid creature,
so full of life and gaiety, and conscious of might strength, groping
his way back to the side of the woman whom he had dazzled by his
power.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;He would sooner die in a ditch,&quot;
he muttered to himself, under his breath, &quot;than excite her
pity!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Then the field is clear for me!&quot;
he added exultantly; and fell to discussing with Nicolaes his
chances of regaining Gilda's affections. &quot;Do you think she
ever cared for the rogue?&quot; he queried, with a strange quiver
of emotion in his harsh voice.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Nicolaes was doubtful. He himself had never
been in love. He liked his young wife well enough; she was comely
and rich. But love? No, he could not say.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;She'll not know what has become of him,&quot;
Stoutenburg said, striving to allay his own doubts. &quot;And
women very quickly forget.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He sighed, proud of his own manly passion that
had survived so many vicissitudes, and was linked to such a tenacious
memory.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;We must not let her know,&quot; Nicolaes
insisted.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Stoutenburg gave a short, sardonic laugh. &quot;Are
you afraid she might kill you if she did?&quot; he queried.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then, as the other made no reply, but stood
there brooding, his soul a prey to a sudden horror, which was
not unlike a vague pang of remorse, Stoutenburg concluded cynically:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I'll give the order that every blind
beggar found wandering around the city be forthwith hanged on
the nearest tree. Will that allay your fears?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Thereafter he paid no further heed to Nicolaes,
whom, in his heart, he despised for a waverer and a weakling;
but he gave orders to his master of the camp to make an immediate
start for Amersfoort.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">~2</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Amersfoort had, in the meanwhile, so De Voocht
avers, become wonderfully calm. Those whose nerves would not stand
the strain of seeing the hated tyrants once more within the gates
of their peace-loving little city, those who had no responsibilities,
and those who had families, fled at the first rumour of the enemy's
approach. Indeed, for many hours the streets and open places,
the quays and the sleepy, sluggish river, had on the first day
been nothing short of a pandemonium. Then everything gradually
became hushed and tranquil. Those who were panic-stricken had
all gone by nightfall; those who remained knew the risk they were
taking, and sat in their homes, waiting and pondering. Amersfoort
that evening might have been a city of the dead.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Darkness set in early, and the sea-fog thickened
at sundown. Some wiseacres said that the Spaniards would not come
until the next day. They proved to be right. The dawn had hardly
spread o'er the whole of the eastern sky on the morning of the
twenty-second, when the master of the enemy's camp was heard outside
the ramparts, demanding the surrender of the city.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The summons was received in absolute silence.
The gates were open, and the mercenaries marched in. In battle
array, with banners flying, with pikemen, halberdiers and arquebusiers;
with fifes and drums and a trainload of wagons and horses, and
the usual rabble of beggarly camp followers, they descended on
the city like locusts; and soon every tavern was filled to overflowing
with loud-voiced, swarthy, ill-mannered soldiery, and all the
streets and places encumbered with their carts and their horses
and their trappings.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">They built a bonfire in the middle of the market-place,
and all around it a crowd of out-at-elbows ruffians, men, women,
and children, filled the air with their shrieks and their bibulous
songs. Some four thousand troops altogether, so De Voocht states,
spread themselves out over the orderly, prosperous town, invaded
the houses, broke open the cellars and storehouses, made the day
hideous with their noise and their roistering.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">As many as could found shelter in the deserted
homes of the burghers; others used the stately kerks as stabling
for their horses and camping ground for themselves. The inhabitants
offered no resistance. A century of unspeakable tyranny ere they
had gained their freedom had taught them the stern lesson of submitting
to the inevitable. The Stadtholder had ordered them to submit.
Until he could come to their rescue they must swallow the bitter
cup of resignation to the dregs. It could not be for long. He
who before now had swept the Spanish hordes off the sacred soil
of the United Provinces could do so again. It was only a case
for a little patience. And patience was a virtue which these grave
sons of a fighting race knew how to practise to its utmost limit.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And so the burghers of Amersfoort who had remained
in the city in order to watch over its fate and over their property
submitted without murmur to the arrogant demands of the invaders.
Their wives ministered in proud silence to the wants of the insolent
rabble. The saw their dower-chests ransacked, their effects destroyed
or stolen, their provisions wasted and consumed. They waited hand
and foot, like serving wenches, upon their tyrants; for, indeed,
it had been the proletariat who had been the first to flee.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">They even succeeded in keeping back their tears
when they saw their husbands -- the more noted burghers of the
town -- dragged as hostages before the commander of the invading
troops, who had taken up his quarters in the burgomaster's house.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">That commander was the Lord of Stoutenburg.
In high favour with the Archduchess now, he had desired leave
to carry through this expedition to Amersfoort. Private grudge
against the man who had robbed him of Gilda, or lust for revenge
against the Stadtholder for the execution of Olden Barneveldt,
who can tell? Who can read the inner workings of a tortuous brain,
or appraise the passions of an embittered heart?</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Attended by all the sinister paraphernalia
which he now affected, the Lord of Stoutenburg entered Amersfoort
in the late afternoon as a conqueror, his eyes glowing with the
sense of triumph over a successful rival and of power over a disdainful
woman. The worthy citizens of the little town gazed with astonishment
and dread upon his sable banner, broidered in silver with a skull
and crossbones -- the emblem of his relentlessness, now that the
day of reckoning had come.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He rode through the city, hardly noticing its
silent death-like appearance. Not one glance did he bestow on
the closed shutters to the right or left of him. His eyes were
fixed upon the tall pinnacled roof of the burgomaster's house,
silhouetted against the western sky, the stately abode on the
quay where, in the days long since gone by, he had been received
as an honoured guest. Since then what a world of sorrow, of passion,
of endless misery had been his lot! It seemed as if, on the day
when he became false to Gilda Beresteyn in order to wed the rich
and influential daughter of Marnix de St. Aldegonde, fickle fortune
had finally turned her back on him. His father and brother ended
their days of the scaffold; his wife, abandoned by him and broken-hearted;
he himself a fugitive with a price upon his head, a potential
assassin, and that vilest thing on earth, a man who sells his
country to her enemies.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">No wonder that, at a comparatively early age,
the Lord of Stoutenburg looked a careworn and wearied man. The
lines on his face were deep and harsh, his hair was turning grey
at the temples. Only the fire in his deepset eyes was fierce and
strong, for it was fed with the fire of an ever-enduring passion
-- hatred. Hatred of the Stadtholder; hatred of the nameless adventurer
who had thwarted him at every turn; hatred of the woman who had
shut him out wholly from her heart.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But now the hour of triumph had come. For it
had schemed and lied and striven and never once given way to despair.
It had come, crowned with immeasurable success. The Stadtholder
-- thanks to the subtle poison of an infamous Borgia, administered
by a black-hearted assassin -- was nothing but a physical wreck;
whilst those who had brought him -- Stoutenburg -- to his knees
three short months ago were at his mercy at last. A longing as
cruel as it was vengeful had possession of his soul whenever he
thought of these two facts.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">His schemes were not yet mature, and he had
not yet arrived at any definite conclusion as to how he would
reach the ultimate goal of his desires; but this he did know --
that the Stadtholder was too sick to put up a fight for Amersfoort,
and that Gilda and her stranger lover were definitely parted,
and both of them entirely in his power. Their fate was as absolutely
in his hands as his had once been in theirs. And the Lord of Stoutenburg,
with his eyes raised to the pinnacled roof of the house that sheltered
the woman whom he still loved with such passionate ardour, felt
that for the first time for this man a year he might count himself
as almost happy.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">~3</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Nicolaes Beresteyn was among the last to enter
his native city. He did so as a shameless traitor, a dishonoured
gambler who had staked his all upon a hellish die. Indeed now
he seemed like a man possessed, careless of his crime, exulting
in it even. The vague fear of meeting his father and Gilda eye
to eye seemed somehow to add zest to his adventure. He did not
know how much they knew, or what they guessed, but felt a strange
thrill within his tortuous soul at the thought of standing up
before them as their master, of defying them and deriding their
reproaches.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">His young wife he knew to be away. Her father
had started off for Amsterdam with his family and his servants
at the first rumour of the enemy's approach. In any case she was
his. She and her wealth and Mynheer van den Poele's influence
and business connexions. He -- Nicolaes -- who had always been
second in his father's affections always subservient to Gilda
and to Gilda's interests, and who since that affair in January
had been treated like a skulking schoolboy in the paternal home,
would now rule there as a conqueror, a protector on whose magnanimity
the comfort of the entire household would depend.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">These and other thoughts -- memories, self-pity,
rage, too, and hatred, and imputations against fate -- coursed
through his mind as he rode into his native city at the head of
the rearguard of Stoutenburg's troops. He drew rein outside his
father's house. Not the slightest stirring of his dormant conscience
troubled him as he ran swiftly up the familiar stone steps.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">With the heavy basket-hilt of his rapier he
rapped vigorously against the stout oak panels of the door, demanding
admittance in the name of the Archduchess Isabella, Sovereign
Liege Lady of the Netherlands. At once the doors flew open, as
if moved by a spring. Two elderly serving-men stood alone in the
hall, silent and respectful.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">At the sight of their young master they both
made a movement as if to run to him, deluded for the moment into
hopes of salvation, relief from this awful horror of imminent
invasion. But he paid no heed to them. His very look chilled them
and froze the words of welcome upon their lips, as he strode quickly
past them into the hall.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The shades of evening were now rapidly drawing
in. Except for the two serving-men, the house appeared deserted.
In perfect order, but strangely still and absolutely dark. As
he looked about him, Nicolaes felt as if he were in a vault. A
cold shiver ran down his spine. Curtly he bade the men bring lighted
candles into the banqueting-hall.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Here, too, silence and darkness reigned. In
the huge monumental hearth a few dying embers were still smouldering,
casting a warm glow upon the red tiles, and flicking the knobs
and excrescences of the brass tools with minute crimson sparks.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Nicolaes felt his nerves tingling. He groped
his way to one of the windows, and with an impatient hand tore
at the casement. Stoutenburg's troops were now swarming everywhere.
The quay was alive with movement. Some of the soldiers were bivouacking
against the house, had build up a fire, the ruddy glow of which,
together with the flicker of resin torches, thew a weird and uncertain
light into the room. Nicolaes felt his teeth chattering with cold.
His hands were like fire. Could it be that he was afraid -- afraid
that in a moment or two he would hear familiar footsteps coming
down the stairs, that in a moment or two he would have to face
the outraged father, come to curse his traitor son?</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Bah! This was sheer cowardice! But a brief
while ago he had exulted in his treachery, gloried in his callous
disregard of his monstrous crime. How it seemed to him that a
pair of sightless yet still mocking eyes glared at him from out
the gloom. With a shudder and a quickly smothered cry of horror,
Nicolaes buried his face in his hands.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The next moment the two serving-men came in,
carrying lighted candles in heavy silver candelabra. These they
set upon the table; and one of them, kneeling beside the hearth,
plied the huge bellows, coaxing the dying embers into flame. After
which they stood respectfully by, awaiting further commands. Obviously
they had had their orders -- absolute obedience and all those
outward forms of respect which they were able to accord. Nicolaes
looked at them with a fierce, defying glance. He knew them both
well. Greybeards in the service of his father, they had seen the
young master grow up from cradle to this hour when he stood, a
rebel and a skunk, on the paternal hearth.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But they did not flinch under his glance. They
knew that they had been specially chosen for the unpleasant task
of waiting upon the enemy commanders because their tempers had
no longer the ebullience of youth, and they might be trusted to
remain calm in the face of arrogance or even of savagery -- even
in the face of Mynheer Nicolaes, the child they had loved, the
youth they had admired, now a branded traitor, who had come like
a thief in the night to barter his honour for a crown of shame.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">~4</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A certain commotion outside on the quay proclaimed
the fact that the commander of the troops, the Lord of Stoutenburg,
had entered the town at the head of his bodyguard, and followed
by his master of the camp and his equerries.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He, too, made straight for the burgomaster's
house, brought his horse to a halt at the foot of the stone steps.
With a curt nod, Nicolaes bade the old crones to run to the front
door and receive his Magnificence. In this, as in everything else,
the men obeyed at once and in silence.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But already Stoutenburg, preceded by his equerries
and his torchbearers, had stepped across the threshold. He knew
his way well about the house. As boys, he and his brother Groeneveld
had played their games in and around the intricate passages and
stairs. As a young man he had sat in the deep window embrasures,
holding Gilda's hand, taking delight in terrifying her with his
impetuous love, and forcing her consent to his suit by his masterful
wooing. A world of memories, grave and gay, swept over him as
he entered the banqueting-hall, where, but for his many misfortunes
-- as he callously called h is crimes -- he would one day have
sat at the bridegroom's table beside Gilda, his plighted wife.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Both he and Nicolaes felt unaccountably relieved
at meeting one another here. For both of them, no doubt, the silence
and gloom of this memory-haunted house would in the long run have
proved unendurable.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I did not know that I should meet you
here,&quot; Stoutenburg exclaimed, as he grasped his friend by
the hand.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I thought it would be best,&quot; Nicolaes
replied curtly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But this warm greeting from the infamous arch-traitor,
in the presence of the two loyal old servants, brought a hot flush
to the young man's brow. The last faint warning from his drugged
conscience, mayhap. But the feeling of shame faded away as swiftly
as it had come, and the next moment he was standing by, impassive
and seemingly unconcerned, while the Lord of Stoutenburg gave
his orders to the men. <BR>
<BR>
These orders were to prepare the necessary beds for my lord and
for Mynheer Nicolaes Beresteyn, also for the equerries, and proper
accommodation for my lord's bodyguard, which consisted of twenty
musketeers with their captain. Moreover, to provide supper for
his Magnificence and mynheer in the banqueting-hall, and for the
rest of the company in some other suitable room, without delay.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The two old crones took the orders in silence,
bowed, and prepared to leave the room.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Stay,&quot; my lord commanded. &quot;Where
is the burgomaster?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;In his private apartments, so please
you,&quot; one of the men replied.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And his daughter?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The jongejuffrouw is with Mynheer the
Burgomaster.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Tell them both I want them to sup here
with me and Mynheer Nicolaes.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Again the men bowed with the same silent dignity.
It was impossible to gather from their stolid, mask-like faces
what their thoughts might be at this hour. When they had gone,
Stoutenburg peremptorily dismissed his equerries.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;If you have anything to complain of in
this house,&quot; he said curtly, &quot;come and report to me
at once. To-morrow we leave at dawn.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Both the equerries gave a gasp of astonishment.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;To-morrow?&quot; one of them murmured,
apparently quite taken aback by this order.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;At dawn,&quot; Stoutenburg reiterated
briefly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">This was enough. Neither did the equerries
venture on further remarks. They had served for some time now
under his Magnificence, knew his obstinacy and the irrevocableness
of his decisions when once he had spoken.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;No further commands until then, my lord?&quot;
was all that the spokesman said.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;None for you,&quot; Stoutenburg replied
curtly. &quot;But tell Jan that the moment -- the moment, you
understand -- that the burgomaster enters this room, he is to
be prevented from doing any mischief. If he carries a weapon,
he must at once be disarmed; if he resists, there should be a
length of rope handy wherewith to tie his hands behind his back.
But otherwise I'll not have him hurt. Understand?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Perfectly, my lord,&quot; the equerry
gave answer. &quot; 'Tis simple enough.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">~5</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Now the two friends -- brothers in crime --
were alone in the vast, panelled hall.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Nicolaes had said nothing, made no movement
of indignation or protest, when the other delivered his monstrous
and treacherous commands against the personal liberty of the burgomaster.
He had sat sullen and glowering, his head resting against his
hand.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Stoutenburg looked down on him for a moment
or two, his deep-set eyes full of that contempt which he felt
for this weak-kneed and conscience-plagued waverer. Then he curtly
advised him to leave the room.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You might not think it seemly,&quot;
he remarked with a sneer, &quot;to be present when I take certain
preventive measures against your father. These measures are necessary,
else I would not take them. You would not have him spitting some
of our men, or mayhap do himself or Gilda some injury, would you?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I was not complaining,&quot; Nicolaes
retorted dryly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Indeed, he obeyed readily enough. Now that
the time had come to meet his father, he shrank from the ordeal
with horror. It would have come, of course; but, like all weak
natures, Nicolaes was always on the side of procrastination. He
rose without another word, and, avoiding the main door of the
banqueting-hall, he went out by the back one, which gave on a
narrow antechamber and thence on the service staircase.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I'll remain in the ante-chamber,&quot;
he said. &quot;Call me when you wish.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Stoutenburg shrugged his shoulders. He was
glad to remain alone for awhile -- alone with that wealth of memories
which would not be chased away. Memories of childhood, of adolescence,
of youth untainted with crime; of love, before greed and ambition
had caused him to betray so basely the girl who had believed in
him.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;If Gilda had remained true to me,&quot;
he sighed, with almost cynical inconsequence, exacting fidelity
where he had given none. &quot;If she had stuck to me that night
in Haarlem everything would have been different.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He went up to the open window, and, leaning
his arm against the mullion, he gazed upon the busy scene below.
The current of cold, humid air appeared to do him good. His arquebusiers
and pikemen, bivouacking round the spluttering fires, striving
to keep the damp air out of their stiffening limbs; the shouts,
the songs, the peremptory calls; the shrieks of frightened women
and children; the loud Spanish oaths; the medley of curses in
every tongue -- all this confused din pertaining to strife seemed
to work like a tonic upon his brooding spirit. A blind beggar
soliciting alms among the soldiery chased all softer thoughts
away.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Hey, there!&quot; he shouted fiercely,
to one of the soldiers who happened just then to have caught his
eye, &quot;Have I not given orders that every blind beggar lurking
around the city be hung to the nearest tree?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The men laughed. A monstrously tyrannical order
such as that suited their present mood.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;But this one was inside the city, so
please your Magnificence,&quot; one of them protested with a cynical
laugh, &quot;when we arrived.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;All the more reason why he should be
hung forthwith!&quot; Stoutenburg riposted savagely in reply.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A loud guffaw greeted this inhuman order. His
Magnificence was loudly cheered, his health drunk in deep goblets
of stolen wine. Then a search was made for the blind beggar. But
he, luckily for himself, had in the meanwhile taken to his heels.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">~6</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The next moment a slight noise behind him caused
the Lord of Stoutenburg to turn on his heel. The door had been
thrown open, and the burgomaster, having his daughter on his arm,
stood upon the threshold. He was dressed in his robes of office,
with black cloak and velvet bonnet; but he wore a steel gorget
round his neck and rapier by his side.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">At the sight of his arch enemy, he had paused
under the lintel, and the ashen pallor of his cheeks became more
marked. But he had no time to move, for in an instant Jan and
three or four men were all around him.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">At this treacherous onslaught a fierce oath
escaped Beresteyn's lips. In an instant his sword was out of its
scabbard, he himself at bay, covering Gilda with his body, and
facing the men who had thus scurrilously rushed on him out of
the gloom.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But obviously resistance was futile. Already
he was surrounded and disarmed, Gilda torn forcibly away from
him, thrust into a corner, whilst he himself was rendered helpless,
even though he fought and struggled magnificently. The whole unequal
combat had only lasted a few seconds; and now the grand old man
stood like a fettered lion, glowering and defiant, his hands tied
behind his back with a length of rope, against which he was straining
with all his might.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">One of the most disloyal pitfalls ever devised
against an unsuspecting civilian -- and he the chief dignitary
of a peace-loving city. Stoutenburg watched the scene with an
evil glitter in his restless eyes. Shame and compunction did,
in truth, bear no part in his emotions at this moment. He was
exulting in the thought of his vile stratagem, pleased that he
had thought of enticing Gilda hither by summoning her father at
the same time. It was amusing to watch them both -- the burgomaster
still dignified, despite his helplessness, and Gilda beautiful
in her indignation. By St. Bavon, the girl was lovely, and still
desirable. And thank Beelzebub and all the powers of darkness
who lent their aid in placing so exquisite a prize in the hands
of the conqueror.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Stoutenburg could have laughed aloud with glee.
As it was, he made an effort to appear both masterful and indifferent.
He knew that he could take his time, that any scheme which he
might formulate for his own advancement and the satisfaction of
his every ambition was now certain of success. The future was
entirely his, to plan and mould at will.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">So now he deliberately turned back to the window,
closed it with a hand that had not the slightest tremor in it.
Then he returned to the centre of the room, sat down beside the
table, and took on a cool and judicial air. All his movements
were consciously slow. He looked at the burgomaster and at Gilda
with ostentatious irony, remained silent for awhile as if in pleasant
contemplation of their helplessness. &quot;You are in suspense,&quot;
his silence seemed to express. &quot;You know that your fate is
in my hands. But I can afford to wait, to take mine ease. I am
lord of the future, and you are little better than my slaves.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Was it not foolishness to resist, mynheer?&quot;
he said at last, in a tone of gentle mockery. &quot;Bloodshed,
eh? In truth, the role of fire-eater ill becomes your dignity
and your years.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Spare me your insults, my lord,&quot;
Beresteyn retorted, with calm dignity. &quot;What is your pleasure
with my daughter and with me?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I will tell you anon,&quot; Stoutenburg
replied coolly, &quot;when you are more composed.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I am ready now to hear your commands.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Quite submissive, eh?&quot; the other
retorted with a sneer.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;No; only helpless, and justly indignant
at this abominable outrage.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Also surprised -- what? -- at seeing
me here to-night?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;In truth, my lord, I had not expected
to see the son of Olden Barneveldt at the head of enemy troops.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Or your son in his train, eh?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The burgomaster winced at the taunt. But he
rejoined quite simply:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;If what rumour says is true, my lord,
then I have no son.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;If,&quot; Stoutenburg retorted dryly,
&quot;rumour told you that Nicolaes Beresteyn hath returned to
his allegiance, then the jade did not lie. Your son, mynheer,
hath shown you which way loyalty lies. Not in the service of a
rebel prince, but in that of Archduchess Isabella, our Sovereign
Liege.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He paused, as if expecting some word of reply
from the burgomaster; but as the latter remained silent, he went
on more lightly:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;But enough of this. Whether you, Mynheer
Beresteyn, and your son do make up your differences presently
is no concern of mine. You will see him anon, no doubt, and can
then discuss your family affairs at your leisure. For the nonce,
I do desire to know whether your city intends to be submissive.
I have exercised great leniency up to this hour; but you must
remember that I am equally ready to punish at the slightest sign
of contumely or of resistance to my commands.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;For the leniency to which the Lord of
Stoutenburg lays claim,&quot; Beresteyn rejoined with perfect
dignity, &quot;in that, up to this hour he has not murdered our
peaceful citizens, burned down our houses, or violated our homes,
we tender him our thanks. As for the future, the treacherous pitfall
into which I have fallen, and the unwarrantable treatment that
is meted out to me, will mayhap prove to my unfortunate fellow-citizens
that resistance to overwhelming force is worse than useless.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Excellent sentiments, mynheer!&quot;
Stoutenburg retorted. &quot;Dictated, I make no doubt, by one
who knows the usages of war.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;We do all of us,&quot; the burgomaster
gave quiet answer, &quot;obey the behests of our Stadtholder,
our Sovereign Liege.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The rebel prince, mynheer, who, by commanding
you to submit, hath for once gauged rightly the temper of the
Sovereign whom he hath outraged. Will you tell me, I pray you,&quot;
Stoutenburg added, with a sardonic grin, &quot;whether the jongejuffrouw
your daughter is equally prepared to obey Maurice of Nassau's
behests and submit to my commands?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">At this cruel thrust an almost imperceptible
change came over the burgomaster's calm, dignified countenance;
and even this change was scarce noticeable in the uncertain, flickering
light of the wax candles. Perhaps he had realized, for the first
time, the full horror of his position, the full treachery of the
snare which had been laid for him, and which left him, pinioned
and helpless, at the mercy of an unscrupulous and cowardly enemy.
Not only him, but also his daughter.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A groan like that of a wounded beast escaped
his lips, and his powerful arms and shoulders strained at the
cords that fettered him. Nevertheless, after a very brief moment
of silence he rejoined with perfect outward calm:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;My daughter, my lord, was under my protection
until vile treachery rendered me helpless. Now that her father
can no longer watch over her, she is under the protection of every
man of honour.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;That is excellently said, mynheer,&quot;
Stoutenburg replied. &quot;And in a few words you have put the
whole situation tersely and clearly. You have orders from the
Stadtholder to obey my commands; therefore I do but make matters
easier for you by having you removed to your apartments, instead
of merely commanding you to return thither -- an order which,
if you were free, you might have been inclined to disobey.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;A truce on your taunts, my lord!&quot;
broke in the burgomaster firmly. &quot;What is your pleasure with
us?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Just what I have had the honour to tell
you,&quot; Stoutenburg replied coolly. &quot;That you return forthwith
to your apartments.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;But my daughter, my lord?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;She sups here, with her brother Nicolaes
and with me.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot; 'Tis only my dead body you'll drag away
from here,&quot; the burgomaster rejoined quietly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Once more Stoutenburg broke into that harsh,
mirthless laugh which had become habitual to him and which seemed
to find its well-spring in the bitterness of his soul.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Fine heroics, mynheer!&quot; he said
derisively. &quot;But useless, I fear me, and quite unnecessary.
Were I to assure you that your daughter hath ceased to rouse the
slightest passion in my heart or to stir my senses in any way,
you would mayhap not credit me. Yet such is the case. The jongejuffrouw,
I'll have you believe, will be as safe with me as would the ugliest
old hag out of the street.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Nevertheless, my lord,&quot; Beresteyn
rejoined with calm dignity, &quot;whilst I live I remain by my
daughter's side.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Stoutenburg shrugged his shoulders.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Jan,&quot; he called, &quot;take mynheer
the burgomaster back to his apartments. I have no further use
for him.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">~7</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Mynheer Beresteyn was still a comparatively
young and vigorous man. In his day, he had been counted one of
the finest soldiers in the armies of the Prince of Orange, and
had accomplished prodigies of skill and valour at Turnhout and
Ostend. The feeling that at this moment, when he would have given
his life to protect his daughter, he was absolutely helpless,
was undoubtedly the most cruel blow he had ever had to endure
at the hands of Fate. His eyes, pathetic in their mute appeal
for forgiveness, sought those of Gilda. She had remained perfectly
still all this while, silent in the dark corner whither Jan and
the soldiers had thrust her at their first onslaught on the burgomaster.
But she had watched the whole scene with ever-increasing horror,
not at thought of herself, of her own danger, only of her father
and all that he must be suffering. Now her one idea was to reassure
him, to ease the burden of sorrow and of wrath which his own impotence
must have laid upon his brave soul.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Before any of the men could stop her, she had
evaded them. Swift and furtive as a tiny lizard, she had wormed
her way between them to her father's side. Now she had her arms
round his neck, her head against his breast.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Do not be anxious because of me, father
dear,&quot; she whispered under her breath. &quot;God hath us
all in His keeping. Have no fear for me.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A deep groan escaped the old man's breast.
His eyes, fierce and indignant, rested with an expression of withering
contempt upon his enemy.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Jan,&quot; Stoutenburg broke in harshly,
&quot;didst not hear my commands?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Four pairs of hands immediately closed upon
the burgomaster. He, like a creature at bay, started to struggle.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Some one knock that old fool on the head!&quot;
his lordship shouted with a fierce oath.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And Jan raised his fist, overwilling to obey.
But, with a loud cry of indignation, Gilda had already interposed.
