The Laughing Cavalier, Baroness Orczy [the beginning after the end read novel TXT] 📗

here does not interfere with me: and that he hath not a concealed poniard somewhere about his person, then collect all pistols and swords that are lying about, well out of harm’s way. In the meanwhile what am I to do with his Magnificence? he is kicking like a vicious colt and that shoulder of mine is beginning to sting like fury.”

“Kill me, man, kill me!” cried Stoutenburg savagely, “curse you, why don’t you end this farce?”

“Because, my lord,” said Diogenes more seriously than was his wont, “the purest and most exquisite woman on God’s earth did once deign to bestow the priceless jewel of her love upon you. Did she know of your present plight, she would even now be pleading for you: therefore,” he added more flippantly, “I am going to give myself the satisfaction of making you a present of the last miserable shred of existence which you will drag on from this hour forth in wretchedness and exile to the end of your days. Take your life and freedom, my lord,” he continued in response to the invectives which Stoutenburg muttered savagely under his breath, “take it at the hands of the miserable plepshurk whom you so despise. It is better methinks to do this rather than fall into the hands of the Stadtholder, whose mercy for a fallen enemy would be equal to your own.”

Then he shouted to Pythagoras.

“Here, old compeer! search his Magnificence for concealed weapons, and then make ready to go. We have wasted too much time already.”

Despite Stoutenburg’s struggles and curses Pythagoras obeyed his brother philosopher to the letter. His lordship and Jan were both effectually disarmed now. Then only did Diogenes allow Stoutenburg to struggle to his feet. He had his sword in his left hand and Pythagoras stood beside him. Jan found his master’s hat and cloak and helped him on with them, and then he said quietly:

“The minutes are precious, my lord, ’tis a brief run to Ryswyk: my Lord of Heemskerk has gone and Mynheer Beresteyn has disappeared. Here we can do nothing more.”

“Nothing, my good Jan,” said Diogenes more seriously, “you are a brave soldier and a faithful servant. Take his Magnificence away to safety. You have well deserved your own.”

Stoutenburg gave a last cry of rage and of despair. For a moment it seemed as if his blind fury would still conquer reason and prudence and that he meant once more to make an attack upon his victorious enemy, but something in the latter’s look of almost insolent triumph recalled him to the peril of his own situation: he passed his hand once or twice over his brow, like a man who is dazed and only just returning to consciousness, then he called loudly to Jan to follow him, and walked rapidly away northwards through the fog.

Beresteyn went up to the broken window and watched him till he was out of sight, then he looked on Diogenes. That philosopher also watched the retreating figure of the Lord of Stoutenburg until the fog swallowed it up, then he turned to his friend.

“Pythagoras, old compeer,” he said with a shrug of his broad shoulders, “what would you take to be walking at this moment in that man’s shoes?”

“I wouldn’t do it, friend,” rejoined Pythagoras placidly, “for the possession of a running river of home-brewed ale. And I am mightily dry at the present moment.”

“Jump up then on the box beside Socrates, you old wine-tub, and get to Leyden as quickly as these horses will take you. A halt at Voorburg will refresh you all.”

“But you?” queried Socrates from his post of vantage.

“I shall make my way to Ryswyk first and get a horse there. I shall follow you at a distance, and probably overtake you before you get to Leyden. But you will not see me after this⁠ ⁠… unless there is trouble, which is not likely.”

“But the jongejuffrouw?” persisted Socrates.

“Hush! I shall never really lose sight of you and the sledge. But you must serve her as best you can. Someone will be with her who will know how to take care of her.”

“Who?”

“Her own brother of course, Mynheer Beresteyn. Over the sill, mynheer!” he now shouted, calling to Nicolaes who still stood undecided, shamed, hesitating in the broken framework of the window, “over the sill, ’tis only three feet from the ground, and horses and men are quite ready for you.”

He gave a lusty cheer of satisfaction as Beresteyn, throwing all final cowardly hesitations to the wind, suddenly made up his mind to take the one wise and prudent course. He swung himself through the window, and in a few moments was standing by Diogenes’ side.

“Let me at least tell you, sir⁠ ⁠…” he began earnestly.

“Hush!⁠—tell me nothing now⁠ ⁠…” broke in the other man quickly, “the jongejuffrouw might hear.”

“But I must thank you⁠—”

“If you say another word,” said Diogenes, sinking his voice to a whisper, “I’ll order Socrates to drive on and leave you standing here.”

“But⁠ ⁠…”

“Into the sledge, man, in Heaven’s name. The jongejuffrouw is unconscious, her woman daft with fear. When the lady regains consciousness let her brother’s face be the first sight to comfort her. Into the sledge, man,” he added impatiently, “or by Heaven I’ll give the order to start.”

And without more ado, he hustled Nicolaes into the sledge. The latter bewildered, really not clear with himself as to what he ought to do, peeped tentatively beneath the cover of the vehicle. He saw his sister lying there prone upon the wooden floor of the sledge, her head rested against a bundle of rugs hastily put together for her comfort. Maria was squatting beside her, her head and ears muffled in a cloak, her hands up to her eyes; she was moaning incoherently to herself.

Gilda’s eyes were closed, and her face looked very pale: Beresteyn’s heart ached at the pitiful sight. She looked so wan and so forlorn that a sharp pang of remorse for