She seized the man's wrist with her own small hands and turned
flaming eyes upon Stoutenburg.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Violence is unnecessary, my lord,&quot;
she said, vainly striving to speak coolly and firmly. &quot;My
father will go quietly, and I will remain here to listen to what
you have to say.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Bravely spoken!&quot; Stoutenburg rejoined
with a sneer. &quot;And you, Mynheer Beresteyn, would do well
to learn wisdom at so fair a source. You and your precious daughter
will come to no harm if you behave like reasonable beings. There
is such a thing,&quot; he added cynically, &quot;as submitting
to the inevitable.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Do not trust him, Gilda,&quot; the old
man cried. &quot;False to his country, false to his wife and kindred,
every word which he utters is a lie or a blasphemy.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Enough of this wrangle,&quot; Stoutenburg
exclaimed, wrathful and hoarse. &quot;Jan, take that ranting dotard
away!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then it was that, just before the men had time
to close in all round the burgomaster, Gilda, placing one small,
white hand upon her father's arm, pointed with the other to the
door at the far end of the room. Instinctively the old man's glance
turned in that direction. The door was open, and Nicolaes stood
upon the threshold. He had heard his father's voice, Stoutenburg's
brutal commands, his sister's cry of indignation.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Nicolaes is here, father dear,&quot;
Gilda said simply. &quot;God knows that he is naught but an abominable
traitor, yet methinks that even he hath not fallen so low as to
see his own sister harmed before his eyes.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">At sight of his son an indefinable look had
spread over the burgomaster's face. It seemed as if an invisible
and ghostly hand had drawn a filmy grey veil all over it. And
a strange hissing sound -- the intaking of a laboured sigh --
burst through his tightly set lips.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Go!&quot; he cried to his son, in a dull,
toneless voice, which nevertheless could be heard, clear and distinct
as a bell, from end to end of the vast hall. &quot;A father's
curse is potent yet, remember!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Nicolaes broke into a forced and defiant laugh,
tried to assume a jaunty, careless air, which ill agreed with
his pallid face and wild, scared eyes. But, before he could speak,
Jan and the soldiers had finally seized the burgomaster and forcefully
dragged him out of the room.<BR>
</FONT></P>

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  <TITLE>Chp 10 - A Prince of Darkness</TITLE>
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<H3><CENTER><FONT FACE="Lucida Calligraphy">CHAPTER X - A PRINCE
OF DARKNESS</FONT></CENTER></H3>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">~1</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Gilda had seen her father dragged away from
her side without a tear. Whatever tremor of apprehension made
her heart quiver after she had seen the last of him, she would
not allow these two men to see.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She was not afraid. When a woman has suffered
as Gilda had suffered during these past two days, there is no
longer in her any room for fear. Not for physical fear, at any
rate. All her thoughts, her hopes, her anxieties were concentrated
on the probable fate of her beloved. That unerring instinct which
comes to human beings when they are within measurable distance
of some acute, unknown danger amounts at times to second sight.
This was the case with Gilda. With the eyes of her soul she could
see and read something of what went on in her enemy's tortuous
brain. She could see that he knew something about her beloved,
and that he meant to use that knowledge for his own abominable
ends. What these were she could not divine. Prescience did not
go quite so far. But it had served her in this, that when her
father was taken away she had just sufficient time and strength
of will to brace herself up for the ordeal which was to come.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It is always remarkable when a woman, young
and brought up in comparative seclusion and ignorance, is able
to face moral danger with perfect calm and cool understanding.
It was doubly remarkable in the case of a young girl like Gilda.
She was only just twenty, had been the idol of her father; motherless,
she had no counsels from those of her own sex, and there are always
certain receptacles in a woman's soul which she will never reveal
to the most loving, most indulgent father.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Three months ago, this same absolutely innocent,
unsophisticated girl had suddenly been confronted with the vehement,
turbulent passions of men. She had seen them in turmoil all round
her -- love, hatred, vengeance, treachery -- she herself practically
the pivot around which they raged. Out of the deadly strife she
had emerged pure, happy in the arms of the man whom her wondrous
adventures as much as his brilliant personality had taught her
to love.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Since then her life had been peaceful and happy.
She had allowed herself to be worshipped by that strangely captivating
lover of hers, whose passionately wilful temperament, tempered
by that persistent, sunny gaiety she had up to now only half understood.
He made her laugh always made her taste a strange and exquisite
bliss when he held her in his arms. But withal she had up till
now kept an indulgent smile in reserve for his outbursts of vehemence,
for his wayward, ofttimes irascible moods, his tearing impatience
when she was away from him. Her love for him in the past had been
almost motherly in its tenderness.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Somehow, with his absence, with the danger
which threatened him, all that had become changed, intensified.
The tenderness was still in her heart for him, an exquisite tenderness
which caused her sheer physical ache now, when her mind conjured
up that brief vision which she had had of him yesterday morning,
wearied, with shoulders bent, his face haggard above a three-day's
growth of beard, his eyes red-rimmed and sunken. But with that
tenderness there was mingled at this hour a feeling which was
akin to fierceness -- the primeval desire of the woman to defend
and protect her beloved -- that same tearing impatience with Fate,
of which he had been wont to suffer, for keeping him away from
her sheltering arms.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Oh, she understood his vehemence now! No longer
could she smile at his fretfulness. She, too, was a prey at this
hour to a wildly emotional mood, tempest-tossed and spirit-stirring;
her very soul crying out for him. And she hated -- ay, hated with
an intensity which she herself scarcely could apprise -- this
man whom she knew to be his deadly enemy.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">~2</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Sit down, sister; you are overwrought.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Nicolaes' cool, casual words brought her straightway
back to reality. Quietly, mechanically she took the seat which
he was offering -- a high-backed, velvet-covered chair -- the
one in which the Stadtholder had sat at her wedding feast. She
closed her eyes, and sat for a moment or two quite still. Visions
of joy and of happiness must not obtrude their softly insidious
presence beside the stern demands of the moment. Stoutenburg brought
a footstool, and placed it to her feet. She felt him near her,
but would not look on him, and he remained for awhile on his knees
close beside her, she unable to move away from him.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;How beautiful you are!&quot; he murmured,
under his breath.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Her hand was resting on the arm of her chair.
She felt his lips upon it, and quickly drew it back, wiping it
against her gown as if a slimy worm had left its trail upon her
fingers Seeing which, he broke into a savage curse and jumped
to his feet.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I thank you for the reminder, mejuffrouw,&quot;
he said coldly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">After which he sat down once more beside the
long centre table, at some little distance from her, but so that
the light from the candles fell upon her dainty figure, graceful
and dignified against the background of the velvet-covered chair,
the while his own face remained in shadow. Nicolaes, nervous and
restless, was pacing up and down the room.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">~3</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Allow me, mejuffrouw,&quot; Stoutenburg
began coolly after awhile, &quot;to tender you my sincere regrets
for the violence to which necessity alone compelled me to subject
the burgomaster; a worthy man, for whom, believe me, I entertain
naught but sincere regard.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I pray you, my lord,&quot; she retorted
with complete self-possession, &quot;to spare me this mockery.
Had you not determined to put an insult on me, an insult which,
apparently, you dared not formulate in the presence of my father.
You had not, of a certainty subjected him to such an outrage.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You misunderstand my motives, mejuffrouw.
There was, and is, no intention on my part to insult you. Surely,
as you yourself very rightly said just now, your brother's presence
is sufficient guarantee for that.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I said that, in order to quieten my father's
fears. The treacherous snare which you laid for him, my lord,
is proof enough of your cowardly intentions.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You do yourself no good, mejuffrouw,&quot;
rejoined the lord of Stoutenburg harshly, &quot;by acrimony or
defiance. I had to lure your father hither, else he would not
have allowed you to come. Violence to you -- though you may not
believe it -- would be repellent to me. But, having got you both
here, I had to rid myself of him, using what violence was necessary.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And why, I pray you, had you, as you
say, to rid yourself of my father? Were you afraid of him?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;No,&quot; he replied; &quot;but I am
compelled to put certain matters before you for your consideration,
and did not desire that you should be influenced by him.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A quick sigh of satisfaction -- or was it excitement?
-- escaped her breast. Fretful of all these preliminaries, which
she felt were but the opening gambits of his dangerous game, she
was thankful that, at last, he was coming to the point.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Let us begin, mejuffrouw,&quot; Stoutenburg
resumed, after a moment's deliberation, &quot;by assuring you
that the whereabouts of that gallant stranger who goes by the
name of Diogenes are known to me and to your brother Nicolaes.
To no one else.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He watched her keenly while he spoke. Shading
his eyes with his hand, he took in every transient line of her
face, noted the pallor of her cheeks, the pathetic droop of the
mouth. But he was forced to own that at that curt announcement,
wherewith he had intended to startle and to hurt, not the slightest
change came over her. She still sat there, cool and impassive,
her head resting against the velvet cushion of the chair, the
flickering light of the candle playing with the loose tendrils
of her golden hair. Her eyes he could not see, for they were downcast,
veiled by the delicate, blue-veined lids; but of a surety, not
the slightest quiver marred the perfect stillness of her lips.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">In truth, she had expected some such statement
from that execrable traitor. Her intuition had not erred when
it told her that, in some subtle, devilish way, he would use the
absence of her beloved as a tool wherewith to gain what he had
in view. Now what she realized most vividly was that she must
not let him see that she was afraid. Not even let him guess if
she were hurt. She must keep up a semblance of callousness before
her enemy for as long as she could. With her self-control, she
would lose her most efficacious weapon. Therefore, for the next
minute or two, she dared not trust herself to speak, lest her
voice, that one uncontrollable thing, betrayed her.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I await your answer, mejuffrouw,&quot;
Stoutenburg resumed impatiently, after awhile.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You have asked me no question, my lord,&quot;
she rejoined simply. &quot;Only stated a fact. I but wait to hear
your further pleasure.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;My pleasure, fair one,&quot; he went
on lightly, &quot;is only to prove to you that I, as ever before,
am not only your humble slave but also your sincere friend.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;A difficult task, my lord. But let me
see, without further preamble, I pray you, how you intend to set
about it.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;By trying to temper your sorrow with
my heartfelt sympathy,&quot; he murmured softly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;My sorrow?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I am forced to impart sad news to you,
alas!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;My husband is dead?&quot; The cry broke
from her heart, and this time she was unable to check it. Will
and pride had been easy enough at first. Oh, how easy! But not
now. Not in the face of this! She would have given worlds to appear
calm, incredulous. But how could she? How could she, when such
a torturing vision had been conjured up before her eyes?</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">For a moment it seemed as if reason itself
began to totter. She looked on the man before her, and he appeared
like a ghoulish fiend, with grinning jaws and sinister eyes, the
play of light behind him making his face appear black and hideous.
She put her hands up to her face, closed her eyes, and, oh, Heaven,
how she prayed for strength!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">None indeed but an implacable enemy, a jealous
suitor, could have seen such soul-agony without relenting. But
Stoutenburg was one of those hard natures which found grim pleasure
in wounding and torturing. His love for Gilda, intensely passionate
but never tender, was nothing now but fierce desire for mastership
of her and vengeance upon his successful rival. The girl's involuntary
cry of misery had been as balm to his evil soul. Now her hands
dropped once more on her lap. She looked at him straight between
the eyes, her own still a little wild, lit by a feverish brightness.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You have killed him,&quot; she said huskily.
&quot;Is that it? Answer me! You have killed him?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He put up his hand, smiling, as if to soothe
a crying child.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Nay! On my honour!&quot; he replied quietly.
&quot;I have not seen that gallant adventurer these three months
past.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Well, then?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Ask your brother Nicolaes, fair one.
He saw him but a few hours ago.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Ay, yesterday,&quot; she retorted. &quot;When
he tried to assassinate him. I saw the murderous hand uplifted;
I saw it all I tell you! And in my heart I cursed my only brother
for the vile traitor that he is. But, thank Heaven, my lord was
only hurt. I believe ---&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She paused, put her hand up to her throat.
The glance in Stoutenburg's eyes gave her a feeling as if she
were about to choke.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You are quite right, mejuffrouw,&quot;
he broke in drily, &quot;in believing that the intrepid Englishman
who, for reasons best known to himself, hath chosen to meddle
in the affairs of this country -- that he, I say, was only hurt
when your brother interposed yesterday betwixt him and the Stadtholder.
The two ragamuffins who usually hang around him did probably save
him from further punishment at the moment. But not altogether.
Nicolaes will tell you that, half an hour later, that same intrepid
and meddlesome English gentleman did once more try to interfere
in the affairs of our Sovereign Liege the Archduchess Isabella.
This time with serious consequences to himself.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;My brother Nicolaes,&quot; she murmured,
more quietly this time, &quot;hath killed my husband?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;No, no!&quot; here broke in Nicolaes
at last. &quot;The whole thing, I vow, was the result of an accident.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What whole thing?&quot; she reiterated
slowly. &quot;I pray you to be more explicit. What hath happened
to my husband?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The explosion of a pistol,&quot; Nicolaes
stammered, shamed out of his defiance at seeing his sister's misery,
yet angered with himself for this weakness. &quot;He is not dead,
I swear!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Maimed?&quot; she asked.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Blind,&quot; Nicolaes replied, &quot;but
otherwise well. I swear it!&quot; he protested, shutting his ears
to Stoutenburg's scornful laugh, his eyes to the other's sardonic
grin, his miserably weak nature swaying like a pendulum 'twixt
his ambition, his hatred of the once brilliant soldier of fortune,
and his dormant tenderness for the sweet and innocent sister to
whom his treacherous hand had dealt such a devilish blow.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">There was silence in the room now. Gilda had
uttered no cry when that same blow fell on her like a crash. It
had seemed to snap the very threads that held her to life. One
sigh, and one only, came through her lips, like the dying call
of a wounded bird. All feeling, all emotion, seemed suddenly to
have died out of her, leaving her absolutely numb, scarcely conscious,
with wide, unseeing eyes staring straight out before her, striving
to visualize that splendid creature, that embodiment of gaiety,
of laughter, of careless insouciance, stricken with impotence;
those merry, twinkling eyes sightless. The horror of it was so
appalling that it placed her for the moment beyond the power of
suffering. She was not a human being now at all; she had no soul,
no body, no life. Her senses had ceased to be. She neither saw
nor heard nor felt. She was just a thing, a block of insentient
stone into which life would presently begin to trickle slowly,
bringing with it a misery such as could not be endured even by
lost souls in hell.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">How the time went by she did not know.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Just before this awful thing had happened she
had chanced to look at the clock. It was then five minutes to
eight. But all this was in the past. She no longer heard the ticking
of the clock, nor her enemy's laboured breathing, nor Nicolaes'
shuffling footsteps at the far end of the room. Fortunately, she
could not see the triumph, the ominous sparkle, which glittered
in Stoutenburg's eyes. He knew well enough what she suffered,
or would be suffering anon when consciousness would return. Knew
and revelled in it. He was like those inquisitors, the unclean
spirits that waited on Spanish tyranny, who found their delight
in watching the agony of their victims on the rack; who treasured
every groan, exulted over every cry, wrung by unendurable bodily
pain. Only with him it was the moral agony of those whom he desired
to master that caused him infinite bliss. His stygian nature attained
a demoniacal satisfaction out of the mental torture which he was
able to inflict.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It is an undoubted fact that even the closest
scrutiny of contemporary chronicles has failed to bring to light
a single redeeming feature in this man's character, and all that
the most staunch supporters of the Barneveldt family can bring
forward in mitigation of Stoutenburg's crimes is the fact that
his whole soul had been warped by the judicial murder of his father
and of his elder brother, by his own consequent sufferings and
those of his unfortunate mother.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">~4</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You will, I hope, mejuffrouw, give me
the credit of having tried to break this sad news to you as gently
as I could.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The words, spoken in smooth, silky tones were
the first sounds that reached Gilda's returning perceptions. What
had occurred in between she had not the vaguest idea. She certainly
was still sitting in the same chair, with that sinister creature
facing her, and her brother Nicolaes skulking somewhere in the
gloom. The fire was still cracking in the hearth, the clock still
ticking with insentient monotony. A tiny fillet of air caused
the candle-light to flicker, and sent a thin streak of smoke upwards
in an ever-widening spiral.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">That streak of smoke was the first thing that
Gilda saw. It arrested her eyes, brought her back slowly to consciousness.
Then came Stoutenburg's hypocritical tirade. Her senses were returning
one by one. She even glanced up at the clock. It marked three
minutes before eight. Only two minutes had gone by. One hundred
and twenty seconds. And they appeared longer than the most phantasmagoric
conception of eternity. Two minutes! And she realized that she
was alive, that she could feel, and that her beloved was sightless.
Was it at all strange that, with return to pulsating life, there
should arise within her that indestructible attribute of every
human heart -- a faint germ of hope?</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">When first the awful truth was put before her
by her bitterest foe, she had not been conscious of the slightest
feeling of doubt. Nicolaes' stammering protests, his obvious desire
to minimise his own share of responsibility, had all helped to
confirm the revelation of a hideous crime.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;He is not dead, I swear!&quot; and &quot;He
is not otherwise hurt!&quot; which broke from the dastard's quaking
lips at the moment, had left no room for doubt or hope. At least,
so she thought. And even now that faint ray of light in the utter
blackness of her misery was too elusive to be of any comfort.
But it helped her to collect herself, to look those two craven
miscreants in the face. Nicolaes obviously dared not meet her
glance, but Stoutenburg kept his eyes fixed upon her, and the
look of triumph in them whipped up her dormant pride.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And now, when his double-tongued Pharisaism
reached her ear, she swallowed her dread, bade horror be stilled.
She knew that he was about to place an &quot;either--or&quot;
before her which would demand her full understanding, and all
the strength of mind and body that she could command. The fate
of her beloved was about to be dangled before her, and she would
be made to choose -- what?</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You began, my lord,&quot; she said, with
something of her former assurance -- and God alone knew what it
cost her to speak -- &quot;by saying that you desired to place
certain matters before me for my consideration. I have not yet
heard, remember, what those matters are.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;True -- true!&quot; he rejoined, with
hypocritical unction. &quot;But I felt it my duty -- my sad duty,
I may say ---&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;A truce on this hollow mockery!&quot;
she riposted. &quot;I pray you, come to the point.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The point is, fair one, that both Nicolaes
and I desire to compass your welfare,&quot; he retorted blandly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;This you can do best at this hour, my
lord, by allowing me to return to the privacy of mine apartments.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;So you shall, myn engel -- so you shall,&quot;
he rejoined suavely. &quot;You will need time to prepare for departure.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She frowned, puzzled this time.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;For departure?&quot; she asked, a little
bewildered.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I leave this town to-morrow at the head
of my troops.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Thank God for that!&quot; she rejoined
earnestly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And you, mejuffrouw,&quot; he added curtly,
&quot;will accompany us.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I?&quot; she asked, not altogether understanding,
the frown more deeply marked between her brows.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Methought I spoke clearly,&quot; he went
on, in his habitual harsh, peremptory tone. &quot;I only came
to this town in order to fetch you, myn engel. To-morrow we go
away together.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The folly of human grandeur hath clouded
your brain, my lord!&quot; she said coldly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;In what way?&quot; he queried, still
perfectly bland and mild.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You know well that I would sooner die
than follow you.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I know well that most women are over-ready
with heroics. But,&quot; he added, with a shrug of the shoulders,
&quot;these tantrums usually leave me cold. You are an intelligent
woman, mejuffrouw, and you have seen your valiant father resign
himself to the inevitable.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I pray you waste no words, my lord,&quot;
she rejoined coolly. &quot;Three months ago, when at Ryswick,
your crimes found you out, and you strove to involve me in your
own disgrace and ruin, I gave you mine answer -- the same that
I do now. My dead body you can take with you, but I, alive, will
never follow you!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot; 'Twas different then,&quot; he retorted,
with a cynical smile. &quot;You had a fortune-hunting adventurer
to hand who was determined to see that your father's shekels did
not lightly escape his grasp. To-day---&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;To-day,&quot; she retorted, and rose
to her feet, fronted him now, superb with indignation, &quot;he
is sightless, absent, impotent, you would say, to protect me against
your villainy! You miserable, slinking cur!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Stoutenburg's harsh, forced laugh broke in
upon her wrath.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Ah!&quot; he exclaimed lightly. &quot;You
little spit-fire! In very truth, I like you better in that mood.
Heroics do not become you, myn schat, and they are so unnecessary.
Did you perchance imagine that it was love for you that hath influenced
my decision to take you away from here?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I pray God, my lord, that I be not polluted
by as much as a thought from you!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Your prayers have been granted, fair
one,&quot; he retorted with a sneer. &quot; 'Tis but seldom I
think of you now, save as an exquisite little termagant whom it
will amuse me to tame. But this is by the way. That pleasure will
lose nothing by procrastination. You know me well enough by now
to realise that I am not likely to be lenient with you after your
vixenish treatment of me. For the nonce, I pray you to keep a
civil tongue in your head,&quot; he added roughly. &quot;On your
conduct at this hour will depend your future comfort. Nicolaes
will not always be skulking in dark corners, ready to interfere
if my manner become too rough.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;He is here now,&quot; she said boldly,
&quot;and if there is a spark of honour left in him he will conduct
me to my rooms!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">With this she turned and walked steadily across
the room. Even so his harsh laugh accompanied her as far as the
door. When her hand was upon the knob, he called lightly after
her:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The moment you step cross the threshold,
myn schat, Jan will bring you back here -- in his arms!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">~5</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Instinctively she paused, realizing that the
warning had come just in time -- that the next moment, in very
truth, she would be in the hands of those vile traitors who were
there ready to obey their master's every command. She paused,
too, in order to murmur a quick prayer for Divine guidance, seeing
that human protection was denied her at this hour. What could
she do? She was like a bird caught in a snare from which there
seemed to be no issue. Stoutenburg's sneering laugh rang in her
ear. He was beside her now, took her hand from the knob and held
it for a moment forcibly in his. His glance, charged with cruel
mockery, took in every line of her pallid face.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Heroics again, fair one!&quot; he said,
with an impish grin. &quot;Must I assure you once more that you
are perfectly safe with me? See, if you were in danger from me,
would not your brother interfere? Bah! Nicolaes knows well enough
that passion doth not enter into my schemes at this hour. My plans
are too vast to be swayed by your frowns or your smiles. I have
entered this city as a conqueror. As a conqueror I shall go out
of it to-morrow, and you will come with me. I shall go hence because
I choose, and for reasons which I will presently make clear to
you.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;But you shall come with me. When you
are with me in my camp, I may honour you as my future wife, or
cast you from me as I would a beggar. That will depend on my mood,
and upon your temper. Nicolaes will not be there to run counter
to my will. Therefore, understand me, my pretty fire-eater, that
from this hour forth you are as absolutely my property as my dogs
are, my horse, or the boots which I wear. I am the master here,&quot;
he concluded with strangely sinister calm, &quot;And my will alone
is law.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;A law unto yourself,&quot; she retorted,
faced him with absolute composure, neither defiant nor afraid,
her nerves quiescent, her voice perfectly steady, &quot;and mayhap
unto your cringing sycophants. But above your will, my lord, is
that of God; and neither death nor life are your slaves.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Ay! But methinks they are, myn engel,&quot;
he answered drily. &quot;Yours in any case.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;No human being, my lord, can lose the
freedom to die.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You think not?&quot; he sneered. &quot;Well,
we shall see.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He let go her hand, then quietly turned and
walked to the window, threw open the casement once more, then
beckoned to her. Strangely stirred, she followed, moved almost
mechanically by something she could not resist.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">At a sign from him she looked out upon the
busy scene on the quay below -- the enemy soldiers in possession,
their bivouac fires, their comings and goings, the unfortunate
citizens running hither and thither at their bidding, fetching
and carrying, hustled, pushed, beaten, ordered about with rough
words or the persuasive prod of pike or musket. A scene, alas,
which already as a child had been familiar to her. A peaceable
town in the hands of ruthless soldiery; the women fleeing from
threatened insults, children clinging to their mother's skirts,
men standing by, grim and silent, not daring to protest lest mere
resentment brought horrible reprisals upon the city.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Gilda looked out for awhile in silence, her
heart aching with the misery which she beheld, yet could not palliate.
Then she turned coldly inquiring eyes on the prime mover of it
all.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I have seen a reign of terror such as
this before, my lord,&quot; she said. &quot;I was at Leyden, as
you well know, and I have not forgotten.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;A reign of terror, you call it, mejuffrouw?&quot;
he retorted coolly. &quot;Nay, you exaggerate. What is this brief
occupation? To-morrow we go, remember. Is there a single house
demolished at this hour, a single citizen murdered? You are too
young to recollect Malines of Ghent, the reign of Alva over these
recalcitrant countries. I have been lenient so far. I have spared
fire and sword. Amersfoort still stands. It will stand to-morrow,
even after my soldiers have gone,&quot; he went on speaking very
slowly, &quot;if ---&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;If what, my Lord?&quot; she asked, for
he had paused.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The moment had come, then, the supreme hour
when that dreaded &quot;either--or&quot; would be put before her.
Even now he went on with that same sinister quietude which seemed
like the voice of some relentless judge, sent by the King of Darkness
to sway her destiny.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;If,&quot; Stoutenburg concluded drily,
&quot;you mejuffrouw, will accompany me. Oh,&quot; he added quickly,
seeing that at once she had resumed that air of defiance which
irritated even whilst it amused him. &quot;I do not mean as an
unwilling slave, pinioned to my chariot-wheel or strapped into
a saddle, nor yet as a picturesque corpse, with flowing hair and
lilies 'twixt your lifeless hands. No, no, fair one! I offer you
the safety of your native city, the immunity of your fellow-citizens,
in exchange for a perfectly willing surrender of your live person
into my charge.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She looked on him for awhile, mute with horror,
then murmured slowly:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Are you a devil, that you should propose
such an execrable bargain?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He laughed and shrugged his shoulders.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I am what you and my native land have
made me,&quot; he replied. &quot;As to that, the Stadtholder never
offered to bargain with me for my father's life.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Who but a prince of darkness would dream
of doing so?&quot; she retorted.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Call me that, an you wish, fair one,&quot;
he put in lightly; &quot;and come back to the point.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And the point is, my Lord?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;That I will respect this city if you
come to-morrow, willing and submissive, with me,&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;That, never!&quot; she affirmed hotly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;In that case,&quot; he riposted coldly,
&quot;my soldiers will have a free hand ere they quit the town,
to sack it at their pleasure. Pillage, arson, will be rewarded;
looting will be deemed a virtue, as will murder and outrage. Even
your father ---&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Enough, my lord!&quot; she exclaimed,
with passionate indignation. &quot;Tell me, I pray, which of the
unclean spirits of Avernus did suggest this infamy to you?&quot;
Then, as he met her burning glance with another careless shrug
and a mocking laugh, she turned to Nicolaes, and cried out to
him, almost with entreaty: &quot;Klaas! You at least are not a
party to such hideous villainy!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But he, sullen and shamefaced, only threw her
an angry look.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You make it very difficult for us, Gilda,&quot;
he said moodily, &quot;by your stupid obstinacy.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Obstinacy?&quot; she retorted, puzzled
at the word. Then reiterated it once or twice. &quot;Obstinacy
-- obstinacy? My God, hath the boy gone mad?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What else is it but obstinacy?&quot;
he rejoined vehemently. &quot;You know that, despite all he says,
Stoutenburg hath never ceased to love you. And now that he is
master here you are lucky indeed to have him as a suitor. He means
well by you, by us all, else I were not here. Think what it would
mean to me, to father, to everyone of us, if you were Stoutenburg's
wife. But you jeopardize my future and the welfare of us all by
those foolish tantrums.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She gazed on him in utter horror -- on this
brother whom she loved; could scarcely believe her ears that it
was he -- really he -- who was uttering such odious words. She
felt her gorge rising at this callous avowal of a wanton and insulting
treachery. And he, feeling the contempt which flashed on him from
her glowing eyes, avoided her glance, tried to shift his ground,
to argue his point with the sophistry peculiar to a traitor, and
sank more deeply every moment into the mire of dishonour.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;It is time you realized, Gilda,&quot;
he said, &quot;that our unfortunate country must sooner or later
return to her true allegiance. The Stadtholder is sick. His arbitrary
temper hath alienated some of his staunchest friends. The Netherlands
are the unalienable property of Spain; though two rebel princes
have striven to wrest them from their rightful master, the might
of Spain was sure to be felt in the end. 'Twas folly ever to imagine
that this so-called Dutch Republic would ever abide; and the hour,
though tardy, has struck at last when such senseless dreams must
come to an end.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Well spoken, friend Nicolaes!&quot; Stoutenburg
put in lustily. &quot;In verity, our Liege Lady the Archduchess
Isabella, whom may God protect, could with difficulty find a more
eloquent champion.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Or our noble land so vile a traitor!&quot;
Gilda murmured, burning now with shame. &quot;Thank Heaven, Nicolaes,
that our poor father is not here, for the disgrace of it all would
have struck him dead at your feet. Would to God,&quot; she murmured
under her breath, &quot;that it killed me now!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;An undutiful prayer, myn engel,&quot;
Stoutenburg rejoined, &quot;seeing that its fulfilment would mean
that Amersfoort and her citizens would be wiped off the face of
the earth.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">This time he spoke quite quietly, without any
apparent threat, only with determination, like one who knows that
he is master and hath full powers to see his will obeyed. She
looked at him keenly for a moment or two, wondering if she could
make him flinch, if she could by word or prayer shake him in that
devilish purpose which in truth must have found birth through
the whisperings of uncanny fiends.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Gilda gazed critically at his lean, hard face
with the sunken, restless eyes that spoke so eloquently of disappointed
hopes and frustrated ambitions; the mouth, thin-lipped and set;
the unshaven chin; the hollow temples and grizzled hair. She took
in every line of his tall, gaunt figure; the shoulders already
bent, the hands fidgety and claw-like; the torn doublet and shabby
boots, all proclaiming the down-at-heel adventurer who has staked
his all -- honour, happiness, eternity -- for ambition; has staked
all he possessed and played a losing game.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But for pity or compunction Gilda sought in
vain. The glance which after awhile was raised to hers revealed
nothing but unholy triumph and a cruel, callous mockery. In truth,
that glance had told her that she could expect neither justice
nor mercy from him, and had spared her the humiliation of a desperate
and futile appeal.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A low moan escaped her lips. She tottered slightly,
and felt her knees giving way under her.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Vaguely she put out her hand, fearing that
she might fall. Even so, she swayed backwards, feeling giddy and
sick. But the dread of losing consciousness before this man whom
she loathed and despised kept up both her courage and her endurance.
She felt the panelling of the window-embrasure behind her, and
leaned against it for support.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">~6</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Stoutenburg had made no effort to come to her
assistance, neither had Nicolaes. Probably both of them knew that
she would never allow either of them to touch her. But Stoutenburg's
mocking glance had pursued her all through her valiant fight against
threatening unconsciousness. Now that she leaned against the framework
of the window, pale and wraith-like, only her delicate profile
vaguely distinguishable in the semi-gloom, her lips parted as
if to drink in the cold evening air, she looked so exquisite,
so desirable, that he allowed his admiration of her to override
every other thought.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You are lovely, myn schat,&quot; he said
quietly. &quot;Exquisite and worthy to be a queen. And, by Heaven,&quot;
he exclaimed with sudden passion, &quot;you'll yet live to bless
this hour when I broke your obstinacy. Hand in hand, myn engel,
you and I, we'll be masters of this beautiful land. I feel that
I could do great things if I had you by my side. Listen, Gilda,&quot;
he went on eagerly, thinking that because she remained silent
and motionless she had given up the fight, and was at last resigned
to the inevitable -- &quot;listen, my beautiful little vixen!
The Archduchess will wish to reward me for this; the capture of
Amersfoort is no small matter, and I have further projects in
mind. In the meanwhile, De Berg hath already hinted that she might
re-establish the republic under the suzerainty of Spain, and appoint
me as her Stadtholder. Think, myn Geliefde: think what a vista
of glorious, satisfied ambition lies before us both! Nay, before
us all. Your father, chief pensionary; Nicolaes, general of our
armies; your family raised above every one in the land. You'll
thank me, I say; thank me on your knees for my constancy and for
my unwavering loyalty to you. And even to-night, presently, when
you are quite calm and at rest, you'll pray to your God, I vow,
for His blessing upon your humble and devoted slave.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He bent the knee when he said this, still scornful
even in this affectation of humility, and raised the hem of her
gown to his lips. She did not look down on him, nor did she snatch
her skirts out of his hand. She just stared straight out before
her, and said slowly, with great deliberation:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;To-night -- presently -- when I am at
rest -- I will pray God to kill you ere you put your monstrous
threat into execution.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">With a light laugh he jumped to his feet.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Still the shrewish little vixen, what?&quot;
he said carelessly. &quot;Yet, see what a good dog I am. I'll
not bear resentment, and you shall have the comfort of your father's
company at the little supper party which I have prepared. Only
the four of us, you and the burgomaster, and Nicolaes and I; and
we can discuss the arrangements for our forthcoming wedding, which
shall be magnificent, I promise you. But be sure of this, fair
one,&quot; he went on harshly, drew up his gaunt figure to its
full height, &quot;that what I've said I've said. To-morrow at
sunrise I go hence, and you come with me, able-bodied and willing,
to a place which I have in mind. But this city will be the hostage
for your good behaviour. My soldiers remain here under the command
of one Jan, who obeys all my behests implicitly and without question,
because he hates the Stadtholder as much as I do, and hath a father's
murder to avenge against that tyrant, just as I have. Jan will
stay in Amersfoort until I bid him go. But at one word from me,
this city will be reduced to ashes, and not one man, woman or
child shall live to tell the tale of how the jongejuffrouw Gilda
Beresteyn set her senseless obstinacy above the lives of thousands.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Think not that I'll relent,&quot; he
concluded, and once more turned to the open window, gazed down
upon the unfortunate city which he had marked as the means to
his fiendish ends. His restless eyes roamed over the busy scene;
his soldiers, his -- the executioners who would carry out his
will! Never had he been so powerful; never had his ambition been
so near its goal! It had all come together -- the humiliation
of the Stadtholder, his own success in this daring enterprise,
Gilda entirely at his mercy! Success had crowned all his nefarious
schemes at last. &quot;Nothing will change me from my purpose,&quot;
he said, with all the harsh determination which characterized
his every action -- &quot;nothing! Neither your tears nor your
frowns nor your prayers. There is no one, understand me, no one
who can stand between me and my resolve.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;No one but God,&quot; she murmured under
her breath. &quot;Oh, God, protect me now! My God, save me from
this!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Dizzy, moving like a sleep-walker, she tried
to hold herself erect, tried to move from the window, and from
the propinquity of that execrable miscreant.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Have I your permission to go now?&quot;
she murmured faintly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Yes,&quot; he replied; &quot;to your
father. I'll order Jan to release our worthy burgomaster, and
you and he can pray for my demise at your leisure. Whether you
confide in him or not is no concern of mine. I would have you
remember that my promise to respect this city and her inhabitants
only holds good if you, of your own free will, come with me to-morrow.
Amersfoort shall live if you come willingly. You are the best
judge whether your father would be the happier for this knowledge.
Methinks it would be kinder to let him think that you come to-morrow
as my willing bride. But that is for you to decide. I want him
here anon to give his blessing upon our future union in the presence
of your brother Nicolaes. I wish the bond to be made irrevocable
as soon as may be. If you or your father break it afterwards,
it will be the worse for Amersfoort. Try and believe that the
alternative is one of complete indifference to me. I have everything
in the world now that I could possibly wish for. My ambition is
completely satisfied. To have you as my wife would only be the
pandering to a caprice. And now you may go, myn schat,&quot; he
concluded. &quot;The destinies of your native city are in your
dainty hands.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He watched her progress across the room with
a sarcastic grin. But in his heart he was conscious of a bitter
disappointment. Unheard by her, he muttered under his breath:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;If only she would care, how different
everything might be!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Aloud he called to Nicolaes: &quot;Escort your
sister, man, into the presence of the burgomaster! And see that
Jan and a chosen few form a guard of honour on the passage of
the future Lady of Stoutenburg.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Nicolaes hastened to obey. Gilda tried to check
him with a brief. &quot;I thank you; I would prefer to go alone!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But already he had thrown open the door, and
anon his husky voice could be heard giving orders to Jan.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Gilda, at the last, turned once more to look
on her enemy. He caught her eye, bowed very low, his hand almost
touching the ground ere he brought it with a sweeping flourish
back to his breast, in the most approved fashion lately brought
in from France.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;In half an hour supper will be served,&quot;
he said. &quot;I await the honour of the burgomaster's company
and of your own!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And he remained in an attitude of perfect deference
whilst she passed silently out of the room.</FONT></P>

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  <TITLE>Chp 11 - The Danger-Spoke</TITLE>
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<H3><CENTER><FONT FACE="Lucida Calligraphy">CHAPTER XI - THE DANGER-SPOKE</FONT></CENTER></H3>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">~1</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Gilda had refused her brother's escort, preferring
to follow Jan; and Nicolaes, half indifferent, half ashamed, watched
her progress up the stairs, and when she had disappeared in the
gloom of the corridor above, he went back to his friend.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The two old serving-men were now busy in the
banqueting-hall, bringing in the supper. They set the table with
silver and crystal goblets, with jugs of Spanish and Rhenish wines,
and dishes of cooked meats. They came and went about their business
expeditiously and silently, brought in two more heavy candelabra
with a dozen or more lighted candles in their sconces, so that
the vast room was brilliantly lit. They threw fresh logs upon
the fire, so that the whole place looked cosy and inviting.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Stoutenburg had once more taken up his stand
beside the open window. Leaning his arm against the mullion, he
rested his head upon it. Bitterness and rage had brought hot tears
to his eyes. Somehow it seemed to him as if in the overflowing
cup of his triumph something had turned to gall. Gilda eluded
him. He could not understand her. The experience which he had
of women had taught him that these beautiful and shallow creatures,
soulless for the most part and heartless, were easily to be cajoled
with soft words and bribed with wealth and promises. Yet he had
dangled before Gilda's eyes such a vision of glory and exalted
position as should have captured, quite unconditionally, the citadel
of her affections, and she had remained indifferent to it all.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He had owned himself still in love with her,
and she had remained quite callous to his ardour. He had tried
indifference, and had only been paid back in his own coin. To
a man of Stoutenburg's intensely egotistical temperament, there
could only be one explanation to this seeming coldness. The wench's
senses -- it could be nothing more -- were still under the thrall
of that miserable adventurer who, thank Beelzebub and his horde,
had at last been rendered powerless to wreak further mischief.
There could be, he argued to himself, no aversion in her heart
for one who was so ready to share prosperity, power, and honour
with her, to forgive and forget all that was past, to raise her
from comparative obscurity to the most exalted state that had
ever dazzled a woman's fancy and stormed the inmost recesses of
her soul.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She was still infatuated with the varlet, and
that was all. A wholly ununderstandable fact. Stoutenburg never
could imagine how she had ever looked with favour on such an adventurer,
whose English parentage and reputed wealth were, to say the least,
problematical. Beresteyn had been a fool to allow his only daughter
to bestow her beauty and her riches on a stranger, about whom
in truth he knew less than nothing. The girl, bewitched by the
rascallion, had cajoled her father and obtained his consent. Now
she was still under the spell of a handsome presence, a resonant
voice, a provoking eye. It was, it could be, nothing more than
that. When once she understood what she had gained, how utterly
inglorious that once brilliant soldier of fortune had become,
she would descend from her high attitude of disdain and kiss the
hand which she now spurned.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But, in anticipation of that happy hour, the
Lord of Stoutenburg felt moody and discontented.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">~2</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Nicolaes' voice, close to his elbow, roused
him from his gloomy meditations.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You must be indulgent, my friend,&quot;
he was saying in a smooth conciliatory voice. &quot;Gilda had
always a wilful temper.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And a tenacious one,&quot; Stoutenburg
retorted. &quot;She is still in love with that rogue.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Bah!&quot; the other rejoined, with a
note of spite in his tone. &quot;It is mere infatuation! A woman's
whimsey for a good-looking face and a pair of broad shoulders!
She should have seen the scrubby rascal as I last caught sight
of him -- grimy, unshaven, broken. No woman's fancy would survive
such a spectacle!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then, as Stoutenburg, still unconsoled, continued
to stare through the open window, muttering disjointed phrases
through obstinately set lips, he went on quite gaily:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You are not the first by any means, my
friend, whose tempestuous wooing hath brought a woman, loving
and repentant, to heel. When I was over in England with my father,
half a dozen years ago, we saw there a play upon the stage. It
had been writ by some low-born mountebank, one William Shakespeare.
The name of the play was 'The Taming of the Shrew.' Therein, too,
a woman of choleric temper did during several scenes defy the
man who wooed her. In the end he conquered; she became his wife,
and as tender and submissive an one as e'er you'd wish to see.
But, by St. Bavon, how she stormed at first! How she professed
to hate him! I was forcibly reminded of that play when I saw Gilda
defying you awhile ago; and I could have wished that you had displayed
the same good-humour over the wrangle as did the gallant Petruchio
-- the hero of the piece.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Stoutenburg was interested.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;How did he succeed in the end?&quot;
he queried. &quot;Your Petruchio, I mean.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;He starved the ranting virago into submission,&quot;
Nicolaes replied, with an easy laugh. &quot;Gave her nothing to
eat for a day and a night; swore at her lackeys; beat her waiting-maids.
She was disdainful at first, then terrified. Finally, she admired
him, because he had mastered her.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;A good moral, friend Nicolaes!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Ay! One you would do well to follow.
Women reserve their disdain for weaklings, and their love for
their masters.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And think you that Gilda ---&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Gilda, my friend, is but a woman after
all. Have no fear, she'll be your willing slave in a week.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Stoutenburg's eyes glittered at the thought.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;A week is a long time to wait,&quot;
he murmured. &quot;I wish that now---&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He paused. Something that was happening down
below on the quay had attracted his attention -- unusual merriment,
loud laughter, the strains of a bibulous song. For a minute or
two his keen eyes searched the gloom for the cause of all this
hilarity. He leaned far out the window, called peremptorily to
a group of soldiers who were squatting around their bivouac fire.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Hey!&quot; he shouted. &quot;Peter! Willem!
-- whatever your confounded names may be! What is that rascallion
doing over there?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Making us all laugh, so please your lordship,&quot;
one of the soldiers gave reply; &quot;by the drollest stories
and quips any of us have ever heard.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Where does he come from?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;From nowhere, apparently,&quot; the man
averred. &quot;He just fell among us. The man is blind, so please
you,&quot; he added after a moment's hesitation.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Stoutenburg swore.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;How many times must I give orders,&quot;
he demanded roughly, &quot;that every blind beggar who comes prowling
round the camps be hanged to the nearest post?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;We did intend to hang him,&quot; the
soldier replied coolly; &quot;but when first he came along he
was so nimble that, ere we could capture him, he gave us the slip.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Well,&quot; Stoutenburg rejoined harshly,
&quot;it is not too late. You have him now.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;So we have, Magnificence,&quot; the man
replied, hesitated for a second or two, then added: &quot;But
he is so amusing, and he seems a gentleman of quality, too proud
for the hangman's rope.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Too proud is he?&quot; his lordship retorted
with a sneer. &quot;A gentleman of quality, and amusing to boot?
Well, let us see how his humour will accommodate itself to the
gallows. Here, let me have a look at the loon.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">There was much hustling down below after this;
shouting and prolonged laughter; a confused din, through which
it was impossible to distinguish individual sounds. Stoutenburg's
nerves were tingling. He was quite sure by now that he had recognised
that irrepressible merry voice. A gentleman of quality! Blind!
Amusing! But, if Nicolaes' report of yesterday's events were true,
the man was hopelessly stricken. And what could induce him to
put his head in the jackal's mouth, to affront his triumphing
enemy, when he himself was so utterly helpless and abject?</FONT></P>

<P>&nbsp;</P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Not long was the Lord of Stoutenburg left in
suspense. Even whilst he gazed down upon the merry, excited throng,
he was able to distinguish in the midst of them all a pair of
broad shoulders that could only belong to one man. The soldiers,
laughing, thoroughly enjoying the frolic, were jostling him not
a little for the sheer pleasure of measuring their valour against
so hefty a fellow. And he, despite his blindness, gave as good
as he got; fought valiantly with fist and boot and gave his tormentors
many a hard knock, until, with a loud shout of glee, some of the
men succeeded in seizing hold of him, and hoisted him up on their
shoulders and brought him into the circle of light formed by the
resin torches.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A double cry came in response -- one of amazement
from Stoutenburg and one of horror from Nicolaes. But neither
of them spoke. Stoutenburg's lips were tightly set; a puzzled
frown appeared between his brows. In truth, for once in the course
of his devilish career, he was completely taken aback and uncertain
what to do. The man whom he saw there before him, in ragged clothes,
unshaved and grimy, blinking with sightless eyes, was the man
whom he detested above every other thing or creature on earth
-- the reckless soldier of fortune of the past, for awhile the
proud and successful rival; now just a wreck of humanity, broken,
ay, and degraded, and henceforth an object of pity rather than
a menace to his rival's plans. His doublet was in rags, his plumed
hat battered, his toes shone through the holes in his boots. The
upper part of his face was swathed in a soiled linen bandage.
This had, no doubt, been originally intended to shield the stricken
eyes; but it had slipped, and those same eyes, with their horrible
fixed look, glittered with unearthly weirdness in the flickering
light.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Salute his Magnificence, the lord and
master of Amersfoort and of all that in it lies!&quot; one of
the soldiers shouted gaily.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And the blind man forthwith made a gesture
of obeisance swept with a wide flourish his battered plumed hat
from off his head.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;To his Magnificence!&quot; he called
out in response. &quot;Though mine eyes cannot see him, my voice
is raised in praise of his nobility and his valour. May the recording
angels give him his full deserts.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">~3</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The feeling of sheer horror which had caused
Nicolaes to utter a sudden cry was, in truth, fully justified.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;It can't be!&quot; he murmured, appalled
at what he saw.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Stoutenburg answered with a hoarse laugh. &quot;Nay,
by Satan and all his myrmidons it is!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Already he was leaning out of the window, giving
quick orders to the men down below to bring that drunken vagabond
forthwith into his presence. After which he turned once more to
his friend.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;We'll soon see,&quot; he said, &quot;if
it is true, or if our eyes have played us both an elusive trick.
Yet, methinks,&quot; he added thoughtfully, &quot;that the pigwidgeon
who of late hath taken my destiny in hand is apparently intent
on doing me a good turn.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;In what way?&quot; the other asked.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;By throwing my enemy across my path,&quot;
Stoutenburg replied drily.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You'll hang him of course?&quot; Nicolaes
rejoined.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Yes; I'll hang him!&quot; Stoutenburg
retorted, with a snarl. &quot;But I must make use of him first.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Make use of him? How?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;That I do not know as yet. But inspiration
will come, never you fear, my friend. All that I want is a leverage
for bringing the Stadtholder to his knees and for winning Gilda's
love.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Then, in Heaven's name, man,&quot; Nicolaes
rejoined earnestly, &quot;begin by ridding yourself of the only
danger-spoke in your wheel!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Danger-spoke?&quot; Stoutenburg exclaimed,
threw back his head and laughed. &quot;Would you really call that
miserable oaf a serious bar to mine ambition or a possible rival
in your sister's regard?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And, with outstretched hand he pointed to the
door.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">There, under the lintel -- pushed on by Jan
and two or three men who, powerfully built though they were, looked
like pigmies beside the stricken giant, drunk as an owl, his hat
awry above that hideous bandage, dirty, unkempt, and ragged --
appeared the man who had once been the brilliant inspiration of
Franz Hals' immortal &quot;Laughing Cavalier.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">At sight of him Nicolaes Beresteyn gave a loud
groan and collapsed into a chair; burying his face in his hand.
He was ever a coward, even in villainy; and when the man whom
he had once hated so bitterly, and whom his craven hand had struck
in such a dastardly manner, lurched into the room, and as he fell
against the table uttered an inane and bibulous laugh, his nerve
completely forsook him.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">At a peremptory sign from Stoutenburg, Jan
closed the doors which gave on the hall; but he and two of the
men remained at attention inside the room.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The blind man groped with his hands till they
found a chair, into which he sank, with powerful limbs outstretched,
snorting like a dog just come out of the water. With an awkward
gesture he pushed his hat from off his head, and in so doing he
dislodged the grimy bandage so that it sat like a scullion's cap
across his white forehead.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Stoutenburg watched him with an expression
of cruel satisfaction. It is not often given to a man to have
an enemy and a rival so completely in his power, and the exultation
in Stoutenburg's heart was so great that he was content to savour
it in silence for awhile. Nicolaes was beyond the power of speech,
and so the silence for a moment or two remained absolute.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then the blind man suddenly sat up, craning
his neck and rolling his sightless eyes.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I wonder where the devil I am!&quot;
he murmured through set lips. He appeared to listen intently;
no doubt caught the sound of life around him, for he added quickly:
&quot;Is anybody here?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I am here,&quot; Stoutenburg replied
curtly. &quot;Do you know whom I am, sirrah?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;In truth, I do not,&quot; Diogenes replied.
&quot;But by your accent I would judge you to be a man who at
this moment is mightily afraid.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Afraid?&quot; Stoutenburg retorted, with
a loud laugh. I, afraid of a helpless vagabond who has been fool
enough to run his head into a noose which I had not even thought
of preparing for him?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Yet you are afraid my lord,&quot; the
other rejoined quietly, &quot;else you would not have ordered
your bodyguard to watch over your precious person whilst you parleyed
with a blind man.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;My bodyguard is only waiting for final
orders to take you to the gallows,&quot; Stoutenburg rejoined
roughly. &quot;You may as well know now as later that it is my
intention to hang you.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;As well now as later,&quot; the blind
man assented, with easy philosophy. &quot;I understand that for
the nonce, whoever you Magnificence may be, you are master in
Amersfoort. As such, you have a right to hang anyone you choose.
Me or another. What matters? I was very nearly hung once, you
must know, by the Lord of Stoutenburg. I did not mind much then;
I'd mind it still less now. People talk of a hereafter. Well,
whatever it is, it must be a better world that this, so I would
just as soon as not, go and find out for myself.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He struggled to his feet, still groping with
his hands for support, found the edge of the table and leaned
up against it.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Let's to the hangman, my lord,&quot;
he said thickly. &quot;If I'm to hang, I prefer it to be done
at once. And if we tarry too long I might get sober ere I embark
on the last adventure. But,&quot; he added, and once more appeared
to search the room with eyes that could not see, &quot;there's
someone else here besides your lordship. Who is it?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;My friend and yours,&quot; Stoutenburg
replied. &quot;Mynheer Nicolaes Beresteyn.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">There was a second or two of silence. Nicolaes
made as if he would speak, but Stoutenburg quickly put a finger
up to his lips, enjoining him to remain still. The blind man passed
his trembling hand once or twice in front of his eyes as if to
draw aside an unseen veil that hid the outer world from his gaze.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Ah!&quot; he murmured contentedly. &quot;My
friend Klaas! He is here too, is he? That is indeed good news.
For Nicolaes was ever my friend. That time three months ago --
or was it three years, or three centuries? I really have lost
count -- that time that the Lord of Stoutenburg was on the point
of hanging me, Klaas would have interposed on my behalf, only
something went wrong with his heart at the moment, or his nerves,
I forget which.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot; 'Twere no use to rely on mynheer's interference
this time,&quot; Stoutenburg put in drily. &quot;There is but
one person in the world now who can save you from the gallows.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You mean the Lord of Stoutenburg himself?&quot;
the blind man queried blandly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Nay! He is determined to hang you. But
there is another.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Then I pray your lordship to tell me
who that other is,&quot; Diogenes replied.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You might find one, sirrah, in the jongejuffrouw
Gilda Beresteyn, the Lord of Stoutenburg's promised wife.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Diogenes made no reply to this. He was facing
the table now, still clinging to it with one hand, whilst the
other wandered over the objects on the table. Suddenly they encountered
a crystal jug which was full of wine. An expression of serene
beatitude overspread his face. He raised the goblet to his lips,
but ere he drank he said carelessly:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Ah, the jongejuffrouw Beresteyn is the
promised wife of the Lord of Stoutenburg?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;My promised wife!&quot; Stoutenburg put
in roughly. &quot;Methought you would ere this have recognized
the man whom you tried to rob of all that he held most precious.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Your lordship must forgive me,&quot;
the blind man rejoined drily. &quot;But some unknown miscreant
-- whom may the gods punish -- interfered with me yesterday forenoon,
when I was trying to render assistance to my friend Klaas. In
the scuffle that ensued, I received a cloud of stinking fumes
in the face, which has totally robbed me of sight.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">As he spoke he raised his eyes, blinking in
that pathetic and inconsequent manner peculiar to the blind. Nicolaes
gave an audible groan. He could not bear to look on those sightless
orbs, which in the flickering light of the wax candles appeared
weird and unearthly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Oh,&quot; Stoutenburg put in carelessly,
&quot;is that how the -- er -- accident occurred?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;So, please your lordship, yes,&quot;
Diogenes replied. &quot;And I was left stranded on the moor, since
those two unreclaimed varlets, Pythagoras and Socrates by name,
did effectually ride off in the wake of the Stadtholder, leaving
me in the lurch. A pitiable plight, your lordship will admit.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;So pitiable,&quot; the other retorted
with a sneer, &quot;that you thought to improve your condition
by bearding the Lord of Stoutenburg in his lair.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I did not know your lordship was in Amersfoort,&quot;
Diogenes replied imperturbably. &quot;I thought -- I hoped ---&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He paused, and Stoutenburg tried in vain to
read what went on behind that seemingly unclouded brow. The blind
man appeared serene, detached, perfectly good-humoured. His slender
hand, which looked hard beneath its coating of grime, was closed
lovingly around the crystal jug. Stoutenburg vaguely wondered
how far the man was really drunk, or whether his misfortune had
slightly addled his brain. So much unconcern in the face of an
imminent and shameful death gave an uncanny air to the whole appearance
of the man. Even now, with a gently apologetic smile, he raised
the jug once more to his lips. Stoutenburg placed a peremptory
hand upon his arm.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Put that down, man,&quot; he said harshly.
&quot;You are drunk enough as it is, and you'll have need of all
your wits to-night.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;There you are wrong my lord,&quot; Diogenes
retorted, and quietly transferred the jug to his other hand. &quot;A
man, meseems, needs no wits to hang gracefully. And I feel that
I could do that best if I might quench my thirst ere I met my
friend the hangman.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You may not meet him at all.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;But just now you said ---&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;That it was my intention to hang you,&quot;
Stoutenburg assented. &quot;So it is. But I am in rare good humour
to-night, and ---&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;So it seems, my lord,&quot; the blind
man put in carelessly. &quot;So it seems.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He appeared to be swaying on his feet, and
to have some difficulty in retaining his balance. He still clung
to the edge of the table with one hand. In the other he had the
jug fill of wine.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The jongejuffrouw Gilda Beresteyn,&quot;
Stoutenburg went on, &quot;will sup with me this night to celebrate
our betrothal. The fulfillment of this, my great desire, hath
caused me to feel lenient toward mine enemies.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Have I not always asserted,&quot; Diogenes
broke in with comical solemnity -- &quot;always ass-asserted that
your lordship was a noble and true gentleman?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Women, we know,&quot; his lordship continued,
ignoring the interruption, &quot;are wont to be tenderhearted
where their -- their former swains are concerned. And I feel that
if the jongejuffrouw herself did make appeal to me on your behalf,
I would relent towards you.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;B-b-but would that not be an awkward
-- a very awkward decision for your lordship?&quot; Diogenes riposted,
turning round vacant eyes on Stoutenburg.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Awkward? How so?</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;If I do not hang, the jongejuffrouw,
'stead of being my widow, would still be my wife. And the laws
of this country ---&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I have no concern with the laws of this
country&quot; Stoutenburg rejoined drily, &quot;in which, anyhow,
you are an alien. As soon as the Archduchess our Liege Lady is
once more mistress here, we shall again be at war with England.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Poor England!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Diogenes sighed, and solemnly wiped a tear
from his blinking eyes.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And every English plepshurk will be kicked
out of the country. But that is neither here nor there.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Neither here nor there,&quot; the other
assented, with owlish gravity. &quot;But before England is s-sh-s-swept
off the map, my lordship, what will happen?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;My marriage to the jongejuffrouw,&quot;
Stoutenburg replied curtly. &quot;She hath consented to be my
wife, and my wife she will be as soon as I have mind to take her.
So you may drink to our union, sirrah. I'll e'en pledge you in
a cup.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He poured himself out a goblet of wine, laughing
to himself at his own ingenuity. That was the way to treat the
smeerlap. Make him feel what a pitiable, abject knave he was!
Then show him up before Gilda, just as he was -- drunk, ragged,
unkempt, an object of derision in his misfortune rather than of
pity.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Nay,&quot; the rascal objected, his speech
waxing thicker and his hand more unsteady, &quot;I cannot pledge
you, my lord, in drinking to your union with my own wife, unless
-- unless my friend Klaas will drink to that union, too. Mine
own brother by the law, you see, my lord, and ---&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Mynheer Nicolaes will indeed drink to
his sister's happy union with me,&quot; Stoutenburg retorted,
with a sneer. &quot;His presence here is a witness to my good
intentions toward the wench. So you may drink, sirrah. The jongejuffrouw
herself is overwilling to submit to my pleasure ---&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But the imperious words were smothered in his
throat, giving place to a fierce exclamation of choler. The blind
man had at his invitation raised the jug of wine to his lips,
but in the act his feet apparently slipped away from under him.
The jug flew out of his hand, would have caught the Lord of Stoutenburg
on the head had he not ducked just in time. But even so his Magnificence
was hit on the shoulder by the heavy crystal vessel, and splashed
from head to foot with the wine, whilst Diogenes collapsed on
the floor with a shamed and bibulous laugh.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A string of savage oaths and tempestuous abuse
poured from Stoutenburg's lips, which were in truth livid with
rage. Already Jan had rushed to his assistance, snatched up a
serviette from the table, and soon contrived to wipe his lordship's
doublet clean.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The blind man in the meanwhile did his best
to hoist himself up on his feet once more, clung to the edge of
the table; but the sight of him released the last floodgate of
Stoutenburg's tempestuous wrath. He turned with a vicious snarl
upon the unfortunate man, and it would indeed have fared ill with
the defenceless creature, for the Lord of Stoutenburg was not
wont to measure his blows by the helplessness of his victims,
had not a sudden exclamation from Nicolaes stayed the hand that
was raised to strike.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Gilda!&quot; the young man cried impulsively.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Stoutenburg's arm dropped to his side. He turned
toward the door. Gilda had just entered with her father, and was
coming slowly down the room.<BR>
</FONT></P>

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<H3><CENTER><FONT FACE="Lucida Calligraphy">CHAPTER XII - TEARS,
SIGHS, HEARTS</FONT></CENTER></H3>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">~1</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Gilda caught sight of her beloved the moment
she entered. To say that their eyes met would indeed be folly.
Certain it is, however, that the blind man turned his sightless
gaze in her direction. She only gave a gasp, pressed her hands
to her heart as if the pain there was unendurable, and at the
moment even the beauty of her face was marred by the look of soul-racking
misery in her eyes and the quivering lines around her mouth.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The next moment, even while Jan and the soldiers
retired, closing the doors behind them, she was in her husband's
arms. Ay, even though Stoutenburg tried to intercept her. She
did not hear his mocking laugh, or her brother's vigorous protest,
nor yet her father's cry of horror. She just clung to him who,
blind, fallen, degraded an you will, was still the beloved of
her heart, the man to whom she had dedicated her soul.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She swallowed her tears, too proud to allow
those who had wrought his ruin to see how mortally she was hurt.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She passed her delicate hands, fragrant as
the petals of flowers, over his grimy face, those poor, stricken
eyes, the noble brow so deeply furrowed with pain. She murmured
words of endearment and of tenderness such as a mother might find
to soothe the trouble of a suffering child. All in a moment. Stoutenburg
had not even the time to interfere, to utter the savage oaths
which rose from his vengeful heart at sight of the loving pity
which this beautiful woman lavished on so contemptible an object.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Nor had the blind man time to encircle that
exquisite form in his trembling arms. He had put them out at first,
with a pathetic gesture of infinite longing. It was just a flash,
a vision of his past self, an oblivion of the hideous, appalling
present. Her arms at that moment were round his neck, her head
against his breast, her soft, fair hair against his lips.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">~2</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then something happened. A magnetic current
seemed to pass through the air. Diogenes freed himself with a
sudden jerk from Gilda's clinging arms, staggered back against
the table, swaying on his feet and uttering an inane laugh; whilst
she, left standing alone, turned wide, bewildered eyes on her
brother Nicolaes, who happened to be close to her at the moment.
I think that she was near to unconsciousness then, and that she
would have fallen, but that the burgomaster stepped quickly to
her side and put his arms round her.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;May God punish you,&quot; he muttered
between his teeth, and turned to Stoutenburg, who had watched
the whole scene with a sinister scowl, &quot;for this wanton and
unnecessary cruelty!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You wrong me, mynheer,&quot; Stoutenburg
retorted, with a shrug &quot;I but tried to make your daughter's
decision easier for her.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then, as the burgomaster made no reply, but,
with grim, set look on his face, drew his daughter gently down
to the nearest chair, Stoutenburg went on lightly, speaking directly
to Gilda:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;In the course of my travels, mejuffrouw,
I came across a wise philosopher in Italy. He was a man whom an
adverse fate had robbed of most things that he held precious;
but he told me that he had quite succeeded in conquering adversity
by the following means. He would gaze dispassionately on the objects
of his past desires, see their defects, appraise them at their
just value, and in every case he found that their loss was not
so irreparable as he had originally believed.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;A fine moral lesson, my lord,&quot; the
burgomaster interposed, seeing that Gilda either would not or
could not speak as yet. &quot;But I do not see its point.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot; 'Tis a simple one, mynheer,&quot; Stoutenburg
retorted coldly. &quot;I pray you, look on the man to whom, an
you had your way, you would even now link your daughter.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Instinctively Beresteyn turned his lowering
gaze in the direction to which his lordship now pointed with a
persuasive gesture. Diogenes was standing beside the table, his
powerful frame drawn up to its full height, his sightless eyes
blinking and gleaming with weird inconsequence in the flickering
light of the candles. His hands were clasped behind his back,
and on his face there was a curious expression which the burgomaster
was not shrewd enough to define -- one of self-deprecation, yet
withal of introspection and of detachment, as if the helpless
body alone were present and the mind had gone a-roaming in the
land of dreams. The burgomaster tried manfully to conceal the
look of half-contemptuous pity which, much against his will, had
crept into his eyes.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The man,&quot; he rejoined calmly, &quot;is
what Fate and a dastard's hand have made him, my lord. Many a
fine work of God hath been marred by an evildoer's action.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;That is as may be mynheer,&quot; Stoutenburg
riposted coolly. &quot;But 'tis of the present and of the future
you have to think now -- not of the past.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Even so, my lord, I would sooner see
my daughter in the arms of the stricken lion than in those of
a wily jackal.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Am I the wily jackal?&quot; Stoutenburg
put in, with a sneer. Then, as the burgomaster made no reply,
he added tersely: &quot;I see that the jongejuffrouw hath told
you ---&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Everything,&quot; Beresteyn assented
calmly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And that I await your blessing on our
union?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;My blessing you cannot have, my lord,
as you well know,&quot; the burgomaster retorted firmly. &quot;
'Twas blasphemy to invoke the name of God on such an unholy alliance.
My daughter is the lawfully wedded wife of an English gentleman,
Sir Percy Blakeney by name, and until the law of this country
doth sever those bonds she cannot wed another.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Stoutenburg gave a strident laugh.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;That is, indeed, unfortunate for the
English gentleman with the high-sounding name,&quot; he said,
with a sneer, &quot;whom I gravely suspect of being naught but
the common varlet whom we all know so well in Haarlem. But, gentleman
or churl,&quot; he added, with a cynical shrug, &quot; ' tis all
one to me. He hangs to-morrow, unless ---&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A loud cry of burning indignation escaped the
burgomaster's lips.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You would not further provoke the wrath
of God,&quot; he exclaimed, &quot;by this foul and cowardly crime!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And why not, I pray you?&quot; the other
coolly retorted. &quot;Nor do I think that the Almighty would
greatly care what happened to this drunken knave. The refuse of
human kind, the halt, the lame, and the blind, are best out of
the way.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;A man, my lord,&quot; the burgomaster
protested, &quot;Who when he had you in his power, generously
spared your life!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The more fool he!&quot; Stoutenburg riposted
drily. &quot; 'Tis my turn now. He hangs to-morrow, unless, indeed
---&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Unless, what, my lord?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Unless,&quot; Stoutenburg went on, with
an evil leer, &quot;my future wife will deign to plead with me
for him -- with a kiss.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A groan like that of a wounded beast broke
from the burgomaster's heavy heart. For a moment a light that
was almost murderous gleamed in his eyes. His fists were clenched;
he murmured a dark threat against the man who goaded him wellnigh
to madness. Then, suddenly, he met Stoutenburg's mocking glance
fixed upon him, and a huge sob rose in his throat, almost choking
him. Gilda, with a pitiful moan, had hidden her face against her
father's sleeve.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot; 'Tis but anticipating the happy time
by a few hours,&quot; Stoutenburg went on, with calm cynicism.
&quot;But I have a fancy to hold my future wife in my arms now
-- at this moment -- and to grant her in exchange for her first
willing kiss the life of a miserable wretch whose life or death
are, in truth, of no account to me.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He took a step or two forward in the direction
where Gilda sat, clinging with desperate misery to her father.
Then, as the burgomaster, superb with indignation, grand in his
dignity, Instinctively interposed his burly figure between his
daughter and the man whom she loathed, Stoutenburg added, with
well-assumed carelessness:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;If the jongejuffrouw prefers to put off
the happy moment until we are alone in my camp to-morrow, we'll
say no more about it. Let the rogue hang; I care not!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;My lord,&quot; -- the burgomaster spoke
once more in a vigorous protest, which, alas, he knew to be futile
-- &quot;what you suggest is monstrous, inhuman! God will never
permit ---&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I pray you, mynheer,&quot; Stoutenburg
broke in fiercely, &quot;let us leave the Almighty out of our
affairs. I have read my Bible as assiduously as you when I was
younger, and in it I learned that God hath enjoined all wives
to submit themselves to their husbands. A kiss from my betrothed,
a word or gentle pleading, are little enough to ask in exchange
for an act of clemency. And you, Heer Burgomaster, do but stiffen
my will by your interference. Will you, at least, let the jongejuffrouw
decide on the matter for herself, and, in her interests and your
own, give to all that she does your unqualified consent!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;My consent you'll never wring from me,
as you well know, my lord. I and my daughter are powerless to
withstand your might, but if we bend to the yoke it is because
it hath pleased God that we should wear it, not because we submit
with a free will. By exulting in such a monstrous crime you do
but add to the loathing which we both feel for you ---&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Silence!&quot; Stoutenburg broke in fiercely.
&quot;Silence, you dolt! What good, think you, you do yourself
or your daughter by provoking me beyond endurance? She knows my
decision, and so, methinks, do you. If the jongejuffrouw feels
such unqualified hatred for me, let her return to your protecting
arms and leave Amersfoort to its fate. As for that sightless varlet,
let him hang, I say! I am a fool, indeed to listen to your gibberish!
Jan!&quot; he called, and strode to the door with a great show
of determination, staking his all now on this card which he had
decided to play.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But the card was a winning one, as well he
knew. Already Gilda, as if moved by an unseen voice, had jumped
to her feet and intercepted him ere he reached the door. Her whole
appearance had changed -- the expression of her eyes, her tone,
her gestures.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;My father is overwrought, my lord,&quot;
she said firmly. &quot;He hath already promised me that he would
offer no opposition to my wishes.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She looked him straight in the eyes, and he
returned her gaze, his restless eyes seeming to search her very
soul. she had, in truth, changed most markedly. She was, of course,
afraid -- afraid for that miserable plepshurk's life. But the
change was something more than that -- at least, Stoutenburg chose
to think so. There was something in her glance at this moment
that he did not quite understand, that he did not dare understand.
A wavering -- almost he would have called it a softness, had he
dared. He came nearer to her, and, though at first she drew back
from him, she presently held her ground, still gazing on him like
a bird when it is fascinated and cannot move.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Now he was quite sure that her blue eyes looked
less hard, and certainly her mouth was less tightly set. Her lips
were slightly parted, and her breath came quick and panting. Ah,
women were queer creatures! Had Nicolaes been right when he quoted
the English play? Gilda had certainly begun by falling against
that contemptible rascal's breast, but since then? Had her wayward
fancy been repelled by that whole air of physical degradation
which emanated from the once brilliant cavalier, or had it been
merely dazzled by visions of power and of wealth, which had their
embodiment in him who was her future lord?</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He himself could not say. All that he knew,
all that he felt of a certainty now, was that he held more than
one winning card in this gamble for possession of an exquisite
and desirable woman. Still holding her gaze, he took her hands.
She did not resist, did not attempt to draw away from him, and
he murmured softly:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What are your wishes, myn engel?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;To submit to your will, my lord,&quot;
she replied firmly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;At last!&quot; he exclaimed, on a note
of triumph, drew her still closer to him. &quot;A kiss, fair one,
to clinch this bargain, which hath made me the happiest of men!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He had lost his head for the moment. Satisfaction,
and an almost feverish sense of exultation, had turned his blood
to liquid fire. All that he saw was this lovely woman, whom he
had nearly conquered. Nearly, but not quite. At his desire for
a kiss he felt that she stiffened. She closed her eyes, and even
her lips became bloodless. She appeared on the verge of a swoon.
Bah! Even this phase would pass away. Nicolaes was right. Women
reserved their contempt for weaklings. In the end 'twas the master
whom they adored.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;A kiss, fair one!&quot; he called again.
&quot;And the rogue shall live or hang according as your lips
are sweet or bitter!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He was on the point of snatching that kiss
at last, when suddenly there came so violent a crash that the
whole room shook with the concussion, and even the windows rattled
in their frames. The blind man, more unsteady than ever on his
feet, had tried to get hold of a chair, lost his balance in the
act, and, in the endeavour to save himself from falling, had lurched
so clumsily against the table that it overturned, and all the
objects upon it -- silver, crystal, china dishes, and candelabra
-- fell with a deafening clatter on the floor.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Stoutenburg, uttering one of his favourite
oaths, had instinctively turned to see whence had come this terrific
noise. In turning, his hold on Gilda's wrists had slightly relaxed;
sufficiently, at any rate, to enable her to free herself from
his grasp and to seek shelter once more beside her father. Diogenes
alone had remained unruffled through the commotion. Indeed, he
appeared wholly unconscious that he had brought it about. He had
collapsed amidst the litter, and now sprawled on the floor, surrounded
by a medley of broken glass, guttering candles, hot food and liquor,
convulsed with laughter, whist his huge, dark eyes, with the dilated
pupils and pale, narrow circles of blue light, looked strangely
ghostlike in the gloom.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Who in thunder,&quot; he muttered inarticulately,
&quot;is making this confounded din?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">~3</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">At the noise, too, the men had come running
in from the hall. The sound had been akin to the detonation of
a dozen pistols, and they had rushed along, prepared for a fight.
With the fall of the candelabra, the vast banqueting hall had
suddenly been plunged into semi-darkness. Only a couple of wax
candles in tall sconces, which had originally set on the sideboard,
vaguely illumined the disorderly scene.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Diogenes, with his infectious laugh, did in
truth succeed in warding off the punishment which his Magnificence
already held in preparation for him. As it was, Stoutenburg caught
sight of Gilda's look of anxiety, and this at once put him into
a rare good humour. He had had his wish. Gilda had been almost
kind, had practically yielded to him in the presence of the man
whom he desired to humiliate and to wound, as he himself had been
humiliated and wounded in the past.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Whether the blind man's keen sense of hearing
had taken in every detail of the scene, it was of course impossible
to say. But one thing he must have heard -- the brief soliloquy
at the door, when Gilda, in response to his ardent query. &quot;What
are your wishes, myn engel?&quot; had replied quite firmly: &quot;To
submit to your will, my lord!&quot; That moment must, in truth,
have been more galling and more bitter to the once gallant Laughing
Cavalier than the rattle of the rope upon the gallows, or the
first consciousness that he was irremediably blind.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Indeed, Stoutenburg had had something more
than his wish. To make a martyr of the rogue, he would have told
you, was not part of his desire. All that he wanted was to obliterated
the man's former brilliant personality from Gilda's mind; that
he should henceforth dwell in her memory as she last saw him,
abject in his obvious impotence, owing his life to the woman whom
he had wooed and conquered in the past with the high hand of a
reckless adventurer. After that, the rogue might hang or perish
in a ditch: his lordship did not care. What happened to blind
men in these days of fighting when none but the best men had a
chance to live at all, he had never troubled his head to inquire.
At any rate, he knew that a sightless lion was less harmful than
a keen-eyed mouse. Ah, in truth he had had more than his wish
and satisfied now as to the present and the future, the thought
that the moment had come to let well alone, and to remove from
Gilda's sight the spectacle which, by some subtle reaction, might
turn her heart back to pity for the knave. He gave Jan a significant
nod.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But Gilda, whose glowing eyes had watched his
every movement, was quick to interpose.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;My lord,&quot; she cried in protest,
&quot;I hold you to your bargain!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Have no fear, myn chat,&quot; he answered
suavely. I will not repudiate it. The fellow's life is safe enough
whilst you and the Heer Burgomaster honour me by supping with
me. After that, the decision rests with you. As I said just now,
he shall live or hang according as your lips are sweet or bitter.
For the nonce, I am wearied and hungry. We'll sup first, so please
you.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And Gilda had to stand by whilst she saw her
husband dragged away from her presence. He offered no resistance;
indeed, accepted the situation with that good-humoured philosophy
which was so characteristic of him. But, oh, if she could have
conveyed to him by a look all the tenderness, the sorrow, the
despair, that was torturing her heart! If she could have run to
him just once more, to whisper into his ear those burning words
of love which would have eased his pain and hers!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">If she could have defied that abominable tyrant
who gloated over her misery, and, hand in hand with her beloved,
have met death by his side, with his arms around her, her spirit
wedded to his, ere they appeared together before the judgement
seat of God!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But, as that arrogant despot had reminded her,
she had even lost the freedom to die. The destinies of her native
city were in her hands. Unless she bowed her willing neck to his
will, Amersfoort and all its citizens would be wiped off the face
of the earth. And as she watched the chosen of her heart led like
a captive lion to humiliation if not to death those monstrous
words rang in her ears, that surely must provoke the wrath of
God.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Therefore, she watched his departure dry-eyed
and motionless. Ay! envying him in her heart, that he, at least,
was not called upon to make such an appalling sacrifice as lay
now before her. She had indeed come to that sublimity of human
suffering that she almost wished to see those dear, sightless
eyes closed in their last long sleep, rather than that he should
be forced to endure what to him would be ten thousand times worse
than death -- her submission to that miscreant -- her willing
union; and he, ignorant of how the tyrant had wrung this submission
from her.<BR>
</FONT></P>

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<H3><CENTER><FONT FACE="Lucida Calligraphy">CHAPTER XIII - THE
STYGIAN CREEK</FONT></CENTER></H3>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">~1</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The Lord or Stoutenburg was conscious of a
great feeling of relief when the blind man was finally removed
from his presence. While the latter stood there, even in the abjectness
of his plight, Stoutenburg felt that he was a living menace to
the success of all his well-thought-out schemes. He kept his eyes
fixed on Gilda with a warning look, that should be a reminder
to her of the immutability of his resolve. He tried, in a manner,
to surround her with a compelling fluid that would engulf her
resistance and leave her weak and passive to his will.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">There was of necessity a vast amount of confusion
and din ere order was restored among the debris; and conversation
was impossible in the midst of the clatter that was going on --
men coming and going, the rattle of silver and glass. Gilda, the
while, sat quite still, her blue eyes fixed with strange intensity
on the door through which her beloved had disappeared. Her father
stood beside her, holding her hand, and she rested her cheek against
his.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The burgomaster, throughout the last scene,
had not once looked at Diogenes. A dark, puzzled frown lingered
between his brows whilst he stared moodily into the fire. He absolutely
ignored the presence of his son, putting into practice his stern
dictum that henceforth he had no son, whilst Nicolaes, who was
becoming inured to his shameful position, put on a careless and
jaunty air, spoke with easy familiarity to Stoutenburg, and peremptorily
to the men.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then at last the table was once more set, the
candles relit, and the board again spread for supper. Stoutenburg,
with an elegant flourish, invited his guests to sit, offered his
arm to Gilda to lead her to the table. She, moved by a pathetic
desire to conciliate him, a forlorn hope that a great show of
submission on her part would soften his cruel heart and lighten
the fate of her beloved, placed her hand upon his sleeve, and
when she met his admiring glance a slight flush drove the pallor
from her cheeks.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You are adorable, myn geloof!&quot; he
murmured.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He appeared highly elated, sat at the head
of the table, with Gilda on his right and the burgomaster on his
left, whilst Nicolaes sat beside his sister.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The two old crones served the supper, coming
and going with a noiselessness and precision acquired in long
service in the well-conducted house of the burgomaster. They knew
the use of the two pronged silver utensils which Mynheer Beresteyn
had acquired of late direct from France, where they were used
at the table of gentlemen of quality for conveying food to the
mouth. They knew how to remove each service from the centre of
the table without unduly disturbing the guests, and how to replace
one cloth with another the moment it became soiled with sauce
or wine.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Jan stood at the Lord of Stoutenburg's elbow
and served him personally and with his own hands. Every dish,
before it was handed to his lordship, was placed in front of the
burgomaster, who was curtly bidden to taste of it. His Magnificence,
adept in the poisoner's art, was taking no risks himself.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The cook had done his best, and the supper
was, I believe, excellent. The Oille, the most succulent of dishes,
made up of quails, capons, and ducks and other tasty meats, was
a marvel of gastronomic art, and so were the tureens of beef with
cucumber and the breast of veal larded and garnished with hard-boiled
eggs. In truth it was all a terrible waste, and sad to see such
excellent fare laid before guests who hardly would touch a morsel.
Gilda could not eat, her throat seemed to close up every time
she tried to swallow. Indeed, she had to appeal to the very last
shred of her pride to keep up a semblance of dignity before her
enemy. The burgomaster, too, flushed with shame at the indignity
put upon him, did no more than taste of the dishes as they were
put before him by the surly Jan.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The Lord of Stoutenburg, on the other hand,
put up a great show of hilarity, talked much and drank deeply,
discussed in a loud, arrogant voice with Nicolaes the Archduchess's
plans for the subduing of the Netherlands. And Nicolaes, after
he had imbibed two or three bumpers of heady Spanish wine, felt
more assured, returned Gilda's reproachful glances with indifference,
and his father's contempt with defiance.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">~2</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">What Gilda suffered it were a vain attempt
to describe. How she contrived to remain at the table; to appear
indifferent almost gay; to glance up now and again at a persuasive
challenge from Stoutenburg, will for ever remain her secret. She
never spoke of that hour, of that hateful, harrowing supper, like
an odious nightmare, which was wont in after years to sent a shudder
of horror right through her whenever she recalled it.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The burgomaster remained at first obstinately
silent, whilst the Lord of Stoutenburg talked with studied insolence
of the future of the Netherlands. The happy times would now come
back, the traitor vowed, when the United Provinces, dissolved
into feeble and separate entities, without form or governance,
would once more return to their allegiance and bow the knee before
the might of Spain; when the wholesome rule of another Alva would
teach these stiffnecked and presumptuous burghers that comfort
and a measure of welfare could only be obtained by unconditional
surrender and submission to a high, unconquerable Power.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Freedom!&quot; Liberty!&quot; he sneered.
&quot;Ancient Charters! Bah! Empty, swaggering words, I say, which
their masters will soon force them to swallow. Then will follow
an era more suited to all this beggarly Dutch rabble, one that
will teach them a lesson which will at last stick in their memories.
The hangman, that's what they want! The stake! The rack! Our glorious
Inquisition, and the relentlessness which, alas, for the nonce
hath lain buried with our immortal Alva!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He drank a loyal toast to the coming new era,
to the Archduchess, to King Philip IV, who in his glorious reign
would see Spain once more unconquered, the Netherlands subdued,
England punished at last. Nicolaes joined him with many a lustful
shout, whilst the burgomaster sat with set lips, his eyes glowing
with suppressed indignation. Once or twice it seemed as if his
stern self-control would give way, as if his burning wrath would
betray him into words and deeds that might cause abysmal misery
to hundreds of innocent people whilst not serving in any way the
cause which he would have given his life to uphold.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Indeed, in the book of heroic deeds of which
God's angel hath a record, none stand out more brilliantly than
the endurance of the Burgomaster of Amersfoort and of his daughter
on this memorable occasion. Nor is there in the whole valorous
history of the Netherlands a more glorious page than that which
tells of the sacrifice made by father and daughter in order to
save the city which they loved from threatened annihilation.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">~3</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But like all things, good and evil, the trial
came to an end at last. The Lord of Stoutenburg gave the signal,
and the burgomaster and Gilda rose from the table both, in truth,
with a deep sigh of thankfulness.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Stoutenburg remained deferential until the
end -- deferential, that is, with an undercurrent of mockery,
which he took no pains to conceal, His bow, as he finally took
leave of his guests, bidding the burgomaster a simple farewell
and Gilda au revoir until the dawn on the morrow, was so obviously
ironical that Beresteyn was goaded into an indignant tirade, which
he regretted almost as soon as he had uttered it.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Let him who stands,&quot; he said firmly,
and with all of his wonted dignity, &quot;take heed lest he fall.
The Netherlands are not conquered yet, my lord, because your mercenary
troops have succeeded, for the time being, in overrunning one
of her provinces. Ede may have fallen. Amersfoort may for the
moment, be under your heel --&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Arnheim and Nijmegen may have capitulated
by now,&quot; Stoutenburg broke in derisively. &quot;Sold to De
Berg, like Amersfoort and Ede, by the craven smeerlap to whom
you have given your daughter.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Even that may have happened,&quot; the
burgomaster riposted hotly, &quot;if so be the will of God. But
we are a race of fighters. We have beaten and humiliated the Spaniard
and driven him from off our land before now. And Maurice of Nassau,
the finest captain of the age, is unconquered still!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Mightily sick, so I'm told,&quot; the
other put in carelessly. &quot;He was over-ready, methinks, to
abandon Amersfoort to its fate.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Only to punish you more effectually in
the end. Take heed, my lord, take heed! The multiplicity of your
crimes will find you out soon enough.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot; 'Sblood!&quot; retorted Stoutenburg,
unperturbed; &quot;but you forget, mynheer burgomaster, that,
whate'er betide me, your daughter's fate is henceforth linked
to mine own.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then it was that Beresteyn repented of his
outburst, for indeed he had gained nothing by it, and Stoutenburg
had used the one argument which was bound to silence him. What,
in truth, was the use of wrangling? Dignity was sure to suffer,
and that mocking recreant would only feel that his triumph was
more complete.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Even now he only laughed, pointed with an ironical
flourish of his arm to the widely open doors, through which in
the dimly lighted hall, a group of men could be perceived, sitting
or standing around the centre table, with Diogenes standing in
their midst, his fair head crowned by the hideous bandage, and
his broad shoulders towering above the puny, swarthy Spanish soldiery.
He had a mug of ale in his hand, and holding it aloft he was singing
a ribald song, the refrain of which was taken up by the men. In
the vague and flickering light of resin torches, his sightless
orbs looked spectral, like those of a wraith.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You should be grateful to me, mynheer,&quot;
Stoutenburg added with a sneer, &quot;for freeing your daughter
from such a yoke.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He returned to Gilda, took her unresisting
hand and raised it to his lips. Above it, he was watching her
face. She was looking beyond him, straight at the blind man; and
though Stoutenburg at that moment would have bartered much for
the knowledge of what was in her thoughts, he could not define
the expression of her eyes. At one time he thought that they had
softened, that the fulfilment of all his hopes was hanging once
more in the balance. It seemed for the moment as if she would
snatch away her hand and seek shelter, as she had done before,
against the heart of her beloved; that right through that outer
husk of misery and degradation she saw something that puzzled
her rather than repelled. A question seemed to be hovering on
her lips. A question of a protest. Or was it a mute appeal for
forgiveness?</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Stoutenburg could not tell. But he felt that
for a space of a few seconds the whole edifice of his desires
was tottering, that Fate might, after all, still be holding a
thunderbolt in store for him, which would hurl him down from the
pinnacle of this momentary triumph. Gilda -- as a woman -- was
still unconquered. Neither her heart nor her soul would ever be
his. Somehow it was the glance wherewith she regarded the blind
man that told the Lord of Stoutenburg this one unalterable fact.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The sortilege which he had tried to evoke,
by letting her look on the pitiful wreck who had once been her
lover, had fallen short in its potent charm. His own brilliant
prospects, his masterful personality, ay, his well-assumed indifference,
had all failed to cast their spells over her. Unlike the valiant
Petruchio of the English play, he had not yet succeeded in taming
this beautiful shrew. In the past she had resisted his blandishments;
if she succumbed at all, it would be beneath the weight of his
tyranny.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Well, so be it! Nicolaes, no doubt, had been
right when he said that women reserved their disdain for weaklings.
It was the man of iron who won a woman's love. The thought sent
a fierce glow of hatred coursing through his blood. Mythical and
fatalistic as he was, he believed that his lucky star would only
begin to rise when he had succeeded in winning Gilda for his own.
He had deemed women an easy conquest in the past. This one could
not resist him for long. Even men were wont to come readily under
his way -- witness Nicolaes Beresteyn, who was as wax in his hands.
In the past, he had delighted in wielding a kind of cabalistic
power, which he undoubtedly possessed, over many a weak or shifty
character. His mother even was wont to call him a magician, and
stood not a little in awe of the dark-visaged, headstrong child,
and later on of the despotic, lawless youth, who had set the crown
on her manifold sorrows by his callousness and his crimes.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">That power had been on the wane of late. But
it was not -- could not -- be gone from him forever. Nicolaes
was still his sycophant. Jan and his kind were willing to go to
death for him. His own brain had devised a means for bringing
that obstinate burgomaster and the beautiful Gilda to their knees.
Then, of a surety, in the Cornucopia of Fate there was something
more comforting, more desirable, than a thunderbolt!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Was he not a man the master of his destiny?</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Bah! What was a woman's love, after all? Why
not let her go -- be content with worldly triumphs? The sacking
of Amersfoort, which would yield him wealth and treasure; the
gratitude of the Archduchess: a high -- if not the highest --
position in the reconquered provinces! Why not be content with
those? And Stoutenburg groaned like a baffled tiger, because in
his heart of hearts he knew these things would not content him
in the end. He wanted Gilda! Gilda, of the blue eyes and the golden
hair, the demure glance and fragrant hands. His desire for her
was in his bones, and he felt that he would indeed go raving mad
if he lost her after this -- if that beggarly drunkard, unwashed,
dishonoured, and stricken with blindness, triumphed through his
very abasement and the magnitude of his misfortune.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;This, at any rate, I can avert!&quot;
he murmured under his breath. And somehow the thought eased the
racking jealousy that was torturing him -- jealousy of such an
abject thing. He waited until Gilda had passed out of the room,
and when she was standing in the hall, so obviously bidding a
last farewell in her heart to the man she loved so well, he called
peremptorily to Jan:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Take the varlet,&quot; he commanded roughly,
&quot;and hang him on the Koppel-poort!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">At the word Gilda turned on him like an infuriated
tigress. Pushing past her father, past the men, who recoiled from
her as if from a madwoman, she was back beside the execrable despot
who thus put the crown on his hideous cruelties.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Your bargain, my lord!&quot; she cried
hoarsely. &quot;You dare not -- you dare not ---&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;My bargain, fair one?&quot; Stoutenburg
retorted coolly. &quot;Nay, you were so averse to fulfilling your
share of it, that I have repented me of proposing it. The varlet
hangs. That is my last word.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">His last word! And Jan so ready to obey! The
men were already closing in around her beloved; less than a minute
later they had his hands securely pinioned behind his back. Can
you wonder that she lost her head, that she fought to free herself
from her father's arms, and, throwing reserve, dignity to the
winds, threw herself at the feet of that inhuman monster and pleaded
with him as no woman on earth had, mayhap, ever pleaded before?</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">We do not like to think of that exquisite,
refined woman kneeling before such an abominable dastard. Yet
she did it! Words of appeal, of entreaty, poured from her quivering
lips. She raised her tear-stained face to his, embraced his knees
with her arms. She forgot the men that stood by, puzzled and vaguely
awed -- Jan resolute, her father torn to the heart. She forgot
everything save that there was a chance -- a remote chance --
of softening a cruel heart, and she could not -- no, could not!
-- see the man she loved dragged to shameful death before her
eyes.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She promised -- oh, she promised all that she
had to give!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I'll be your willing slave, my lord,
in all things,&quot; she pleaded, her voice broken and hoarse.
&quot;Your loving wife, as you desire. A kiss from me? Take it,
an you will. I'll not resist! Nay, I'll return it from my heart,
in exchange for your clemency.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then it was that the burgomaster succeeded
at last in tearing her away from her humiliating position. He
dragged her to her feet, drew her to his breast, tried by words
and admonition to revive in her her sense of dignity and her self-control.
Only with one word did he, in his turn, condescend to plead.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;An you have a spark of humanity left
in you, my lord,&quot; he said loudly, &quot;order your executioners
to be quick about their business.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">For the Lord of Stoutenburg had, with a refinement
of cruelty almost unbelievable, were it not a matter of history,
stayed Jan from executing his inhuman order.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Wait!&quot; his glittering eyes appeared
to say to the sycophant henchman who hung upon his looks. &quot;Let
me enjoy this feast until I am satiated.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then, when Gilda lay at last, half-swooning
in the shelter of her father's arms, he said coolly:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Have I not said, fair one, that if you
deigned to plead the rascal should not hang? See! The potency
of your charm upon my sensitive heart! The man who hath always
been my most bitter enemy, and whom at last I have within my power,
shall live because your fair arms did encircle my knees, and because
of your free will you offered me a kiss. Mynheer Burgomaster,&quot;
he added, with easy condescension, &quot;I pray you lead your
daughter to her room. She is over-wrought and hath need of rest.
Go in peace, I pray you. That drunken varlet is safe now in my
hands.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The burgomaster could not trust himself to
reply. Only his loving hands wandered with a gentle, soothing
gesture over his beloved daughter's hair, whilst he murmured soft,
endearing words in her ear. Gradually she became more calm, was
able to gather her wits together, to realize what she had done
and all that she had sacrificed, probably in vain. Stoutenburg
had spoken soft words, but how could she trust him, who had ever
proved himself a liar and a cheat? She was indeed like a miserable,
captive bird, held, maimed and bruised, in a cruel trap set by
vengeful and cunning hands. It seemed almost incredible why she
should be made to suffer so.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">What had she done? In what horrible way had
she sinned before God, that His hand should lie so heavily upon
her? Even her sacrifice -- sublime and selfless -- failed to give
her the consolation of duty nobly accomplished. Everything before
her was dreary and dark. Life itself was nought but torture. The
few days -- hours -- that must intervene until she knew that Amersfoort
was safe confronted her like the dark passage into Gehenna. Beyond
them lay death at last, and she, a young girl scarce out of adolescence,
hitherto rich, beautiful, adulated, was left to long for that
happy release from misery with an intensity of longing akin to
the sighing of souls in torment.<BR>
</FONT></P>

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<H3><CENTER><FONT FACE="Lucida Calligraphy">CHAPTER XIV - TREACHERY</FONT></CENTER></H3>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">~1</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Throughout this harrowing scene the blind man
had stood by, pinioned, helpless, almost lifeless in his immobility.
The only sign of life in him seemed to be in those weird, sightless
orbs, in which the flickering light of the resin torches appeared
to draw shafts of an unearthly glow. He was pinioned and could
not move. Half a dozen soldiers had closed in around him. Whether
he heard all that went on, many who were there at the time declared
it to be doubtful. But, even if he heard, what could he have done?
He could not even put his hands up to his ears to shut out that
awful sound of his beloved wife's hoarse, spent voice pleading
desperately for him.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">One of the men who was on guard over him told
De Voocht afterwards that he could hear the tough sinews cracking
against the bonds that held the giant captive, and that great
drops of sweat appeared upon the fine, wide brow. When Gilda,
leaning heavily upon her father's arm, finally mounted the stairs
which led up to her room, the blind man turned his head in that
direction. But the jongejuffrouw went on with head bent and did
not glance down in response.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">All this we know from De Voocht, who speaks
of it in his &quot;Brieven.&quot; But he was not himself present
on the scene and hath it only from hearsay. He questioned several
of the men subsequently as he came in contact with them, and,
of course, the burgomaster's testimony was the most clear and
the most detailed. Mynheer Beresteyn admitted that, throughout
that awful, ne'er-to-be-forgotten evening, he could not understand
the blind man's attitude, was literally tortured with doubts of
him. Was he, in truth, the craven wretch which he appeared to
be -- the miserable traitor who had sold the Stadtholder's original
plans to De Berg, betrayed Marquet and De Keysere, and hopelessly
jeopardized the whole of Gelderland, if not the entire future
of the Netherlands? If so, he was well-deserving of the gallows,
which would not fail to be his lot.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But was he? Was he?</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The face, of course, out of which the light
of the eyes had vanished, was inscrutable. The mouth, remember,
was partially hidden by the three days' growth of beard, and grime
and fatigue had further obliterated all other marks of expression.
Of course, the man must have suffered tortures of humiliation
and rage, which would effectually deaden all physical pain. But
at the time he seemed not to suffer. Indeed, at one moment it
almost seemed if he were asleep, with sightless eyes wide open,
and standing on his feet.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">~2</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
After Gilda and her father had disappeared on the floor above,
the Lord of Stoutenburg, like a wild and caged beast awaiting
satisfaction, began pacing up and down the long banqueting-hall.
The doors leading into it from the hall had been left wide open,
and the men could see his lordship in his restless wanderings,
his heavy boots ringing against the reed-covered floor. He held
his arms folded across his chest, and was gnawing -- yes, gnawing
-- his knuckles in the excess of his excitement and his choler.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then he called Jan, and parleyed with him for
awhile, consulted Mynheer Nicolaes, who was more taciturn and
gloomy than ever before.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The soldiers knew what was coming. They had
witnessed the scene between the jongejuffrouw and his Magnificence
and some of them who had wives and sweethearts of their own, had
felt uncomfortable lumps, at the time, in their throats. Others,
who had sons, fell to wishing that their offsprings might be as
finely built, as powerful as that poor, blind, intoxicated wretch
who, in truth, now had no use for his magnificent muscles.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But what would you? These were troublous times.
Life was cheap -- counted for nothing in sight of such great gentlemen
as was the Lord of Stoutenburg. The varlet, it seems, had offended
his lordship awhile ago. Jan knew the story, and was very bitter
about it, too. Well, no man could expected to be treated with
gentleness by a great lord whom he had been fool enough to offend.
The blind rascallion would hang, of that there could be no doubt.
The jongejuffrouw had been pacified with soft words and vague
promises, but the rascal would hang. Any man there would have
bet his shirt on the issue. You had only to look at his lordship.
A more determined, more terrifying look it were impossible to
meet. Even Jan looked a little scared. When his Magnificence looked
like that it boded no good to any one. All the rancour, the gall,
that had accumulated in his heart against everything that pertained
to the United Provinces and to their Stadtholder would effectively
smother the slightest stirring of conscience or pity. Perhaps,
when the jongejuffrouw knelt at his feet, he had thought of his
mother, who, equally distraught and equally humiliated, had knelt
in vain at the Stadtholder's feet, pleading for the life of her
sons. Oh, yes, all that had made the Lord of Stoutenburg terribly
hard and callous.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But the men were sorry for the blind vagabond,
for all that. He had had nothing to do with the feuds between
the Stadtholder and the sons of Olden Barneveldt. He had done
nothing, seemingly, save to win the love of the beautiful lady
whom his Magnificence had marked for his own. He was brave, too.
You could not help admiring him as he stood between you and your
comrades, his head thrown back, a splendid type of virility and
manhood. Half-seas over he may have been. His misfortunes were,
in truth, enough to make any man take a drink; but you could not
help but see that there was an air of spirituality about the forehead
and the sensitive nostrils which redeemed the face from any suggestion
of sensuality. And now and again a quaint smile would play round
the corners of his mouth, and the whole wan face would light up
as if with a sudden whimsical thought.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then all at once he threw back his head and
yawned.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Such a droll fellow! Yawning on the brink of
eternity! It was, in truth, a pity he should hang!</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">~3</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Yes, the blind man yawned, loudly and long,
like one who is ready for bed. And the harmless sound completed
Stoutenburg's exasperation. He once more gave the harsh word of
command:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Take the varlet out and hang him!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Obviously this time it would be irrevocable.
There was no one here to plead, and there was Jan, stolid and
grim as was his wont, already at attention under the lintel --
a veritable tower of strength in support of his chief's decisions.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Jan was not in the habit of arguing with his
lordship. This, or any other order, was as one to him. As for
the blind vagabond -- well, Jan was as eager as his Magnificence
to get the noose around the rascal's throat. There were plenty
of old scores to settle between them -- the humiliation of three
months ago, which had sent Stoutenburg, disgraced and a fugitive,
out of the land, had hit Jan severely, too.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And that never-to-be-forgotten discomfiture
was entirely due to this miserable caitiff, who, indeed would
get naught but his deserts.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The task, in truth, was a congenial one to
Jan. A blind man was easy enough to deal with, and this one offered
but little resistance. He had been half-asleep, it seems, and
only woke to find himself on the brink of eternity. Even so, his
good-humour did not forsake him.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Odd's fish!&quot; he exclaimed when,
roughly shaken from his somnolence, he found himself in the hands
of the soldiery. &quot;I had forgotten this hanging business.
You might have left a man to finish his dreams in peace.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He appeared dazed, and his speech was thick.
He had been drinking heavily all the evening, and, save for an
odd moment or so of lucid interval, he had been hopelessly fuddled
all along. And he was merry in his cups; laughter came readily
to his lips; he was full of quips and sallies, too, which kept
the men in rare good-humour. In truth, the fellow would joke and
sing apparently until the hangman's rope smothered all laughter
in his throat.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But he had an unquenchable thirst; entreated
the men to bring him a jug of wine.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Spanish wine,&quot; he pleaded. &quot;I
dote on Spanish wine, but had so little of it to drink in my day.
That villainous rascal Pythagoras -- some of you must have known
the pot-bellied loon -- would always seize all there was to get.
He and Socrates. Two scurvy runagates who should hang 'stead o'
me. Give me a mug of wine, for mercy's sake!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The men had none to give, and the matter was
referred to Jan.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Not another drop!&quot; Jan declared
with unanswerable finality. &quot;The knave is quite drunk enough
as it is.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Ah!&quot; the blind man protested with
ludicrous vehemence. &quot;But there thou'rt wrong, worthy Jan.
No man is ever -- is ever drunk enough. He may be top-heavy, he
may be as drunk as a lord, or as fuddled as David's sow. He may
be fuzzy, fou, or merely sottish; but sufficiently drunk? No!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A shout of laughter from the men greeted this
solemn pronouncement. Jan shrugged his shoulders impatiently.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Well, that is as may be!&quot; he rejoined
gruffly. &quot;But not another drop to drink wilt thou get from
me.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Oh, Jan,&quot; the poor man protested,
with a pitiable note of appeal, &quot;my good Jan, think on it!
I am about to hang! Wouldst refuse the last request of a dying
man?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Thou'rt about to hang,&quot; Jan assented,
unmoved. &quot;Therefore, 'twere a pity to waste good liquor on
thee.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I'll pay the well, my good Jan,&quot;
Diogenes put in, with a knowing wink of his sightless eyes.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Pay me?&quot; Jan retorted, with a grim
laugh. &quot; 'Tis not much there's left in thy pockets, I'm thinking.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;No,&quot; the blind man agreed, nodding
gravely. &quot;These good men here did, in truth -- empty my pockets
effectually awhile ago. 'Twas not with coin I meant to repay thee,
good Jan ---&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;With what, then?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Information, Jan!&quot; the blind man
replied, sinking his voice to a hoarse whisper. &quot;Information
for the like of which his Lordship of Stoutenburg would give his
ears.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Jan laughed derisively. The men laughed openly.
They thought this but another excellent joke on the part of the
droll fellow.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Bah! Jan said, with a shrug of the shoulder.
&quot;How should a varlet like thee know aught of which his lordship
hath not full cognisance already?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;His lordship,&quot; the other riposted
quickly, even whilst a look of impish cunning overspread his face
-- &quot;his lordship never was in the confidence of the Stadtholder.
I was!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What hath the Stadtholder to do with
the matter?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Oh, nothing, nothing!&quot; the blind
man replied airily. &quot;Thou art obstinate, my good Jan, and
'tis not I who would force thee to share a secret for the possession
of which, let me assure thee, his lordship would repay me not
only with a tankard of his best wine, but with my life! Ay, and
with a yearly pension of one thousand guilders to boot.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">These last few words he had spoken quite slowly
and with grave deliberation, his head nodding sagely while he
spoke. The look of cunning in those spectral orbs had lent to
his pale, wan face an air of elfin ghoulishness. He was swaying
on his feet, and now and again the men had to hold him up, for
he was on the very point of measuring his length on the hall floor.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Jan did not know what to make of it all. Obviously
the man was drunk. But not so drunk that he did not know what
he was talking about. And the air of cunning suggested that there
was something alive in the fuddled brain. Jan looked across the
hall in the direction of the banqueting-room.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The doors were wide open, and he could see
that his lordship, who at first had paced up and down the long
room like a caged beast, had paused quite close to the door, then
advanced on tip-toe out into the hall, where he had remained for
the last minute or two, intent and still, with eager, probing
glance fixed upon the blind man. Now, when Jan questioned him
with a look, he gave his faithful henchman a scarce perceptible
sign, which the latter was quick enough to interpret correctly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Thou dost set my mouth to water,&quot;
he said to the blind man, with well-assumed carelessness, &quot;By
all this talk of yearly pensions and of guilders. I am a poor
man, and not so young as I was. A thousand guilders a year would
keep me in comfort for the rest of my life.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Yet art so obstinate,&quot; Diogenes
riposted with a quaint, inane laugh, &quot;as to deny me a tankard
of Spanish wine, which might put thee in possession of my secret
-- a secret, good Jan, worth yearly pensions and more to his lordship.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;How do I know thou'rt not a consummate
liar?&quot; Jan protested gruffly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I am!&quot; the other riposted, wholly
unruffled. &quot;I am! Lying hath been my chief trade ever since
I was breeched. Had I not lied to the Stadtholder he would not
have entrusted his secrets to me, and I could not have bartered
those secrets for a tankard of good Spanish wine.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Thy vaunted secrets may not be worth
a tankard of wine.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;They are, friend Jan, they are! Try them
and see.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Well, let's hear them and, if they are
worth it, I'll pay thee with a tankard of his lordship's best
Oporto.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But the blind man shook his head with owlish
solemnity.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And then sell them to his lordship,&quot;
he retorted, &quot;for pensions and what not, whilst thine own
hand, mayhap, puts the rope around my neck. No, no, my good Jan,
say no more about it. I'd as lief see his lordship and thee falling
into the Stadtholder's carefully laid trap, and getting murdered
in your beds, even while I am on my journey to kingdom come.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Who is going to murder us?&quot; Jan
queried, frowning and puzzled, trying to get his cue once more
from his master. &quot;And how?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I'll not tell thee,&quot; the blind man
replied, with a quick turn to that obstinacy which so oft pertains
to the drunkard, &quot;not if thou wert to plunge me in a bath
of best Oporto.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Some of the men began to murmur.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;We might all share?&quot; one or two
of them suggested.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Let's hear what it is,&quot; others declared.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I'll tell thee, knave, what I'll do,&quot;
Jan rejoined decisively. &quot;I'll bring thee a tankard of Oporto
to loosen thy tongue. Then, if thy secret is indeed as important
as thou dost pretend, I'll see that the hangman is cheated of
thy carcass.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">For awhile the blind man pondered.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Loosen my hands then, friend Jan,&quot;
he said, &quot;for, in truth, I am trussed like a fowl; then let's
feel the handle of that tankard. After that we'll talk.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">~4</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The soldiers sat around the table, watching
the blind man with grave attention. At a sign from Jan they soon
loosened his bonds. There was something magnetic in the air just
then, something that sent sensitive nerves aquiver, and of which
these rough fellow were only vaguely conscious. They could not
look on that drunken loon without laughing. He was more comical
than ever now, with that air of bland beatitude upon his face
as his slender fingers closed around the handle of the tankard
which Jan had just placed in his hand.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I would sell my soul for a butt of this
nectar,&quot; he said; and drank in the odour of the wine with
every sign of delight, even before he raised the tankard to his
lips.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The Lord of Stoutenburg watched the blind man,
too. A deep furrow between his brows testified to the earnest
concentration of his thoughts. The man knew something, or thought
he knew, of that his lordship could not be in doubt. The question
was, was that knowledge of such importance as the miserable wretch
averred, or was he merely, like any rogue who sees the rope dangling
before his eyes, trying to gain a respite, by proposing vain bargains
or selling secrets that had only found birth in his own fuddled
brain. Stoutenburg, remember, was no psychologist. Indeed, psychology
did not exist as a science in these days when men were over-busy
with fighting, and had no time or desire to probe into the inner
workings of one another's soul.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">On the other hand, here was a man, thus his
lordship argued to himself, who might know something of the Stadtholder's
plans. He was wont, before he rolled so rapidly down the hill
of manhood and repute, to be an inimate of Maurice of Nassau.
He might, as lately as yesterday, have been initiated into the
great soldier's plans for repelling this sudden invasion of the
land which he had thought secure. The Stadtholder, in truth, was
not the man to abandon all efforts at resistance just because
his original plans had failed.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">True, the attempt to rescue Arnheim and Nijmegen
had ended in smoke. Marquet and De Keysere were, thanks to timely
warning, being held up somewhere by the armies of Isembourg and
De Berg. But Maurice of Nassau would not of a certainty, thus
lightly abandon all hopes of saving Gelderland. He must have formulated
a project, and Stoutenburg, who was no fool, was far from underestimating
the infinite brain power and resourcefulness of that peerless
commander. Whether he had communicated that project to this besotted
oaf was another matter.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Stoutenburg searched the blind man's face with
an intent glance that seemed to probe the innermost thoughts behind
that fine, wide brow. For the moment, the face told him nothing.
It was just vacant, the sightless eyes shone with delight, and
the tankard raised to the lips effectually hid all expression
around the mouth.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Well, there was not much harm done, the waste
of a few moments, if the information proved futile. Jan was ready
with the rope, if the whole thing proved to be a mere trick for
putting off the fateful hour. As the Lord of Stoutenburg gazed
on the blind man, trying vainly to curb his burning impatience,
he instinctively thought of Gilda. Gilda, and his hopeless wooing
of her, her coldness toward him and her passionate adherence to
this miserable caitiff, who, in truth, had thrown dust in her
eyes by an outward show of physical courage and a mock display
of spurious chivalry.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">What if the varlet had been initiated in the
Stadtholder's projects? What if he betrayed them now -- sold them
in exchange for his own worthless life, and stood revealed, before
all the world, as an abject coward, as base as any Judas who would
sell his master for thirty pieces of silver? The thought turned
the miscreant giddy, so dazzling did this issue appear before
his mental vision. What a revelation for a fond and loyal woman,
who had placed so worthless an object on a pinnacle of valour!
What a disillusionment! She had staunchly believed in his integrity
up to now. But after this?</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">In truth, what more can a man desire than to
see the honour of a rival smirched in the eyes of a woman who
spurns him? That was the main thought that coursed through Stoutenburg's
brain, driving before it all obstinacy and choler, ay, even soothing
his exacerbated nerves.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He gave a sign to Jan.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Bring that varlet here to me,&quot; he
commanded. &quot;I'll speak to him myself.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The sound of his voice chased the look of beatitude
from the blind man's face, which took on an expression of bewildered
surprise.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I had no thought his lordship was here,&quot;
he said, with a self-conscious, inane laugh.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The men were murmuring audibly. Some of them
had seen visions of good reward, shared amongst them all, after
the blind man had been made to speak. But Jan paid no heed to
their discontent. In a trice he had seen the blind man secure
once more, with arms tied as before behind his back. Diogenes
had uttered a loud cry of protest when the empty tankard was torn
out of his hand.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Jan,&quot; he shouted, in a thick, hoarse
voice, &quot;if thou'rt a knave and dost not keep faith with me,
the devil himself will run away with thee.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;His Magnificence will hear what thou
hast to say,&quot; Jan retorted gruffly. &quot;After that, we'll
see.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He led the prisoner through into the banqueting-hall,
and despite the men's murmurings, he closed the door upon them.
He sat the blind man down in a chair, opposite his lordship. The
poor loon had begun to whimper softly, just like a child, and
continued to appeal pitiably to Jan.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;If his lordship is satisfied,&quot; he
murmured confidingly, &quot;you'll see to it, Jan, that I do not
hang.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Jan has his orders!&quot; his lordship
put in roughly. &quot;But take heed, sirrah! If your information
is worth having, you may go to hell your own way; I care nought!
But remember,&quot; he added, with slow and stern emphasis, &quot;if
you trick me in this, 'twil not be the rope for you at dawn --
but the stake!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Diogenes gave a quick shudder.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;By the lord,&quot; he said blandly, &quot;how
very unpleasant! But I am a man of my word. Jan put good wine
into me. He shall be paid for it. And I'll tell you what the Stadtholder
hath planned for the defeat of the Lord of Stoutenburg.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Well,&quot; his lordship retorted curtly.
&quot;I wait!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">There was silence for a moment whilst the blind
man apparently collected his thoughts. He sat, trussed and helpless
in the chair, with his head thrown back, and the full light of
the candles playing upon his pale face -- the latter still vacant
and with a childish expression of excitement about those weird,
dark orbs. The Lord of Stoutenburg, master of the situation, sat
in a high-backed chair opposite him, his chin resting in his hand,
his eyes, glowering and fierce, searching that strange, mysterious
face before him. Strange and mysterious, in truth, with those
sightless eyes, that glittered uncannily whenever the flickering
candle-light caught the abnormally dilated pupils, and those quavering
lips which every moment broke into a whimsical and inane smile.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Jan, my friend,&quot; the blind man asked
after a while, &quot;art here?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Ay!&quot; Jan replied gruffly. &quot;I'm
here right enough to see that thou'rt up to no mischief.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;How can I be that, worthy Jan?&quot;
the other retorted blandly, &quot;since thou hast again trussed
me like a capon?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Well, the sooner thou hast satisfied
his lordship,&quot; Jan rejoined with stolid indifference, &quot;the
sooner thou wilt be free ---&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;To go to hell mine own way!&quot; Diogenes
put in with a hiccough. &quot;So his lordship hath pledged his
word. Let all those who are my friends bear witness that his lordship
did pledge his word.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He paused, and once again a look of impish
cunning over-spread his face. He seemed to be preparing for a
fateful moment which literally would mean life or death for him.
An exclamation of angry impatience from Stoutenburg recalled him
to himself.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I am ready,&quot; he protested with eager
servility, &quot;to do his lordship's pleasure.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Then speak, man!&quot; Stoutenburg retorted
savagely, &quot;ere I wring the words from thee with torture!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I was only thinking how to put the matter
clearly,&quot; Diogenes protested blandly. &quot;The Stadtholder
only outlined his plan to me. There was so little time. My friend
Klaas will remember that after his Highness's horse bolted across
the moor I was able to stop it ---&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Yes -- curse your interference!&quot;
Stoutenburg muttered between his teeth.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Amen to that!&quot; the blind man assented.
&quot;But for it, I should still have the privilege of beholding
your lordship's pleasing countenance. But at the moment I had
no thought save to stop a runaway horse. The Stadtholder was mightily
excited, scented that a trap had been laid for him. My friend
Klaas again will remember that, after his Highness dismounted
he stopped to parley with me upon the moor.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Nicolaes nodded.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Then it was,&quot; Diogenes went on,
&quot;that he told what he meant to do. I was, of course, to bear
my part in the new project, which was to make a feint upon Ede
---&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;A feint upon Ede?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Ay! A surprise attack, which would keep
De Berg, who is in Ede, busy whilst the Stadtholder ---&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Bah!&quot; Stoutenburg broke in contemptuously,
&quot;De Berg is too wary to be caught by a feint.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;So he is, my lord, so he is!&quot; Diogenes
rejoined with solemn gravity. &quot;But if I were to tell you
that the surprise attack is to be made in full force, and that
the weight will fall on the south side of the town, what then?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I do not see with what object.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Yet you, my lord, would know the Stadtholder's
tactics of old. You fought under his banner -- once.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Before he murdered my father, yes!&quot;
Stoutenburg broke in impatiently. He did not relish this allusion
to his former fighting days, before black treachery had made him
betray the ruler he once served. &quot;But what of that?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;For then your lordship would remember,&quot;
the blind man went on placidly, &quot;that the Stadtholder's favorite
plan was always to draw the enemy away by a ruse from his own
chief point of attack.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;But where would the chief point of attack
be in this case?&quot; Stoutenburg queried with a frown.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;At a certain molen your lordship wot
of on the Veluwe.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Impossible!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Oh, impossible? Your lordship is pleased
to jest. Some days ago, spies came into Utrecht with the information
that the Lord of Stoutenburg had his camp at an old molen, which
stands disused and isolated on the highest point of the Veluwe,
somewhere between Apeldoorn and Barneveld.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;My camp? Bah! The mill was only a halting
place ---&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The spies averred, my lord,&quot; the
blind man broke in blandly, &quot;that vast stores of arms and
ammunition are accumulated in that halting-place. And that the
attack on Amersfoort was planned within its rickety walls.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then, as the Lord of Stoutenburg made no comment
on this -- indeed, he had cast a rapid, significant glance on
Nicolaes, who throughout this colloquy had appeared as keen, as
interested, as his friend -- the blind man went on slowly:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The Stadtholder's objective is the molen
on the Veluwe.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What? From Ede!&quot; Nicolaes exclaimed.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;No, no! Have I not said that the attack
on Ede would be a feint? It will be the Stadtholder himself who,
with a comparatively small force, will push on toward Barneveld
and the molen, and at once cut off all communication between Ede
and Amersfoort.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I understand,&quot; Stoutenburg rejoined,
with a grave nod. &quot;But if it is a small force we can easily
---&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You can now,&quot; Diogenes assented
coolly, &quot;since you are warned.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Quite right! Eh, friend Nicolaes?&quot;
his lordship retorted, and strove to let his harsh voice express
a world of withering contempt. &quot;If all this is not a trick
you varlet hath served us well. What say you? Shall we let him
go to hell his own way, and save the hangman a deal of pother?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;If it all prove true,&quot; Nicolaes
put in cautiously. &quot;But what proof have we?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;None, in truth. Nor would I let this
craven vagabond out of Jan's sight until we do make sure that
he hath not lied. But there'll be no harm in being prepared. Here,
sirrah!&quot; his lordship continued, once more addressing the
blind man. &quot;With how strong a force doth the Stadtholder
propose to cut us off from Ede?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But, during this brief colloquy between the
two friends, the blind man had begun to nod. His head fell forward
on his chest, the heavy lids veiled the stricken eyes, and anon
a peaceable snore came through the partially open mouth. Stoutenburg
swore, as was his wont, the moment his choler was roused, and
Jan shook the prisoner roughly by the shoulder.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Eh? Eh? What?&quot; the latter queried,
blinked his sightless eyes, and turned a pale and startled face
vaguely from side to side. &quot;What is it? Where's that confounded
---?</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Answer his lordship's question!&quot;
Jan commanded briefly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Question? What question? Your lordship
must forgive me. I am so fatigued, and that tankard of ---&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I asked thee, knave,&quot; Stoutenburg
broke in impatiently, &quot;with how strong a force the Stadtholder
proposed to cut us off from Ede?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Call it four thousand, my lord,&quot;
the blind man babbled, &quot;and let me go to sleep&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You shall sleep till Judgement Day when
I've done with you, sirrah! Will the Stadtholder lead that force
in person?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The blind man winked and blinked, tried to
collect his thoughts, which apparently had all wandered off toward
the Land of Nod. Then he said:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The plan was to leave the bulk of that
force to menace Amersfoort. But the Stadtholder himself meant
to push on as far as the molen, with but a few hundred of his
picked men. He thought to seize the stores of arms and ammunition
there and then to await the coming of the Lord of Stoutenburg,
who, driven out of Amersfoort and cut off from Ede, would make
of necessity for his headquarters.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Ah!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The exclamation, deep and prolonged, came from
three pairs of lips. Stoutenburg, Nicolaes and Jan looked at one
another, and there was triumph and satisfaction depicted in their
glance. The same thought had occurred simultaneously to these
three traitors; the Stadtholder, with a comparatively small force,
pushing on to the lonely molen on the Veluwe, not knowing that
some of De Berg's troops were holding the Ijssel beyond.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He would be caught like a rat in a trap; and
the question was whether it would not be better to allow him to
carry out his plan, not to oppose him on his way, to let him reach
the molen and then close in behind him, so that he would have
but two alternatives before him -- to surrender in the molen or
to turn his small force in the direction of the Zuider Zee, and
therein seek a watery grave.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">~5</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I must have a little time to think,&quot;
Stoutenburg muttered to himself, after a while.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The blind man had apparently dropped off to
sleep again. His head had once more fallen forward on his chest.
Jan was prepared to give him another rude awakening, but his lordship
stopped him with a sign.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Let the muckworm sleep,&quot; he said.
&quot;I must think out the whole position. If what the knave says
is true-</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I am inclined to believe it true,&quot;
Nicolaes interposed. &quot;The man is too fuddled to have invented
so circumstantial a story. And I have it in my mind,&quot; he
added reflectively, &quot;that when the Stadtholder visited Amersfoort
yesterday he said something to my father about devising a plan
later on if the city were seriously threatened.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Then, by Satan! all would be well indeed!&quot;
And Stoutenburg drew up his gaunt figure to its full height, looked
every inch a conqueror, with heel set upon the neck of his foes.
Jan alone looked dubious.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I wouldn't trust the rogue,&quot; he
said grimly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Would you hang him now?&quot; Stoutenburg
retorted.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;No; I would wait to make sure. Let him
sleep awhile now. When he wakes out of his booze, he might be
able to give us further details.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;In the meanwhile,&quot; his lordship
rejoined, &quot;keep the men under arms, Jan. I have not yet thought
the matter over; but this I know -- that I'll start for the molen
with a few hundred musketeers and pikemen as soon as I am sure
that this rascallion hath not spun a tissue of lies. Do you send
out spies at once in every direction, with orders to bring back
information immediately. We must hear if an attack hath indeed
been made on Ede, and if the Stadtholder is moving out of Utrecht.
Have you some men you can trust?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Oh, yes, so please your lordship,&quot;
Jan replied. &quot;I can send Piet Walleren in the direction of
Ede, and I myself will push on toward Utrecht. We'd both be back
long before dawn.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And 'tis not you who could be nousled,
eh, good Jan?&quot; his lordship was pleased to say.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;If we have been tricked by this tosspot,&quot;
Jan riposted gruffly, &quot;I'll see him burnt alive, and 'tis
mine own hand will set the brand to the stake.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He paused, and drew in his breath with a shudder;
for he had turned to look on the blind man whom he was threatening
with so dire a fate and whom he had thought asleep, and encountered
those sightless orbs fixed upon him as if they could see something
through and beyond him, some ghoul or spectre lurking in a distant
corner of the room. So uncanny and terrifying did the rascal look,
indeed, that instinctively Jan, who believed neither in God nor
the devil, remembered his mother's early teachings, and made sundry
and vague signs of the Cross upon his breast, with a view to exorcising
those evil spirits which must be somewhere lurking about, unseen
by all save by the man who had lost his sight.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What is it now?&quot; Stoutenburg queried
with a scowl.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The blind man indeed appeared to be listening
-- listening so intently, with head now craned forward and eyes
fixed into vacancy -- that instinctively the three recreants listened
too. To what, they could not have told. Through the open casement
the sound of life -- camp life, of sentries' challenging call,
of bivouac fires, and rowdy soldiery -- came in as before. A little
less roisterous, perhaps, seeing that most of the men, tired after
long days of marching and hours of carousing, had settled themselves
down to sleep.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Inside the room, the monumental clock up against
the wall ticked off each succeeding second with tranquil monotony.
It was now close upon midnight. Nothing had happened. Nothing
could have happened, to disturb the wonted tenor of the life of
an army in temporary occupation of an unresisting city. Nothing,
in fact, unless that blind tatter-demalion over there had indeed
spoken the truth.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And still he listened. A vague anxiety seemed
to have completely banished sleep, even momentarily to have dissipated
the potent effect of that excellent Oporto; and on his face there
was that strained look peculiar to those who have been robbed
of one sense and are at pains to exert the others to their utmost
power. It seemed as if his sightless orbs must pierce some hidden
veil which kept vital secrets hidden from ordinary human gaze.
And these three men -- traitors all -- whose craven hearts, weighted
with crime, were sensitive to every uncanny spell, felt their
own senses unaccountably thrilled by that motionless, stony image
of a man whose very soul appeared on the alert, and in whom life
itself, was as it were, momentarily arrested.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The spell continued for a moment or two. A
minute, perhaps, went by; then, with an impatient curse, Stoutenburg
jumped to his feet, strode rapidly to the window, and, leaning
out far over the sill, he listened.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Indeed, at first it was naught but the habitual
confused sounds that reach his ear. But as he, in his turn, strained
every sense to hear, something unusual seemed to mingle with the
other sounds. A murmuring. Strange voices. A few isolated words
that rose above the others, louder than the sentries' call; also
a patter of feet, like men running and a clang of arms that at
this hour should have been stilled.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The Lord of Stoutenburg could not have told
you then why those sounds should have suddenly filled his mind
with foreboding -- why, indeed, he heard them at all. Beneath
the window, ranged against the wall, the men of his picked company
were sleeping peacefully. Their bivouac fire fed by those on guard,
shed a pleasant glow over the familiar scene. Beyond its ruddy
gleam everything looked by contrast impenetrably dark. The river
beyond it, nothing; only blackness -- a blackness that could be
felt. The lights of the city had long since been extinguished,
only one tiny glimmer, which came from a small oil-lamp, showed
above the Koppel-poort.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But that confused sound, that murmuring, came
from the rear of the burgomaster's house, from the direction of
the Market Place, where the bulk of his lordship's army was encamped.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What in thunder does it mean?&quot; Stoutenburg
muttered.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Nicolaes came and joined him by the window.
He, too, strained his ears to hear, feeling his nerves vaguely
stirred by a kind of superstitious dread. But Stoutenburg turned
to the blind man, and tried to read an answer in the latter's
white, set face.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Jan shook Diogenes fiercely by the shoulder.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Dost hear, knave?&quot; he said harshly.
&quot;What does it all mean?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What does what mean, worthy Jan?&quot;
the blind man queried blandly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Thou are listening for something. What
is it? His lordship desires to know.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Canst thou hear anything, friend Jan?&quot;
the other riposted serenely.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Only the usual sounds. What should I
hear?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The armies of the Stadtholder on the
move.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">An exclamation of incredulity broke from Stoutenburg's
lips. Nevertheless, he turned imperatively to Jan.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Go or send at once into the town,&quot;
he commanded. &quot;Let us hear if anything has happened.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">In a moment Jan was out of the room; and soon
his gruff voice could be heard from outside, questioning and giving
orders. He had gone himself to see what was amiss.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And Stoutenburg, half incredulous, yet labouring
under strong excitement, once more approached the window and,
leaning far out into the night, set his ears to listen.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">His senses, too, were keyed up now, detached
as they were from everything else except just what went on outside.
The subdued murmurings reached his perceptions independently of
every other sound. A hum of voices, and through it that of Jan,
questioning and commanding; and others that talked agitatedly,
with many interruptions.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">After awhile he felt that he could stand the
strain no longer. Very obviously something had happened, something
was being discussed out on the Market Place, and there was a kind
of buzzing in the air, as if around the hive of bees that have
been disturbed by a company of robber-wasps. And to him -- Stoutenburg
-- for whom that buzzing might mean the first step toward the
pinnacle of his desires, the turning point of his destiny, beyond
which lay power, dominion, ambition satisfied, and passion satiated,
every moment of suspense and silence became positive torture.
A primeval, savage instinct would, but for the presence of Nicolaes,
have driven him to seizing the helpless prisoner by the throat,
and thus to ease the tension on his nerves and still the wild
hammering of blood on his temples.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But Nicolaes did, as it happened, exercise
in this instance a restraining influence on his friend; quite
unknowingly, of course, as his was the weaker nature. But the
last half hour had wrought a marked change in Stoutenburg -- a
subtle one, which he himself could not have defined. Before then,
he had been striving for great things -- for revenge, for power,
for the satisfaction of his passions. But now he felt that he
had attained all that, and more. Obviously his stricken enemy
had not lied. The Stadtholder was about to fall into a trap which
was easy enough to set. The once brilliant Laughing Cavalier had
sunk to a state of moral and physical degradation from which he
could never now recover. And Gilda! Gilda had but to realize the
slough of turpitude into which her former lover had sunk to turn
gratefully and with a sigh of infinite relief to the man who had
freed her from such a yoke.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">In truth, Stoutenburg felt that he no longer
needed to climb. He had reached the summit. The summit of ambition,
of power, of sentimental satisfaction. He was a conqueror now;
master in the land of his birth; the future Stadtholder of the
United Province, wedded to the richest heiress in the Netherlands;
happy, feared, and obeyed.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">That was his position now, and that was the
cause of the subtle change in him -- a change which forced him
to keep his savage instincts in check before his servile friend;
forced to try and appear before others as above petty passions;
a justiciary and not a terrorist.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">~6</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The minutes sped by, leaden-footed for the
impatience of these two men. Nicolaes and Stoutenburg, each trying
to appear calm, hardly dared to speak with one another lest their
speech betrayed the exacerbation of their nerves.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It was Nicolaes' turn now to pace up and down
the room, to halt beside the window and peer out into the darkness
in search of Jan's familiar figure. Stoutenburg had once more
taken a seat on the highbacked chair, striving to look dignified
and detached. His arm was thrown over the table, and with his
sharply pointed nails he was drumming a devil's tatoo on the board.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Alone, the blind man appeared perfectly serene.
After that brief moment of comparative lucidity, he had relapsed
into somnolence. Occasional loud snores testified that he was
once more wandering in the Elysian fields of unconsciousness.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Half an hour after midnight Jan returned.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;There is no doubt about it,&quot; were
the first words he spoke. &quot;An attack on Ede appears to be
in progress, and the Stadtholder left his camp at Utrecht a couple
of hours ago with a force of four thousand men.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He was out of breath, having run, he said,
all the way from the Joris Poort, where he had gleaned the latest
information.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Who brought the news?&quot; his lordship
asked.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;No one seems to know, my lord,&quot;
Jan replied. &quot;But every one in the town has it. The rumour
hath spread like wildfire. It started at opposite quarters of
the city. The Nieuw Poort had it that a surprise attack had been
delivered on Ede earlier in the evening, and the Joris Poort that
the Stadtholder and his force are on the move. The captains at
the gates had heard the news from runners who had come direct
from Utrecht and from Ede.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Where are those runners now?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;In both cases the captains sent them
back for further information. The fellows were willing enough
to go, for a consideration; but the business has become a dangerous
one, for the roads to Utrecht and Ede, they averred are already
full of the Stadtholder's vedettes.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Bah!&quot; Stoutenburg ejaculated contemptuously.
&quot;A device for extorting money!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Probably,&quot; Jan riposted dryly. &quot;But
the money will be well spent if we get the information. The men
are not to be paid until they return. And if they do not return
---&quot; Jan shrugged his shoulders. If the spies did not return,
it would go to prove that the Stadtholder's vedettes were not
asleep.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I sent Piet Wallerin and one or two others
out, too,&quot; he added, &quot;with orders to push on both roads
as far as possible, and bring back any information they can obtain
-- the sooner the better.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;They have not yet returned?&quot; Stoutenburg
asked.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Oh, no! They have only been gone half
an hour.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Is the night very dark?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Very dark, my lord.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Piet may never get back.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;In that case we shall know that the Stadtholder's
vanguard has sighted him,&quot; Jan rejoined coolly. &quot;Nothing
else would keep Piet from getting back.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Stoutenburg nodded approval.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You think, then, that this varlet here
spoke the truth?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I have no longer any doubt of it, my
lord,&quot; Jan gave reply. &quot;Though I did not actually speak
with the men who seem originally to have brought the news, the
captains at the Poorts had no doubt whatever as to its authenticity.
But we shall know for certain before dawn. Piet and the others
will have returned by then -- or not, as the case may be. But
we shall know.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And, of course, we are prepared?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;To do just what your lordship commands.
The men will be under arms within the next two hours, and I can
seek the Master of the Camp, and send him at once to your lordship
for instructions.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Mine instructions are simple enough,
good Jan; and thou canst convey them to the Master of the Camp
thyself. They are, to remain quiescent, under arms but asleep.
To surrender the town if it be attacked ---&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;To surrender?&quot; Jan protested with
a frown.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;We must throw dust in the Stadtholder's
eyes,&quot; Stoutenburg riposted. &quot;Give the idea that we
are feeble and unprepared, and that I have fled out of Amersfoort.
The surrender of the city and its occupation will keep the main
force busy, whilst Maurice of Nassau, anxious to possess himself
of our person, will push on as far as the molen, where I, in the
meanwhile, will be waiting for him.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">His voice rang with a note of excitement and
of triumph.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;With the Stadtholder a prisoner in my
hands,&quot; he exclaimed, &quot;I can command the surrender of
all his forces. And then the whole of the Netherlands will be
at my feet!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Never, in his wildest dreams had he hoped for
this. Fate, in very truth, had tired of smiting him, had an overfull
cornucopia for him now and was showering down treasures upon him,
one by one.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">~7</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It was Nicolaes who first remembered the blind
man.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">During the last momentous half-hour he had
been totally forgotten. Stoutenburg during that time had been
in close confabulation with Jan, discussing plans, making arrangements
for the morrow's momentous expedition. Neither of them seemed
to feel the slightest fatigue. They were men of iron, whom their
passions kept alive. But Nicolaes was a man of straw. He had been
racked by one emotion after the other all day, and now he was
so tired that he could hardly stand. He envied the blind man every
time that a lusty snore escaped the latter's lips, and tried to
keep himself awake by going to the fire from time to time and
throwing a log or two upon it. But he stood in too great an awe
of his friend to dare own to fatigue when the future of his native
land was under discussion.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It was really in order to divert Stoutenburg's
attention from these interminable discussions on what to do and
what not to do on the morrow, that presently, during a pause,
he pointed to Diogenes.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What is to happen to this drunken loon?&quot;
he asked abruptly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Stoutenburg grinned maliciously.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Have no fear, friend Nicolaes,&quot;
he said. &quot;The fate of our valued informer will be my special
care. I have not forgotten him. Jan knows. While you were nodding,
he and I arranged it all. You did not hear?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Nicolaes shook his head.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;No,&quot; he said. &quot;What did you
decide?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You shall see, my good Klaas,&quot; Stoutenburg
replied with grim satisfaction. &quot;I doubt not but what you'll
be pleased. And since we have now finished the discussion of our
plans, Jan will at once go and bid the Heer Burgomaster rise from
his bed and attend upon our pleasure.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;My father?&quot; Nicolaes exclaimed in
surprise. &quot;Why? What hath he ---&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You will see, my good Klaas,&quot; the
other broke in quietly. &quot;You will see. I think that you will
be satisfied.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Jan, at his word, had already gone. Nicolaes,
really puzzled, tried to ask questions, but Stoutenburg was obviously
determined to keep the secret of his intentions awhile longer
to himself.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It was long past one o'clock now, and bitterly
cold. Even the huge blazing logs in the monumental hearth failed
to keep the large room at a pleasing temperature. Nicolaes, shivering
and yawning, crouched beside the blaze, knocked his half-frozen
hands one against the other. He would at this moment have bartered
most of his ambitions for the immediate prospect of a good bed.
But Stoutenburg was as wide awake as ever, and evidently some
kind of inward fever kept the cold out of his bones.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">After Jan's departure he resumed that restless
pacing of his up and down the long room. Up and down, until Nicolaes,
exasperated beyond endurance, could have screamed with choler.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Less than a quarter of an hour later, the burgomaster
arrived, ushered in by Jan. He had apparently not taken off his
clothes since he had been upstairs. It was indeed more that likely
that he had spent the time in prayer, for Mynheer Beresteyn was
a pious man, and the will of God in fortune or adversity was a
very real thing to him. With the same dignified submission which
he had displayed throughout, he had immediately followed Jan when
curtly ordered to do so. But he came down to face the arrogant
tyrant for the third time to-night with as heavy a heart as before,
not knowing what fresh indignity, what new cruel measure, would
be put upon him. Grace or clemency he knew that he could not expect.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The look of malignant triumph wherewith Stoutenburg
greeted him appeared to justify his worst forebodings. The presence,
too, of Diogenes, fettered and asleep, filled his anxious heart
with additional dread. As he stepped out into the room he took
no notice of his son, but only strove to face his arch-enemy with
as serene a countenance as he could command.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Your lordship desired that I should come,&quot;
he said quietly. &quot;What is your lordship's pleasure?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But Stoutenburg was all suavity. A kind of
feline gentleness was in his tone as he replied:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Firstly, to beg your forgiveness, mynheer,
for having disturbed you again -- and at this hour. But will you
not sit? Jan,&quot; he commanded, &quot;draw a chair nearer to
the hearth for the Heer Burgomaster.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I was not asleep, my lord,&quot; Beresteyn
rejoined coldly. &quot;And by your leave, will take your commands
standing.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Oh, commands, mynheer!&quot; Stoutenburg
rejoined blandly. &quot; 'Tis no commands I would venture to give
you. It was my duty -- my painful duty -- not to keep you in ignorance
of certain matters which have just come to my knowledge, and which
will have a momentous bearing upon all my future plans. Will you
not sit?&quot; he added, with insidious urbanity. &quot;No? Ah,
well, just as you wish. But you will forgive me if I ---&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He sat down in his favourite chair, with his
back to the table and the candle-light and facing the fire, which
threw ruddy gleams on his gaunt face and grizzled hair. His deepset
eyes were inscrutable in the shadow, but they were fixed upon
the burgomaster who stood before him dignified and calm, half-turned
away from the pitiful spectacle which the blind man presented
in somnolent helplessness.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Since last I had the pleasure of addressing
you, mynheer,&quot; Stoutenburg began slowly, after awhile, &quot;it
hath come to my knowledge that the Stadtholder, far from abandoning
all hope of reconquering Gelderland from our advancing forces,
did in truth not only devise a plan whereby he intended to deliver
Ede and Amersfoort from our hands, but his far-reaching project
also embraced the possibility of seizing my person, and once for
all ridding himself of an enemy -- a justiciary, shall we say?
-- who is becoming might inconvenient.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;A project, my lord,&quot; the burgomaster
riposted earnestly, &quot;which I pray God may fully succeed.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Stoutenburg gave a derisive laugh.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;So it would have done, mynheer,&quot;
he said with a sardonic grin. &quot;It would have succeeded admirably,
and by this hour to-morrow I should no doubt be dangling on a
gibbet, for Maurice of Nassau hath sworn that he would treat me
as a knave and as a traitor unworthy of the scaffold.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And the world would have been rid of
a murderous miscreant,&quot; the burgomaster put in coldly, &quot;had
God so willed it.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Ah, but God -- your God, mynheer,&quot;
Stoutenburg retorted with a sneer, &quot;did not will it, it seems.
And forewarned is forearmed, you know.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Instinctively, as the full meaning of Stoutenburg's
words reached his perceptions the Burgomaster's eyes had sought
those of his son, whilst a ghastly pallor overspread his face
even to his lips.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The Stadtholder's schemes have been revealed
to you,&quot; he murmured slowly. &quot;By whom?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then, as Stoutenburg made no reply, only regarded
him with a mocking and quizzical gaze, he added more vehemently:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Who is the craven informer who hath sold
his master to you?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What would you do to him if you knew?&quot;
Stoutenburg retorted coolly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Slay him with mine own hand,&quot; the
burgomaster replied calmly, &quot;were he my only son!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot; 'Twas not I!&quot; Nicolaes cried involuntarily.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Stoutenburg appeared vastly amused.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;No,&quot; he said. &quot;It was not your
son Klaas, whose merits, by the way, you have not yet learned
to appreciate. Nicolaes hath rendered me and the Archduchess immense
services, which I hope soon to repay adequately. But,&quot; he
added with mocking emphasis, &quot;the most signal service of
all, which will deliver the Stadtholder into my hands and re-establish
thereby the dominion of Spain over the Netherlands, was rendered
to me by the varlet whom, but for me, you would have acclaimed
as your son.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And with a wide flourish of the arm, Stoutenburg
turned in his chair and pointed to Diogenes, who, sublimely unconscious
of what went on around him, was even in the act of emitting a
loud and prolonged snore. Instinctively the burgomaster looked
at him. his glance, vague and puzzled, wandered over the powerful
figure of the blind man, the nodding head, the pinioned shoulders,
and from him back to Stoutenburg, who continued to regard him
-- Beresteyn -- with a malicious leer.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I fear me,&quot; the latter murmured
after awhile, &quot;That your lordship will think me over-dull;
but -- I don't quite understand ---&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Yet, 'tis simple enough,&quot; Stoutenburg
rejoined; rose from his chair, and approached the burgomaster,
as he spoke with a sudden fierce tone of triumph. &quot;This miserable
cur on whom Gilda once bestowed her love, seeing the gallows dangling
before his bleary eyes, hath sold me the secrets which the Stadtholder
did entrust him -- sold the to me in exchange for his worthless
life! I entered into a bargain with him, and I will keep my pledge.
In very truth, he hath saved my life by his revelations, and jeopardized
that of the Stadtholder -- my most bitter enemy. Maurice of Nassau
had thought to trap me in the lonely molen on the Veluwe which
is my secret camp. Now 'tis I who will close the trap on him there,
and hold his life, his honour, these provinces, at my mercy. And
all,&quot; he concluded with a ringing shout, &quot;thanks to
the brilliant adventurer, the chosen of Gilda's heart, her English
milor, mynheer! -- the gay and dashing Laughing Cavalier!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He had the satisfaction of seeing that the
blow had gone home. The burgomaster literally staggered under
it, as if he had actually been struck in the face with a whip.
Certain it is that he stepped back and clutched the table for
support with one hand, whilst he passed the other once or twice
across his brow.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;My God!&quot; he murmured under his breath.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Stoutenburg laughed as a demon might, when
gazing on a tortured soul. Then he shrugged his shoulders and
went on airily:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You are surprised, mynheer Burgomaster?&quot;
Frankly, I was not. You believed this fortune-hunter's tales of
noble parentage and English ancestry. I did not. You doubted his
treachery when he went on a message to Marquet, and sold that
message to de Berg. I knew it to be a fact. My love for Gilda
made me clear-sighted, whilst yours left you blind. Now you see
him at last in his true colours -- base, servile, without honour
and without faith. You are bewildered, incredulous, mayhap? Ask
Jan. He was here and heard him. Ask my captains at the gate, my
master of the camp. The Stadtholder is heading straight for the
trap which he had set up for me, because the cullion who sits
there did sell his one-time master to me.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The burgomaster, overcome with horror and with
shame, had sunk into a chair and buried his face in his hands.
The echo of Stoutenburg's rasping voice seemed to linger in the
noble panelled hall, its mocking accents to be still tearing at
the stricken father's aching heart, still deriding his overwhelming
sorrow. Gilda! His proud, loving, loyal Gilda! If she were to
know! A great sob, manfully repressed, broke from his throat and
threatened to choke him.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And for the first time in this day of crime
and of treachery, Nicolaes felt a twinge of remorse knocking at
the gates of his heart. He could not bear to look on his father's
grief, and not feel the vague stirrings of an affection which
had once been genuine, even though it was dormant now. His father
had been perhaps more just toward him than indulgent. Gilda had
been the apple of his eyes, and he -- Nicolaes -- had been brought
up in that stern school of self-sacrifice and self-repression
which had made heroes of those of his race in their stubborn and
glorious fight for liberty.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">No doubt it was that rigid bringing-up which
had primarily driven an ambitious and discontented youth like
Nicolaes into the insidious net spread out for him by the wily
Stoutenburg. Smarting under the discipline imposed upon his self-indulgence
by the burgomaster, he had lent a willing ear to the treacherous
promises of his masterful friend, who held out dazzling visions
before him of independence and of aggrandisement. Even at this
moment Nicolaes felt no remorse for his treachery to his country
and kindred. He was only sentimentally sorry to see his father
so utterly broken down by sorrow.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And then there was Gilda. Already, when Stoutenburg
had placed that cruel &quot;either -- or&quot; before her, Nicolaes
had felt an uncomfortable pain in his heart at the sight of her
misery. Stoutenburg would have called it weakness, and despised
him for it. But Stoutenburg's was an entirely warped and evil
nature, which revelled in crime and cruelty as a solace to past
humiliation and disappointment, whereas Nicolaes was just a craven
time-server, who had not altogether succeeded in freeing himself
from past teachings and past sentiments.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And Gilda's pale, tear-stained face seemed
to stare at him through the gloom, reproachful and threatening,
whilst his father's heartrending sob tore at his vitals and shook
him to the soul with a kind of superstitious awe. The commandment
of Heaven, not wholly forgotten, not absolutely ignored, seemed
to ring the death-knell of all that he had striven for, as if
the Great Judge of All had already weighed his deeds in the balance,
and decreed that his punishment be swift and sure.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But Stoutenburg, in this the hour of his greatest
triumph, had none of these weaknesses. Nor indeed did he care
whether the burgomaster was stricken with sorrow or no. What he
did do now was to go up to Jan, and from the latter's belt take
out a pistol. This he examined carefully, then he put it down
upon the table close to where the burgomaster was sitting.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">~8</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A quarter of an hour later the stately house
on the quay appeared wrapped in the mantle of sleep. The soldiers,
wearied and discontented, had after a good deal of murmuring,
finally settled down to rest. They had collected what clothes,
blankets, curtains even that they could lay their hands on, and
wrapped up in these, they had curled themselves up upon the floor.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">We may take it, however, as a certainty that
Jan remained wide awake, with one ear on that door which gave
on the banqueting hall, and which he, at the command of his master,
had carefully closed behind him.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Upstairs, Nicolaes had thrown himself like
an insentient and wearied mass upon his own bed in the room wherein
he had slept as a child, as an adolescent, as a youth, now as
a black-hearted traitor, haunted by memories and the ghoulish
shadows, of his crime. He could not endure the darkness, so left
a couple of wax candles burning in their sconces. Whether he actually
fell asleep or no, he could not afterward have told you. Certain
it is that he was not fully awake, but rather on that threshold
of dreams which for those that are happy is akin to the very gate
of paradise, but unto souls that are laden with crime is like
the antechamber of hell. Half consciously Nicolaes could hear
Stoutenburg pacing up and down an adjoining room, restless and
fretful, like some untamed beast on the prowl.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then suddenly the sharp report of a pistol
rang through the silence of the night. Nicolaes jumped from his
bed, with a feeling of sheer physical nausea, which turned him
dizzy and faint. Stoutenburg had paused abruptly in his febrile
wanderings. To the listener it almost seemed as if he could hear
his friend's laboured breathing, the indrawing of a sigh that
spoke of torturing suspense.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A few minutes went by, and then a heavy step
was heard ascending the stairs, after that, the closing and shutting
of a door. Then nothing more.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">In that heavy step, Nicolaes had recognized
his father's. Even now he could hear the burgomaster moving about
in his room close by, which had always been his. Gilda's was further
along, down the passage. Everything now seemed so still. Just
for awhile, after the burgomaster had gone upstairs, Nicolaes
had heard the soldiers moving down below. Rudely awakened from
their sleep, they had done a good deal of muttering. Voices could
be heard, and then a rattle, like the shaking of a door. But apparently
the men had been quickly reassured by Jan.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The silence acted as a further irritant on
Nicolaes' nerves. Taking up a candle, he went out of the room
in search of Stoutenburg. Outside on the landing he came upon
Jan, who was on the same errand bent.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What has happened?&quot; the young man
queried hoarsely.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Jan shook his head. &quot;Which is His Lordship's
room?&quot; was all that he said.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Nicolaes led the way, and Jan followed. They
found Stoutenburg standing in the middle of the room which he
had selected for his own use. He was still fully dressed, had
not even taken off his boots. Apparently he was waiting for news,
but otherwise he seemed quite calm.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Well?&quot; he queried curtly, as soon
as he caught sight of Jan.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;We cannot get into the room,&quot; Jan
replied. &quot;After we heard the shot fired, we saw the burgomaster
come out of it; but he locked the door and, with the key in his
hand he walked steadily up the stairs.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;How did he look?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Like a man who had seen a ghost.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Well?&quot; Stoutenburg queried again,
impatiently. &quot;What did you do after that?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I tried the door, of course. It is a
stout piece of oak, and I had no orders to break it down. It would
take a heavy joist, and the men are already grumbling ---&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Yes!&quot; Stoutenburg put in curtly.
&quot;But the windows?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I thought of them, and myself went round
to look. Of course we could climb up to them, but they appeared
to be barred and shuttered.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;So much the better!&quot; his lordship
retorted with a note of grim spite in his rasping voice. &quot;Let
the varlet's carcase rot where it is. Why should we trouble? Go
back to bed, Nicolaes,&quot; he added after a slight pause. &quot;And
you too, Jan. As for me, I feel that I could sleep peacefully
at last!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He threw himself on the bed with a long sigh
of satisfaction, and when spoken to again by one of the others,
he curtly ordered them to leave him in peace. So Jan did leave
him, and went back to his men. But Nicolaes, terrified of solitude,
which he felt would for him be peopled with ghouls, elected to
find what rest he could in an armchair beside his friend. And
a few minutes later the house was once more wrapped in the mantle
of sleep.<BR>
<BR>
</FONT></P>

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  <TITLE>Chp 15 - The Molen on the Veluwe</TITLE>
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<H3><CENTER><FONT FACE="Lucida Calligraphy">CHAPTER XV - THE MOLEN
ON THE VELUWE</FONT></CENTER></H3>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">~1</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Again it is to de Voocht's highly interesting
and reliable &quot;Brieven&quot; that we like to turn for an account
of the Lord of Stoutenburg's departure out of Amersfoort. It occurred
at dawn of a raw, dull March morning, and was effected with all
the furtiveness, the silence, usually pertaining to a surprise
attack.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The soldiers bivouacking inside that part of
the city knew nothing of the whole affair. But few of them did
as much as turn in their sleep when his lordship rode through
the Koppel-poort, together with four companies of cavaliers. Jan
was an adept at arranging these expeditions, and the Lord of Stoutenburg
had made a specialty of marauding excursions ever since he had
started on his career of treachery against his own country.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">His standard-bearer preceded the companies,
carrying the sable standard embroidered in silver, with the skull
and cross-bones, which his lordship had permanently adopted as
his device. But they went without drums or pipes, and with as
little clatter as may be, choosing the unpaved streets whereon
the mud lay thick and effectually deadened the sound of horses'
hoofs.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A litter taken from the burgomaster's coach-house
and borne by two strong Flemish horses, bore the jongejuffrouw
Gilda Beresteyn in the train of her future lord. She had offered
no resistance, no protest of any kind, when finally ordered by
her brother to make herself ready. She had spent the greater part
of the night in meditation and in prayer. Her father, hearing
her move about in her room, had come to her in the small hours
of the morning and had sat with her for some time. Nicolaes, wakeful
and restless, had wandered out into the corridor on which gave
most of the sleeping rooms, and had heard the subdued murmurings
of the burgomaster's voice, and occasionally that of his sister.
What they said he could not hear, but he was able subsequently
to assure Stoutenburg that the burgomaster's tone was distinctly
one of admonition, and Gilda's one of patience and resignation.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Just before dawn, one of the old serving men,
who had remained on watch in the house all through the night,
brought her some warm milk and bread, which she swallowed eagerly.
The burgomaster was with her then. But later on, when the Lord
of Stoutenburg desired her presence in the living room, she went
to him alone.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">That room was the one where, a little more
than a week ago, the Stadtholder had held council with the burgomaster
and his friends, on the day of her wedding, Her wedding! And she
had sat in the little room next to it and played on the virginal
so as to attract her beloved to her side. Then had come the hour
of parting, and she had with her own hands taken his sword to
him and buckled it to his side, and bade him go wither honour
and duty beckoned.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">My God, what memories!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But she met Stoutenburg's mocking glance with
truly remarkable serenity. She felt neither faint nor weak. He
communion with God, her interview with her father had given her
all the strength she needed, not to let her enemies see what she
suffered or if she were afraid. And when Stoutenburg with callous
irony reminded her of his decision, she answered quite calmly:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I am ready to do your wish, my lord.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And you'll not regret it, Gilda,&quot;
he vowed with sudden earnestness; and his sunken eyes lighted
up with a kind of fierce ardour which sent a cold shudder coursing
down her spine. &quot;By Heaven! you'll not regret it! You shall
be the greatest lady in Europe, the most admired, the most beloved.
Aye! With you beside me, I feel that I shall have the power to
create a throne, a kingdom, for us both. Queen of the Netherlands,
myn engel! What say you to this goal? And I your king ---&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He paused and closely scrutinized her face,
marvelled what she knew of that drunken oaf, once her lover, who
now lay dead in the room below, slain by the avenging hand of
an outraged father and an indignant patriot. But she looked so
serene that he came to the conclusion that she knew nothing. The
burgomaster had apparently desired to spare her for the moment
this additional horror and shame.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Well no doubt it was all for the best. She
was ready to come with him, and that, after all, was the principal
thing. In any event she knew the alternative.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Jan remains here,&quot; he said, &quot;in
command of the troops. He will not leave until I send him word.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Until then, Amersfoort and the lives of all
its citizens were in jeopardy. The quick, scared look in her eyes,
when he reminded her of this, was sufficient to assure him that
she fully grasped the position. Of the Stadtholder's plans, as
betrayed by the informer, she knew, of course, nothing. Better
so, he thought. The whole thing, when accomplished, when he --
Stoutenburg -- was made master of Gelderland, the Stadtholder
a prisoner in his hands, the United Provinces ready to submit
to him, would be a revelation to her -- a revelation which would
make her, he doubted not, a proud and happy woman, rather than
a mere obedient slave.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">~2</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">In the meanwhile, he had strictly enjoined
Jan to leave the banqueting hall undisturbed.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Let the locked door and close shutters
guard the grim secret within,&quot; he said decisively. &quot;Apparently
the Heer Burgomaster intends for the nonce to hold his tongue.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">In the hurry and excitement of the departure,
the soldiers, who in the night had been roused by the pistol shot,
forgot that unimportant event. Certain it is that not one of them
did more than cursorily wonder what it had been about. Then, as
no one gave reply, the matter was soon allowed to fall into oblivion.
At one moment, Stoutenburg who was standing in the hall waiting
for Gilda, felt tempted to go and have a last look on his dead
enemy; but the key was not in the lock and he would not send to
the burgomaster for it.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It was better so.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Just then Gilda came down the stairs. She was
accompanied by her old waiting woman, Maria, and was wrapped in
fur cloak and hood ready for the journey. Apparently she had taken
final leave of her father, and had quite resigned herself to parting
from him.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The burgomaster is well, I trust, this
morning?&quot; Stoutenburg asked with great urbanity, as soon
as he had formally greeted her.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I thank you, my lord,&quot; she replied
coolly. &quot;My father is as well as I can desire.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The litter was her own. Oft had she travelled
in it between Haarlem and Amersfoort, when the weather was too
rough for riding. Those had been happy journeys to and fro, for
both homes were dear to her. Both now had become hallowed through
the presence in them of her beloved. To Stoutenburg, who watched
her keenly while she crossed the hall, it seemed as if once she
glanced round in the direction of the banqueting room, and craned
her neck as if trying to catch whatever faint sound might be coming
from there. She appeared to shiver, and drew her fur cloak closer
round her shoulders, her lips moved slightly as if murmuring.
Stoutenburg thought that she was bidding a last farewell to the
man who she could not bring herself to forget or to despise and
an acute feeling of unbridled jealousy shot through him like a
poisoned dart -- jealousy even of the dead.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">~3</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A mounted scout led the way, to clear the road
of encumbrance that might retard progress. After him came the
standard-bearer. Twelve Spanish halberdiers followed, the shafts
of their halberts swathed in black velvet, behind them one hundred
cavaliers, who were armed with muskets, and a hundred more carrying
lances. Then came the litter, which was covered in leather with
richly stamped leather curtains, at the sides, the shafts, front
and back, supported by heavy Flemish horses, which were sumptuously
caparisoned and plumed. The Lord of Stoutenburg rode on one side
of the litter and Nicolaes on the other, and behind it came two
more companies of musketeers and lancers.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The way lay through the Koppel-poort and then
straight across the Veluwe, on the road which runs to the north
of Amersfoort, thus avoiding any possible encounter with the Stadtholder's
vedettes. Stoutenburg's intention was to await Maurice of Nassau's
coming at the molen, not to offer him battle in the open.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The road was lonely at this early hour, and
a cutting wind blew across from the Zuider Zee, chasing the morning
mist before it. Already on the horizon above the undulating tableland,
the pale wintry sun tinged that mist with gold. Stoutenburg's
keen hawklike eyes searched the distance before him as he rode.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A little after seven o'clock, Barneveld was
reached, and a brief halt called outside the city whilst the scouts
went in, in search of provisions. The inhabitants, scared by the
advent of these strangers, submitted to being fleeced of their
goods, not daring to resist. Though closely questioned, they had
but little information to impart. They had, in truth, heard that
Ede was in the hands of the Spaniards and that Amersfoort had
shared the like fate. Runners had brought the news, which was
authentic, together with many wild rumours that had terrorized
the credulous and paved the way for Stoutenburg's arrival. His
sable standard, with its grim device, completed the subjugation
of the worthy burghers of Barneveld, who, with no garrison to
protect them, thought it wisest to obey the behests of His Magnificence
with a show of goodwill, rather than see their little city pillaged
or their citizens dragged as captives in the train of the conqueror.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Gilda did not leave her litter during the halt.
Maria, who had been riding on a pillion behind one of the equerries,
who she roundly trounced and anathematized all the way, came and
waited on her mistress. But Stoutenburg and Nicolaes kept with
unwonted discretion, or mayhap indifference, out of her way.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The halt, in truth, lasted less than a couple
of hours. By nine o'clock the troop was once more on the way,
and an hour later on the high upland, out toward the east, the
lonely molen loomed, portentous and weird, out of the mist.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">~4</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The spies of the Stadtholder, who had, according
to Diogenes' statement, spoken of the molen as Stoutenburg's camp,
where he had secreted great stores of arms and ammunition, had
in truth been either deceived or deceivers.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The molen was lonely and uninhabited, as it
had always been. No sign of life appeared around it, or sign of
the recent breaking of a camp. True, here and there upon the scrub
in the open, the scorched rough grass or a heap of ashes, indicated
that a fire had been lit there at one time; whilst under the overhanging
platform, the trampled earth converted into mud, and certain debris
of straw and fodder, accused the recent presence of horses and
of men.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But only a few. As to whether the stores of
arms and ammunition were indeed concealed inside the mill-house
itself, it was impossible to say from the mere aspect of the tumble-down
building. Whatever secret the molen contained, it had succeeded
in guarding inviolate up to this hour.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Standing as it did upon a high point of the
arid upland, the molen dominated the Veluwe. Toward the west,
whence the Stadtholder would come, a gentle, undulating slope
led down to Barneveld and Ede, Amersfoort and Utrecht; but in
the rear of the building toward the east, the ground fell away
more abruptly, down to a narrow gorge below.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It was in this gorge, secluded from the prying
eyes of possible vedettes, that Stoutenburg had put up his camp
ere he embarked upon his fateful expedition to Amersfoort, and
it was here that he disposed the bulk of his troop: horses, men
and baggage, under the command of Nicolaes Beresteyn; whilst he
himself, with a bodyguard of fifty picked men, took up his quarters
in the molen.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The plan of action was simple enough. The fifty
men would remain concealed in and about the building, until the
Stadtholder thinking the place deserted, walked straight into
the trap that had been laid for him. Then, at the first musket
shot, the men from the camp below were to rush up the sloping
ground with a great clatter and much shouting and battle cry.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The Stadtholder's troops wholly unprepared
for the attack would be thrown into dire confusion, and in the
panic that would inevitably ensue, the rout would be complete.
Stoutenburg himself would see to it that the Stadtholder did not
escape.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Welcome home, myn engel!&quot; had been
his semi-ironical, wholly triumphant greeting to Gilda when her
litter came to a halt and he dismounted in order to conduct her
into the molen.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She gave him no answer, but allowed her hand
to rest in his and walked beside him with a firm step through
the narrow door which gave on the interior of the mill-house.
She looked about her with inquiring eyes that had not a vestige
of terror in them. Almost, it seemed, at one moment as if she
smiled.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Did her memory conjure back just then the vision
of that other molen, the one at Ryswick, where so much had happened
three short months ago, and where this arrogant tyrant had played
such a sorry role? Perhaps. Certain it is that she turned to him
without any defiance, almost with a gentle air of appeal.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I am very tired,&quot; she said, with
a weary little sigh, &quot;and would be grateful for a little
privacy, if your lordship would allow my tire-woman to attend
on me.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Your wishes are my laws, myn schat,&quot;
he replied airily. &quot;I entreat you to look on this somewhat
dilapidated building only as a temporary halt, where nothing,
alas! can be done for your comfort. I trust you will not suffer
from the cold, but absolute privacy you shall have. The loft up
those narrow steps is entirely at your disposal, and your woman
shall come to you immediately.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Indeed, he called at once through the door,
and a moment or two later Maria appeared, reduced to silence for
the nonce by a wholesome fear. Stoutenburg, in the meanwhile,
still with that same ironical gallantry, had conducted Gilda to
the narrow, ladder-like steps which led up to the loft. He stood
at the foot, watching her serene and leisurely progress.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;How wise you are, mejuffrouw,&quot; he
said, with a sigh of satisfaction. &quot;And withal how desirable!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She turned for a second, then, and looked down
on him. But her eyes were quite inscrutable. Never had he desired
her so much as now. With the gloomy background of those rickety
walls behind her, she looked like an exquisite fairy; her dainty
head wrapped in a hood, through which her small, oval face appeared,
slightly rose-tinted, like a piece of delicate china.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The huge fur coat concealed the lines of her
graceful figure, but one perfect hand rested upon the rail, and
the other peeped out like a flower between the folds of her cloak.
He all but lost his head when he gazed on her, and met those blue
eyes that still held a mystery for him. But, with Stoutenburg,
ambition and selfishness always waged successful warfare even
against passion, and at this hour his entire destiny was hanging
in the balance.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The look wherewith he regarded her was that
of a conqueror rather than a lover. The title of the English play
had come swiftly through his mind: &quot;The Taming of the Shrew.&quot;
In truth, Nicolaes had been right. Women have no use for weaklings.
It is their master whom they worship.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Just one word of warning did he give her ere
she finally passed out of his sight.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;There will be noise of fighting anon,
myn engel,&quot; he said carelessly. &quot;Nothing that need alarm
you. An encounter with vedettes probably. A few musket shots.
You will not be afraid?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;No,&quot; she replied simply. &quot;I
will not be afraid.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You will be safe here with me until we
can continue our journey east or south. It will depend on what
progress de Berg has been able to make.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She gave a slight nod of understanding.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I shall be ready,&quot; she said.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Encouraged by her gentleness, he went on more
warmly:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And at the hour when we leave here together,
myn schat, a runner will speed to Amersfoort with order to Jan
to evacuate the city. The burgomaster will be in a position to
announce to his fellow-citizens that they have nothing to fear
from a chivalrous enemy, who will respect person and property,
and who will go out of the gates of Amersfoort as empty-handed
as he came.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Whereupon he made her a low and respectful
bow, stood aside to allow the serving woman to follow her mistress.
Gilda had acknowledge his last pompous tirade with a faintly murmured,
&quot;I thank you, my lord.&quot; Then she went quickly up the
steps and finally passed out of his sight on the floor above.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Just for a little while he remained quite still,
listening to her footsteps overhead. His lean, sharp-featured
face expressed nothing but contentment now. Success -- complete,
absolute -- was his at last! Less than a fortnight ago, he was
nothing but a disappointed vagrant, without home, kindred, or
prospects; scorned by the woman he loved; despised by a successful
rival; an outcast from the land of his birth.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">To-day, his rival was dead -- an object of
contempt, not even of pity, for every honest man; while Gilda,
like a ripe and luscious fruit, was ready to fall into his arms.
And he had his foot firmly planted on the steps of a throne.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">~5</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And now the midday hour had gone by, and silence,
absolute, reigned in and around the molen. Stoutenburg had spend
some time talking to the captain in command of his guard, had
himself seen to it that the men were well concealed in the rear
of the molen. The horses had been sent down to the camp so as
to preclude any possibility of an alarm being given before the
apportioned time. Two men were stationed on the platform to keep
a look-out upon the distance, where anon the Stadtholder and his
troop would appear.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Indeed, everything was ordained and arranged
with perfect precision in anticipation of the great coup which
was destined to deliver Maurice of Nassau into the hands of his
enemy. Everything! -- provided that blind informer who lay dead
in the banqueting hall of the stately house at Amersfoort had
not lied from first to last.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But even if he had lied, even if the Stadtholder
had not planned this expedition, or, having planned it, had abandoned
it or given up the thought of leading it in person -- even so,
Stoutenburg was prepared to be satisfied. Already his busy brain
was full of plans, which he would put into execution if the present
one did not yield him the supreme prize. Gilda was his now, whatever
happened. Gilda, and her wealth, and the influence of the Burgomaster
Beresteyn, henceforth irrevocably tied to the chariot wheel of
his son-in-law. A vista of riches, of honours, of power, was stretched
out before the longing gaze of this restless and ambitious self-seeker.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">For the nonce, he could afford to wait, even
though the hours crept by leaden-footed, and the look-out men
up on the platform had nothing as yet to report. The soldiers
outside, wrapped up in horse-blankets, squatted against the walls
of the dilapidated building, trying to get shelter from the cutting
north wind. They had their provisions for the day requisitioned
at Barneveld; but these they soon consumed for want of something
better to do. The cold was bitter, and anon an icy drizzle began
to fall.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">~6</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Stoutenburg, inside the mill-house, had started
on that restless pacing up and down which was so characteristic
of him. He had ordered the best of the provisions to be taken
up to the jongejuffrouw and her maid. He himself had eaten and
had drunk, and now he had nothing to do but wait. And think. Anon
he got tired of both, and when he heard the women moving about
overhead, he suddenly paused in his fretful wanderings, pondered
for a moment or two, and then went resolutely up the stairs.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Gilda was sitting on a pile of sacking; her
hands lay idly in her lap. With a curt word of command, Stoutenburg
ordered the waiting woman to go below.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then he approached Gilda, and half-kneeling,
half-reclining by her side, he tried to take her hand. But she
evaded him, hid her hands underneath her cloak. This apparently
vastly amused his lordship, for he laughed good-humouredly, and
said, with an ardent look of passionate admiration:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;That is where you are so desirable, myn
engel. Never twice the same. Awhile ago you seemed as yielding
as a dove; now once more I see the young vixen peeping at me through
those wonderful blue eyes. Well!&quot; he added with a sigh of
contentment, &quot;I will not complain. Life by your side, myn
geliefde, will never be dull. The zest of taming a beautiful shrew
must ever be a manly sport.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then, as she made no sign either of defiance
or comprehension, but sat with eyes strained and neck craned forward,
almost as if she were listening, he raised himself and sat down
upon the sacking close beside her. She puzzled him now, as she
always did; and that puzzlement added zest to his wooing.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I was waxing so dejected down below,&quot;
he said, and leaned forward, his lips almost touching the hood
that kept her ears concealed. &quot;Little did I guess that so
much delight lay ready to my hand. Time is a hard task-master
to me just now, and I have not the leisure to make as ardent love
to you as I would wish. But I have the time to gratify a fancy,
and this I will do. My fancy is to have three kisses from your
sweet lips on mine. Three, and no more, and on the lips, myn schat.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">In an instant his arms were round her. But
equally suddenly she had evaded him. She jumped up and ran, as
swift as a hare, to the farther end of the loft, where she remained
ensconced behind a transverse beam, her arms round it for support,
her face, white and set, only vaguely discernible in the gloom.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The dim afternoon light which came but shyly
peeping in through two small windows high up in the walls, failed
to reach this angle of the loft where Gilda had found shelter.
With this dim background behind her, she appeared like some elusive
spectre, an apparition, without form or substance, her face and
hands alone visible.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">When she escaped him, Stoutenburg had cursed,
as was his wont, then struggled to his feet and tried to carry
off the situation with an affected laugh. But somehow the girls'
face, there in the semi-darkness, gave him an unpleasant, eerie
sensation. He did not follow her, but paused in the centre of
the loft, laughter dying upon his lips.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Am I to remind you again, you little
termagant,&quot; he said, with a great show of bluster, &quot;that
Jan is still at Amersfoort, and that I may yet send a runner to
him if I have a mind, ordering that by nightfall that accursed
city be ablaze?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He was looking straight at her while he spoke.
And she returned his glance, but gave him no reply. Just for the
space of a few seconds an extraordinary stillness appeared to
have descended upon the molen. Up here, in the loft, nothing stirred,
nothing was heard above that silence save the patter of the rain
upon the roof overhead against the tiny window panes. For a few
seconds, whilst Stoutenburg stood like a beast of prey about to
spring, and Gilda, still and silent, like a bird on the alert.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And suddenly, even as he gazed, the man's expression
slowly underwent a change. First the arrogance died out of it,
the forced irony. Every line became set, then rigid, and more
and more ashen in hue, until the whole face appeared like a death-mask,
colourless and transparent as wax, the jaw dropping, the lips
parted as for a cry that would not come. And the sunken eyes opened
wider and wider, and wider still as they gazed, not on Gilda any
longer, but into the darkness behind her, whilst the whole aspect
of the man was like a living statute of horror and of a nameless
fear.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then suddenly, right through the silence and
above the weird patter of the rain, there rang a sound which roused
the very echoes that lay dormant among the ancient rafters. So
strange a sound was it that when it reached his ear, Stoutenburg
lost his balance and swayed on his feet like a drunken man; so
strange that Gilda, her nerves giving way for the first time under
the terrible strain which she had undergone, buried her face against
her arms, whilst a loud sob broke from her throat. Yet the sound
in itself was neither a terrifying nor a tragic one. It was just
the sound of a prolonged and loud peal of laughter.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;By my halidame!&quot; a merry voice swore
lustily. &quot;But meseems that your lordship had no thought of
seeing me here!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Just for a few seconds, superstitious fear
held the miscreant gripped by the throat. A few seconds? To him
to Gilda, they seemed an eternity. Then a hoarse whisper escaped
him.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Spectre or demon, which are you?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Both, you devil!&quot; the mocking voice
gave reply. &quot;And I would send you down to hell and shoot
you like a dog where you stand, but for the noise which would
bring your men about mine ears.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;To hell yourself, you infamous plepshurk!&quot;
Stoutenburg cried, strove to shake off with a mighty effort the
superstitious dread that made a weakling of him. He fumbled for
his sword, succeeded in drawing it from its scabbard, and cursed
himself for being without a pistol in his belt.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Where you came from, I know not,&quot;
he went on in a husky whisper. &quot;But be you wraith or demon,
you ----&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He seemed to speak involuntarily, as if sheer
terror was forcing the words through his bloodless lips. Suddenly
he uttered a hoarse cry:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;A moi! Somebody there! A moi!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But the walls of the old molen were thick,
and his voice, spent and still half-choked with the horror of
that spectral apparition, refused him effective service. It failed
to carry far enough. The tiny windows were impracticable; the
soldiers were outside at the rear of the building, out of earshot;
and down below there was only the old waiting woman.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;That smeerlap!&quot; he cried, half to
himself. &quot;Either a wraith or blind. In either case ---&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And, sword in hand, he rushed upon his mocking
enemy. A blind man! Bah! What had he to fear? The rogue had in
truth thrust Guild behind him. He stood there, with one of those
short English daggers in his hand, which had of late put the fine
Toledo blades to shame. But a blind man, for all that! How he
had escaped out of Amersfoort, and by whose connivance Stoutenburg
had not time to think. But the man was blind. Every phase of last
evening's interview with him -- the vacant eyes, the awkward movements
-- stood out clearly before his lordship's mental vision, and
testified to that one fact; the man was blind and helpless.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Crouching like a feline creature upon his haunches,
Stoutenburg was ready for a spring. His every movement became
lithe and silent as that of a snake. He had marked out to himself
just how and where he would strike. He only waited until those
eyes -- those awful eyes -- ceased to look on him. But their glance
never wavered. They followed his ever step. They mocked and derided
and threatened withal! By Satan and all his hordes! those stricken
orbs could see!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">At what precise moment that conviction entered
Stoutenburg's tortured brain, he could not himself have told you.
But suddenly it was there. And in an instant his nerve completely
forsook him. An icy sweat broke all over his body. His head swam,
his knees gave way under him, the sword dropped out of his nerveless
hand. Then, with a quick hoarse cry, he turned to flee. His foot
was on the top step of the ladder which led to the room below.
A prolonged, mocking laugh behind him seemed to lend him wings.
But freedom -- aye, and more! -- beckoned from below. There was
only an old woman there, and his soldiers were outside. Ye gods!
He was a fool to fear!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He flew down the few steps, nearly fell headlong
in the act, for his nerves were playing him an unpleasant trick,
and the afternoon light was growing dim. At first, when he reached
the place below, he saw nothing. Nothing save the welcome door,
straight before him which led straight to freedom from this paralysing
obsession. With one bound he had covered half the intervening
space, when suddenly he paused, and an awful curse rose to his
lips. There, in the recess of the doorway, two men were squatting
on their heels, intent upon a game of hazard. One of these men
was long and lean, the other round as a curled-up hedge-hog. They
did no more than glance over their shoulder when His Magnificence
the Lord of Stoutenburg came staggering down the steps.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Five and four,&quot; the lean vagabond
was saying. &quot;How many does that make?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Eight, you loon!&quot; the other replied.
&quot;My turn now.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">They continued their game, regardless of his
lordship who stood there rooted to the spot, trembling in every
limb, his body covered with sweat, feeling like an animal that
sees a trap slowly closing in upon him.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The situation was indeed one to send a man
out of his senses. Stoutenburg, for one brief instant, felt that
he was going mad. He looked from the door to the steps, and back
again to the door, marvelling which way lay his one chance of
escape. If he shouted, would he be heard? Could his men get to
him before those two ruffians fell to and murdered him? Dared
he make a dash for the door? Or --- It was unthinkable that he
-- Stoutenburg -- should be standing here, at the mercy of three
villains, utterly powerless, when outside, not fifty paces away,
the other side of those walls, fifty men at arms were there, set
to guard his person.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And suddenly fear fell away from him. The trembling
of his limbs ceased, his vision became clear, his mind alert.
Even around his quaking lips there came the ghost of a smile.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">His senses, keyed up by the imminence of his
danger, had seized upon a sound which came from outside, faint
as yet, but very obviously drawing nearer. In the semi-darkness
and with his head buzzing and his nerves tingling, he could not
distinguish either the quality of the sound nor yet the exact
direction whence it came. But whatever it was -- even if it was
not all that he hoped -- the sound was bound to set his soldiers
on the alert; and if he could only temporize with those ruffians
for a minute or two, the very next would see the captain of his
guard rushing in to report what was happening: That Stadtholder
sighted, the signal given, Nicolaes Beresteyn coming swiftly to
the rescue.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Therefore, in the face of his own imminent
peril, the Lord of Stoutenburg no longer felt afraid, only tensely
vitally expectant. The two caitiffs, on the other hand appeared
to have heard nothing. At any rate, they went on with their game,
and the flute-like, high-pitched tones of the fat loon alternated
with the deep base of his companion:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Three and two make five!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;No, four, you varlet!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Six!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Blank, by Beelzebub! My luck is dead
out to-day.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And the sound drew nearer. There was no mistaking
it. Men running. The clatter of arms. Horses, too. A pawing, and
a champing, and a general hubbub, which those two ruffians could
not fail to hear. Nor did any sound come down from the loft. Yet
Gilda was there with the miserable plepshurk who, whatever else
happened, would inevitably stand before her now as an informer
and a cheat. This, at any rate, was a fact. The man had betrayed
his master in order to save his miserable life, and the burgomaster
had connived at his escape through an access of doltish weakness.
But the fact remained. The Stadtholder was approaching. The next
few minutes -- seconds, perhaps -- would see the final triumphant
issue of this terrible adventure.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Stoutenburg, like a feline at bay, waited.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then, all at once, a musket shot rang through
the air, then another, and yet another; and all at once the whole
air around was alive with sounds. The clang of arms; the lusty
battle cries. Men out there had come to grips. In the drenching
rain they were at one another's throats.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The two caitiffs quietly put aside their dice
and rose to their feet. They stood with their backs to the door,
their eyes fixed upon his lordship.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Stand aside, you dolts!&quot; Stoutenburg
cried aloud; for he thought that he read murder in those two pairs
of eyes, and he had need of all his nerves to assure himself that
all was well, that, though his captain had not come to him for
a reason which no doubt was sound, his soldiers were at grips
with the Stadtholder's vanguard, and Nicolaes was already half-way
up the slope.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But he, Stoutenburg, was unarmed, and could
not push past those two assassins who were guarding the door.
He bethought himself of his sword, which lay on the floor of the
loft. He turned with a sudden impulse to get hold of it at all
costs, and was met at the very foot of the steps by the man who
had baffled him at every turn.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Diogenes, sword in hand, did not even pause
to look on his impotent enemy. With one spring, he was across
the floor and out by the door, which one of the ruffians immediately
closed behind him.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It had all happened swifter even than thought.
Stoutenburg, trapped, helpless, more bewildered in truth than
terrified, still believed in a happy issue to his present desperate
position. The thought came to him that he might purchase his safety
from those potential murderers.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Ten thousand guilders,&quot; he called
out wildly, &quot;if you will let me pass!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But the fat runnion merely turned to the lean
one, and the look of understanding which passed between them sent
an icy shudder down his lordship's spine. He knew that from these
two he could expect no mercy. A hoarse cry of horror escaped his
lips as he saw that each held a dagger in one hand.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then began that awful chase when man becomes
a hunted beast -- that grim game of hide-and-seek, with the last
issue never once in doubt. The Lord of Stoutenburg trapped between
these narrow walls, ran round and round like a mouse in a cage;
now seeking refuge behind a girder, now leaping over an intervening
obstacle, now crouching, panting and bathed in sweat, under cover
of the gloom. And no one spoke; no one called. Neither the hunted
nor the hunters. It seemed as if a conspiracy of silence existed
between them; or else that the nearness of death had put a seal
on all their lips.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Out there the clang of battle appeared more
remote. Nothing seemed to occur in the immediate approach of the
molen. It all came from afar, resounding across the Veluwe, above
the patter of the rain and the soughing of the wind, through the
rafters of the old mill. Drumming and thumping, the angle of armour,
the clang of pike and lance, of metal; the loud report of musket
shot, the strident grating of chains and wheels. But all far away,
not here. Not outside the molen, but down there in the gorge,
where Nicolaes had been encamped. My heavens, what did it mean?</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Already the trapped creature was getting exhausted.
Once or twice he had come down on his knees. His eyes were growing
dim. His breath came and went with a wheezing sound from his breast.
It was not just two murderous brigands who were pursuing him,
but Nemesis herself, with sword of retribution drawn, in her hand
an hour-glass, the sands of which were running low.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">All at once the miscreant found himself at
the foot of the steps, and, blindly stumbling, he ran up to the
loft -- instinctively, without set purpose save that of warding
off, if only for a minute, the inevitable end.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">~7</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Gilda was standing at the top of the steps
with neck craned forward, her hands held tightly to her breast,
her whole attitude one of nameless horror. She had been listening
to the multifarious sounds which came from outside, and the natural,
womanly fear for the safety of her beloved had been her one dominant
emotion.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She had heard nothing else for a time, until
suddenly she caught one or two stray sounds of that grim and furtive
fight for life which was going on down below. She had reached
the top of the steps, and tried to peer through the gloom to ascertain
whose were those stealthy, swift footfalls so like those of a
hunted beast, and whose the heavy, lumbering tread that spoke
of stern and unwavering pursuit. At first she could see nothing,
and the very silence which lay like a pall upon the grim scene
below struck her with a sense of paralysing dread.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then she caught sight first of one figure,
then of another, as they crossed her line of vision. She could
distinguish nothing very clearly -- just those slowly moving figures
-- and for a moment or two felt herself unable to move. Then she
heard the laboured breathing of a man, a groan as of a soul tortured
with fear, and the next instant the Lord of Stoutenburg appeared,
stumbling up the narrow steps.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">At sight of her he fell like an inert thing
with a husky cry at her feet. His arms encircled her knees; his
head fell against her gown.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Gilda, save me!&quot; he whispered hoarsely.
&quot;For the love of Heaven! They'll murder me! Save me, for
pity's sake! Gilda!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He sobbed and cried like a child, abject in
his terror, loathsome in his craven cowardice. Gilda could not
stir. He held her with his arms as in a vise. She would have given
worlds for the physical strength to wrench her gown out of his
clutch, to flee from the hated sight of him who had planned to
do her beloved such an irreparable injury. Oh, she hated him!
She hated him worse, perhaps, than she had ever done before, now
that he clung like a miserable dastard to her for mercy.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Leave the poltroon to us, mejuffrouw,&quot;
a gentle, flute-like tone broke in on the miscreant's ravings.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Now then, take your punishment like a
man!&quot; a gruff voice added sternly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And two familiar faces emerged out of the gloom,
immediately below where Gilda was standing, imprisoned by those
cringing arms. The man, in truth, had not even the primeval pluck
of a savage. He was beaten, and he knew it. What had happened
out there on the Veluwe, how completely he had been tricked by
the Englishman he did not know as yet. But he was afraid to die,
and shrank neither from humiliation nor contempt in order to save
his own worthless life from the wreck of all his ambitions.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">At the sound of those two voices, which in
truth were like a death-knell in his ears, he jumped to his feet;
but he did not loosen his hold on Gilda. Swift as thought he had
found refuge behind her, and held her by the arms in front of
him like a shield.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Historians have always spoken of the Lord of
Stoutenburg as extraordinarily nimble in mind and body. That nimbleness
in truth, stood him in good stead now; or whilst Socrates and
Pythagoras, clumsy in their movements, lumbering and hampered
by their respect for the person of the jongejuffrouw, reached
the loft, and then for one instant hesitated how best to proceed
in their grim task without offending the ears and eyes of the
great lady, Stoutenburg had with one bound slipped from behind
her down the steps and was across the floor of the molen and out
the door before the two worthies had had time to utter the comprehensive
curse which, at this unexpected manoeuvre on the part of their
quarry, had risen to their lips.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;We had promised Diogenes not to allow
the blackguard to escape!&quot; Pythagoras exclaimed ruefully.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And both started in hot pursuit, whilst Gilda,
seeking shelter in a dark angle of the loft, fell, sobbing with
excitement and only half-conscious, upon a pile of sacking.<BR>
</FONT></P>

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<H3><CENTER><FONT FACE="Lucida Calligraphy">CHAPTER XVI - THE
FINAL ISSUE</FONT></CENTER></H3>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">~1</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Pythagoras and Socrates failed to find the
trail of the miscreant, who had vanished under cover of the night.
We know that Stoutenburg did succeed, in fact, in reaching de
Berg's encampment, half-starved and wearied, but safe. How he
did it, no one will ever know. His career of crime had received
a mighty check and the marauding expeditions which he undertook
subsequently against his own country were of a futile and desultory
nature. History ceases to trouble herself about him after that
abortive incursion into Gelderland.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">How that incursion was frustrated by the gallant
Englishman, known to fame as the first Sir Percy Blakeney, but
to his intimates as Diogenes, the erstwhile penniless soldier
of fortune, we know chiefly through van Aitzema's Saken von Staet.
The worthy chronicler enlarges upon the Englishman's adventure
- he always calls him &quot;the Englishman&quot; -- from the time
when a week and more ago, he took leave of Nicolaes Beresteyn
outside Barneveld to that when he reached Amersfoort, just in
time to avert a terrible catastrophe.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The author of Saken v. Staet tells of the ambuscade
on the shores of the Ijssel, &quot;the Englishman's swim for life
through the drifting floes.&quot; On reaching the opposite bank,
it seems that he was so spent and more than half frozen, that
he lay half unconscious on the bank for awhile. Presently, however,
alive to the danger of possible further ambuscades, he re-started
on his way, found a deserted hut close by, and crawled in there
for shelter. As soon as darkness had set in he started back for
Zutphen, there to warn Marquet not to proceed. The whole of the
Stadtholder's plans had obviously been revealed to de Berg by
some traitor -- whose identity Diogenes then could not fail but
guess -- and it would have been sheer madness to attempt to cross
the Ijssel now at any of the points originally intended.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">To reach Zutphen at this juncture meant for
the undaunted adventurer two leagues and more to traverse, and
with clothes frozen hard to the skin. But he did reach Zutphen
in time, and with the assistance of Marquet, then evolved the
plan of an advance into Gelderland by effecting the crossing of
the Ijssel as far north as Apeldoorn, and then striking across
the Veluwe either to Amersfoort or to Ede, threatening de Berg's
advance, and possibly effecting a junction with the Stadtholder's
main army.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">After this understanding with Marquet, Diogenes
then proceeded to Arnheim, where the garrison could now only be
warned to hold the city at all costs until assistance could be
sent.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">In the meantime, de Berg's troops were swarming
everywhere. The Englishman could only proceed by night, had to
hide by day on the Veluwe as best he could. Hence much delay.
More than once he was on the point of capture, but succeeded eventually
in reaching Arnheim.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Here he saw Coorne, who was in command of the
small garrison, assured him of coming relief, and made him swear
not to surrender the city, since the Stadtholder would soon be
on his way with strong reinforcements. Thence to Nijmegen on the
same errand. A more easy journey this, seeing that Isembourg ad
not begun his advance from Kleve. After that, De Keysere and Wageningen.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Van Aitzema says that it was between Nijmegen
and Wageningen that &quot;the Englishman,&quot; lurking in a thicket
of scrub, overheard some talk of how the Stadtholder was to be
waylaid and captured on his return to camp from Amersfoort. This
fact the chronicler must have learned at first hand. By this time
the forces of de Berg were spreading over Gelderland. &quot;The
Englishman&quot; gathered that the Archduchess's plans were to
leave Isembourg's army to deal with Arnheim and Nijmegen for the
present, whilst de Berg was to march on Ede, and, if possible,
push on as far as Amersfoort. But as to how the coup against the
Stadtholder was to be effected, he could not ascertain. At the
time he did not know that his Highness intended to visit Amersfoort
again. But for him, that little city where Gilda dwelt was just
now the hub of the universe, and thank Heaven his errand was now
accomplished, all his Highness's orders executed, and he was free
to go to his young wife as fast as his own endurance and Spanish
vedettes would allow.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">This meant another tramp across open country,
which by this time was overrun with enemy troops. Fugitives from
Ede were everywhere to be seen. &quot;The Spaniards. They are
on us!&quot; rang from end to end of the invaded province, and
the echo of that dismal cry must by now have been rolling even
as far as Utrecht.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It meant also seeking cover against enemy surprise
parties, who threw the daring adventurer more than once out of
his course, so that we hear of him once as far south as Rhenen,
and then as far east as Doorn. It meant hiding amongst the reeds
in the half-frozen marshes, swimming the Rhyn at one point, the
Eem at another; it meant days without food and nights without
rest. It meant all that, and more in pluck and endurance and determination,
to which three qualities in &quot;the Englishman&quot; the worthy
chronicler, though ever chary of words, pays ungrudging tribute.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He reached Amersfoort, as we know, just in
time to see the Stadtholder leave the city in the company of the
traitor, Nicolaes Beresteyn, and, struck by that same treacherous
hand, fell, helpless for a moment, at the very threshold of the
burgomaster's house.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">After which began the martyrdom which had ended
in such perfect triumph and happiness.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The daring adventurer, left lonely and stricken
upon the moorland, did in truth go through an agony of misery
and humiliation such as seldom falls to the lot of any man. Indeed,
what he did suffer throughout that terrible day, whilst he believed
himself to irretrievable blinded, was never known to any one save
to the two faithful friends who watched lovingly over him. Socrates,
after he had accompanied the Stadtholder, returned to sit and
watch with Pythagoras beside the man to whom they both clung with
such whole-hearted devotion.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">~2</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It was not until late in the night that a faint
glimmer of light, coming from the fire which the two caitiffs
had managed to kindle as the night was bitterly cold, reached
the young soldier's aching limbs, and seemed to him like a tiny
beacon of hope in the blackness of his misery. By the time that
the grey dawn broke over the moorland, he had realized that the
injury which he had thought irremediable, had only been transient,
and that every hour now brought an improvement in his power of
vision.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Whereupon, three heads were put together to
devise a means for using the Englishman's supposed blindness to
the best advantage. One wise head and two loyal ones, not one
of them even remotely acquainted with fear, what finer combination
could be found for the eventful undoing of a pack of traitors?</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Ede was in the hands of the Spaniards, Amersfoort
on the point of sharing the like fate. These facts were sufficiently
confirmed by the stray fugitives who wandered homeless and distracted
across the moorland, and were in turn interrogated by the three
conspirators.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">With the woman he loved inside the invaded
city, and with that recreant Stoutenburg in command of the enemy
troops there, Diogenes' first thought was to get into Amersfoort
himself at all risks and costs. As for the plan for freeing the
town and punishing the miscreants, it was simple enough. To collect
a small troop of ruffians from amongst the fugitives on the moorlands
and place these under the command of Socrates, was the first move.
The second was to send Pythagoras with an urgent message to Marquet
to hurry eastward with his army from Apeldoorn, to the relief
of Amersfoort, taking on his way the lonely molen on the Veluwe,
where an important detachment of enemy troops might be expected
to encamp.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The one thing with which Diogenes was, most
fortunately amply provided, was money; money which he had by him
when first he started out of Amersfoort on the Stadtholder's errand;
money which was needful now to enable Socrates to recruit his
small army of ne'er-do-wells and to assist Pythagoras on his embassy
to Marquet.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Thereafter Diogenes, feigning blindness and
worse, made his way into the presence of the Lord of Stoutenburg,
who held Gilda at his mercy and the whole city to ransom for her
obedience.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">To dangle before the miscreant's eyes the prospect
of capturing the Stadtholder's person, and thus make himself master
of the Netherlands, was the pivot around which the whole plan
revolved. The bait could not fail to attract the ambitious cupidity
of the traitor, and verisimilitude was given to the story by Socrates'
band of ruffians, whose orders were to spread the news of the
Stadtholder's advance both on Ede and Amersfoort, and to silence
effectually any emissaries of Stoutenburg's who might be sent
out to ascertain the truth of these rumours.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">We may take it that Socrates and his little
troop saw to it that none of these emissaries did return to Amersfoort
for the Lord of Stoutenburg marched out of the city at dawn, with
his sinister banner flying, with his musketeers, pikemen and lancers,
and with Gilda Beresteyn a virtual prisoner in his train.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">That the daring adventurer risked an ignominious
death by this carefully laid plan cannot be denied; but he was
one of those men who had gambled with life and death since he
was a child, who was accustomed to stake his all upon the spin
of a coin; and, anyhow, if he failed, death would have been thrice
welcome, as the only escape out of untold misery and sorrow.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Chance favoured him in this, that at the last
he was left face to face with the burgomaster, to whom he immediately
confided everything, and who enabled him to escape out of the
house by the service staircase, and thence into the streets, where
no one knew him and where he remained all night, effectually concealed
as a unit in the midst of the crowd. He actually went out of Amersfoort
in the train of Stoutenburg; and whilst his lordship's troops
made a long halt at Barneveld, &quot;the Englishman&quot; continued
his way unmolested across the Veluwe to the lonely molen, which
was to witness his success and happiness, or the final annihilation
of all that made life possible.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">~3</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">All this and more, in the matter of detail,
hath the meticulous chronicler of the time put conscientiously
on record. We must assume that he was able to verify all his facts
at source, chiefly through the garrulous offices of &quot;the
Englishman's&quot; two well-known familiars.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">What, however, will for ever remain unrecorded,
save in the book of heroic deeds, is a woman's perfect loyalty.
During those hours and days, full of horror and of dread, Gilda
never once wavered in her belief in the man she loved. From the
moment when Nicolaes tried to poison her mind against him, and
through all the vicissitudes which placed her face to face with
what was a mere semblance of her beloved, she had never doubted
him, when even the Stadtholder seemed to doubt.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She knew him to be playing a dangerous game
-- but a game for all that -- when first she beheld him, sightless
and abject, in the presence of their mutual enemy, and had rested
for one brief second against his breast. That his eyes, still
dazed by the poisonous fumes, could vaguely discern her face,
even though they could not read the expression thereon, she did
not know. The fear that he was irremediably blind was the most
cruel of all the tortures which she had undergone that night.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">When her father came to her in the small hours
of the morning to tell her that all was well with the beloved
of her heart, but that he would have all the need of all her courage
and of all her determination to help him to complete his self-imposed
task, she realized for the first time how near to actual death
the torturing fear had brought her. But from that time forth,
she never lost her presence of mind. With marvellous courage she
gripped the whole situation and played her role unswervingly until
the end.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Everything depended on whether Marquet reached
the molen before the Lord of Stoutenburg, or his captains suspected
that anything was wrong. True, Pythagoras had brought back the
news that he had met the loyal commander at Apeldoorn, and that
the latter, despite the fact that he and his troops intend to
take there a well-earned rest, had immediately given the order
to march. But, even so, the future of the Netherlands and of her
Stadtholder, as well as the fate of the gallant Englishman and
his beloved wife, lay in the hands of God.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">One hour before dusk Marquet's vedettes first
came in contact with the outposts of Beresteyn's encampment in
the gorge below the molen. There was a brief struggle, fierce
on both sides, until the main body of Marquet's army, four thousand
strong, appeared on the eastern heights above the gorge.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Whilst the Lord of Stoutenburg ran round and
round the narrow space wherein he was a hunted prisoner, trying
to escape that shameful death which threatened him at the hand
of two humble justiciaries, his few hundred men were falling like
butchered beasts beneath the pike-thrusts and musket shots of
Marquet's trained troops.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Nicolaes Beresteyn was the first to fall.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It was better so. Dishonour so complete could
be only wiped out by death.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">When, a day or two later, after Marquet had
driven the Spaniards out of Amersfoort, the burgomaster heard
the news of the death of his only son. He murmured an humble and
broken-hearted: &quot;Thank God!&quot;<BR>
</FONT></P>

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<H3><CENTER><FONT FACE="Lucida Calligraphy">CHAPTER XVII - THE
ONLY WORLD</FONT></CENTER></H3>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">~1</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Out there, in the lonely molen on the Veluwe,
Gilda had remained for a while, half numb with nerve strain, suffering
from the reaction after the terrible excitement of the past few
hours. Presently her old serving-woman came to her, still raging
with choler at the outrage committed against her person by those
two abominable rascallions.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">With great volubility, she explained to her
mistress that they had fallen on her unawares when first she had
been sent down-stairs by his lordship -- whom may God punish!
-- The had bound and gagged her, and then told her quite cheerfully
that this was an act of friendship on their part, to save her
from a worse fate and from the temptation of talking when she
should remain silent.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She had been thrust into a dark angle of the
mill-house, from whence she could see absolutely nothing, and
where she had lain all this while, entirely helpless, hearing
that awful din which had been going on outside, expecting to be
murdered in cold blood at any moment, and tortured with fear as
to what was happening to her mistress. Only a few moments ago,
the two ruffians had reappeared, running helter-skelter down the
steps and thence out through the door into the open. Fortunately,
one of them, conscience-stricken no doubt, had thought, before
fleeing, to release her from her bonds.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Maria was stupid, uncomprehending and garrulous;
but she was loyal, and had a warm and ample bosom, whereon a tired
and aching head could find a little rest.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Gilda, her body still shaken by hysterical
sobs, her teeth chattering, her senses reeling with the horror
of all that she had gone through, found some measure of comfort
in the old woman's ministrations. A mugful of wine, left over
from the midday meal, helped her to regain command over her nerves.
Holding her young mistress in her arms, Maria, crooning like a
mother over her baby, rocked the half-inert young form into some
semblance of sleep.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">~2</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And here Diogenes found her a couple of hours
later, curled up like a tired child in the arms of the old woman.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He came up on tiptoe, carrying a lanthorn,
for now it was quite dark. This he placed on the floor, and then,
with infinite caution, he slid into Maria's place and took the
beloved form into his own strong arms.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She scarcely moved, just opened her eyes for
a second or two, and then nestled closer against his shoulder,
with a little sigh, half of weariness, but wholly of content.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She was just dead-tired after all she had gone
through, and now she slept just like a baby in his arms; whilst
he was as happy as it is possible for any human being to be, for
she was safe and well, and nothing could part her from him now.
He was satisfied to watch her as she slept, her dear face against
his breast, her soft breath coming and going with perfect evenness
through her parted lips.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Once he stooped and kissed her, and then she
woke, put her arms around his neck, and both forgot for the time
being that there was another world save that of Love.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Lucida Calligraphy">THE END<BR>
</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

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